Chapter 1: The Gala's Last Dance
The Grand Hero Gala glittered with a false, exhausting sheen. Shota Aizawa stood near a marble pillar, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, radiating an energy that repelled polite conversation. His capture weapon felt tighter than usual, a noose of his own making. He tracked her through the crowd like a predator watching a particularly playful, irritating bird.
Her laughter cut through the orchestral jazz, sharp and bright. It was aimed at Crimson Riot’s sidekick, a man built like a brick wall who was currently blushing under her attention. She leaned in, saying something that made him duck his head and grin. The sleek black gown she wore clung to every curve, a strategic masterpiece that was both invitation and shield.
His jaw ached from clenching it.
A champagne flute dangled from her slender fingers as she drifted back toward him, the mischief in her amber eyes a clear declaration of war. She slid into the space beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. The scent of her perfume—something dark and citrusy—wiped out the cloying smell of canapés and ozone.
“Bored, baby?” she murmured,
“You know I am.”
“Mm. You look positively murderous. It’s turning people away.” Her smile was a blade. “Good.”
She took a slow sip of champagne, her gaze scanning the room over the rim of her glass before landing back on him. Deliberately, her free hand dropped from his arm, skimming down the front of his suit jacket. The touch was light, proprietary. It trailed lower, over his stomach, a torturous descent that had his breath catching. Her fingertips grazed the prominent bulge straining against the front of his slacks, a blunt acknowledgment of the effect she’d had on him all night.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
She leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear, her voice a hot, wicked whisper. “I can feel how hard you are just watching me. I’m going to ask that big, shiny hero over there to dance next. I bet he’d let me feel all his medals. Then I’ll come back and tell you exactly how his hands compare to yours.”
Something in him snapped. It wasn't a loud sound, but a silent, foundational shift, like a fault line giving way.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist with controlled force, pulling her hand away from his body. Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise eclipsing the triumph.Good. Let her be surprised.
Without a word, he set his glass on a passing tray and tightened his grip on her waist, steering her away from the pillar and the safety of the shadows. His steps were long, purposeful, cutting through the glittering crowd. She stumbled once in her heels, a small gasp escaping her, but he didn’t slow.
“Shota—“
“You wanted to dance,” he stated, his voice a low, rough scrape against the polished music.
He pulled her onto the edge of the dance floor, a space clearing around them as others took in his expression—the dark, possessive glare, the set of his shoulders. He wasn't a social dancer. He was a storm cell settling into position.
He drew her flush against him, one hand a firm brand on the small of her back, the other still manacled around her wrist, held between their bodies. There was no polite distance. The full, rigid length of his arousal pressed insistently against her hip, a blatant, undeniable truth.
She melted for a second, her body softening into his, a sigh on her lips. Then the bratty defiance returned. She tilted her head back to look at him, a challenge in her eyes. “Is this the part where you scare the other boys away?”
His face dipped closer, his lips a breath from hers. The tired, exasperated hero was gone. In his place was something simpler, more primal. “This is the part where you stop talking.”
He began to move, a slow, deliberate sway that had nothing to do with the jazz rhythm of the band. It was a controlled pulse, a grinding promise. His mouth brushed the shell of her ear, and his voice dropped to a guttural register meant only for her. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve pushed every single button you could find. Congratulations.”
He felt her shiver.
“Now it’s my turn.” He pressed himself harder against her, making her gasp. “The second those car doors close. The second we’re alone. You’re going to learn what happens when you try to play your games with me in public. Every smirk, every whisper, every glance you gave someone else… I’m going to carve the memory of it right out of you.”
Her breath hitched. Her cheek was against his now, her earlier bravado dissolving into something else—a thrilling, terrified anticipation. He could see the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of her throat.
“You promise?” The words were a bare whisper, stripped of its taunting edge, revealing the raw want beneath.
His grip on her tightened, pulling her even closer until not a sliver of light could pass between them. The music swelled around them, a meaningless soundtrack to the silent understanding passing between their locked gazes.
He didn't answer with words. The promise was in the unyielding pressure of his body, in the dark intent of his eyes, in the quiet, seismic rage that vibrated through every point where they touched.
The dance was a facade. A holding pattern. The real event was waiting in the silence of the car, in the darkness of their apartment. He guided them through the steps, his movements perfectly measured, while inside, he was already mapping her punishment—the exact feel of his capture weapon against her skin, the sharp order in his voice she craved to obey, the rough, claiming ownership that would leave no doubt in her clever, bratty mind.
She had lit the fuse. Now she would burn with him.