The waltz wrapped around them, almost tender in its cruelty. Her spine held straight by force alone, every turn of the dance reeling her closer into a trap she hadn't yet seen.
Berith was too close. His gloved hand lingered scandalously just above the small of her back, where propriety blurred into possession. His breath brushed the shell of her ear, warm, scented with smoke and something darker.
But it wasn't his touch that sent the chill crawling up her bones.
No, it was something else. A prickle.
Rrrrip.
A soft sound, barely more than the hiss of silk parting. But it detonated down her spine.
Marcella's body jerked before her mind caught up. A half-step stagger, the falter of a marionette whose strings had snapped.
Her breath hitched, stuck in her throat. She didn't need to look. She knew, every cell in her body knew.
The gown.
Torn.
