Maelis hovers between twin orchid pillars, tall and severe in a black-backless jumpsuit flecked with midnight-green petals. Her hair—knotted, then loosened by frantic hands—brushes the tense curve of her jaw as she threads wire through a tendril, scowling. Every movement is sharp, almost angry, a warning to the world to keep its distance. But her eyes betray her—flickering to every passing server, calculating, anxious.

Renn, crisp in a navy uniform shirt, leans against a marble column, running his thumb absently over the calloused edge of a guitar-pick-shaped keychain. Tired shadows bruise his gaze as he watches Maelis from across the room, wanting to cross the distance but too tangled in caution. He checks his watch—again. For once, the night feels fragile, as though wrongness crackles in the candles along the walls.

Leor glides through the throng with effortless charm, his jacket sleeves pushed back, hinting at tattoos hidden beneath linen. He slips glasses of champagne from the tray with a wink and a joke, easy laughter trailing behind him. But when his gaze lands on Maelis, a flicker of worry creases his mouth. He sidles up, lowering his voice. “Since when does a jungle grow nerves?” She gives him a sideways look, lips twisting into a reluctant smirk. For a moment, her guard softens.

Sylith stands sentinel at the ballroom’s edge—tailored suit black as ink, posture impossibly straight, eyes cool beneath a sweep of dark hair. She surveys the crowd with predatory precision, lips barely parted. When her radio crackles with security chatter—“Unauthorized minor, west corridor”—her fingers tense around it, jaw grinding, pulse quickening. But her gaze lingers on Maelis, suspicion and something softer threading through.

Maelis shrugs off Leor and slips out, her steps brisk and nervous. Down a dim corridor, she checks her phone—three missed messages from the sitter. Panic threatens, but she forces herself calm, ducking into a storage alcove. Renn catches her there, breathing quick, his presence crowding the small space. Their eyes lock. For a beat, neither moves.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she manages, voice trembling at the edges.

He searches her face, reading the quiver in her lashes, the pink shimmer on her lower lip. “You’re allowed to be scared,” he whispers, voice thick. His hand finds her elbow, anchoring her. Electricity flows between them—he can’t look away from her mouth, she can’t seem to breathe.

Somewhere, footsteps approach. “We can’t—” she hisses, panic and need wrestling in her eyes. But suddenly, she grabs his lapels, yanking him into a shivering, breathless kiss. His hands brace against the small of her back, pulling her flush. Her nails dig through fabric, desperation and hunger and months of loneliness breaking out all at once.

He tastes of rain and something reckless—she thinks she might shatter if he doesn’t touch her, so she lets herself unravel. Their mouths meet, again and again, heat flooding into stolen space. He breaks first, chest heaving, lips swollen. “Maelis...” But before he can speak, her hand fumbles with his belt, urgency trembling. He responds in kind—mouth at her neck, hands under silk—both of them wild, frantic, half out of their minds.

Clothes half-off, his hips press against hers, her leg wound around him. The storage room is cool, but their skin burns. Her head tips, his lips seeking, moans muffled into each other’s throats. For a fleeting moment, Maelis lets herself believe—maybe this is what being wanted feels like. Renn grits out her name as if cursing a prayer. She claws him closer.

But then—sudden, urgent knocking. “Paramedics needed—main floor! Now!” The walkie on his hip crackles, shattering the spell. Renn freezes, guilt flooding his face. Maelis turns away, knuckles pressed to aching lips, body trembling from release denied.

He fumbles to fix his shirt, the echo of her touch making his hands unsteady. “I’m sorry—I have to—” He can’t meet her eyes, shame and longing at war.

Maelis watches him go, heart hammering, mascara threatening to run. In the narrow spill of light from the open door, Sylith stands, unreadable, her shadow long in the hallway. Her eyes meet Maelis’s—strange, dark, hungry, and then gone. Maelis curses under her breath, pulse still thrumming from the taste of danger.

Back on the ballroom floor, Leor watches Maelis scrub a tear from her cheek. His smile falters, a secret betrayal blossoming behind his eyes. If anyone notices Sylith quietly signaling her team for a covert sweep, they say nothing, but tension thickens the air. Maelis draws a shaky breath, painfully aware that the walls are closing in.

From the mezzanine, Arkyn Lysander watches it all with a smile that means anything but kindness. Somewhere, Seria’s laughter rings out—much too close.

To be continued...