His touch is like liquid fire. It warms me. Spreads through me.

It burns away until there is nothing.

No me, no Capulets, no fucking Governor.

I exist at the tips of his fingers.

His tongue slides into my mouth, caressing my own.

It sends shockwaves racing through my body.

I moan into his mouth—primal, full of desire and promise. It’s a sound I never knew myself capable of making.

His hands find my wrists, guiding my arms above my head to pin them against the wall.

I feel the strength in his grasp, the power in his hands.

My own hands in comparison feel frail. My entire being small.

This man is an absolute force.

I’ve never in my life felt so helpless as I do now, clenched in his embrace. My chest heaves against him.

The fire that is him rushes through me, burning me to within an inch of my sanity. It licks through my core. It pools between my legs.

I feel his force in every nerve. I taste his strength.

With just one kiss, I belong to him.

The thought draws me back to panic, mind racing.

I break away from him, withdrawing further into the corner, staring into his eyes. They meet me, frenzied, full of heat.

“I have to go,” I mutter, not fully committed to the idea myself.

This is too much.

He’s too much.

“Now?” he asks, incredulous.

“I—I’m sorry. I need to go back.”

He looks are me levelly. “What do you have to go back to?”

The question hits me like a punch to the gut.

I have no good answer. I have no answer at all.

“I have to go.” I say feebly, pushing past him and back towards the hall.

I expect him to call after me, to beg me to come back. I may not get out much, but even I know that kiss was something special. Something different.

He’s completely silent as I make my exit, though, brooking no further argument.

Really, what more is there to say? I have nothing to go back to.

We both know it.

I resist the urge to look over my shoulder, head held high as I navigate my way to the ballroom. Back to the Governor and my gilded cage.

I enter the ballroom with steadfast determination. I don’t know why I’ve come here, but I know it’s where I have to be.

The doors swing open in a rush, a sad imitation of announcers at royal balls long gone.

Still, the effect is the same. Hundreds of eyes turn to meet me.

The smiles are instantaneous, masks firmly in place.

“Isobel!” a stranger shouts. “There you are!”

The rush is just as before. Countless well-wishers swarm around, each looking to bestow their good tidings.

The champagne has definitely helped this time around. On steady feet, I face them.

“I’m SO happy for you!” says a woman in a peacock mask.

“Yes, such a match!” pipes a man in a top hat.

Someone should really tell him that masks are the order of the day.

“The Governor is a great man.” a silver masked woman adds.

I take it in stride, my mind millions of miles away.

In my head, the sea of faces is reduced to one. I see only forest green eyes.

I taste his tongue in my mouth.

My wrists ache with the pressure of his grip.

I can feel my skin flushing, heat searing it’s way into my body.

I can’t stop picturing my masked man. I can’t stop feeling his touch.

“Isobel!”

My mind comes screeching to the present.

My mother stands before me, eyes full of worry.

“Where have you been, dear?” she asks, words dripping with honey.

“Here,” I lie. “Just making the rounds.”

She looks sideways at me, clearly not convinced.

“I just needed a moment,” I add hastily.

My mother can’t find out the truth. I might as well go and confess my whereabouts to my father.

For all of her decorum, the woman’s mouth is a running faucet. I won’t slip up now.

I think again of the stranger in the lobby.

It’s unendingly stupid, I know that. If my father were to find out about the kiss, he’d have the man killed in a heartbeat.

A wise person would know that the risk is just too great.

But his touch.

But the feel of his hands.

I glance across the room to where my fiancé stands. He roams about in all his corrupted glory.

Whatever happened before and whatever comes of it, I can’t just let it go now.

I give my mother my most winning smile. “So when does my dance start?”

It’s enough to distract her. She turns from me, promising my moment is soon to come.

The very thought of the Governor’s hands on me again makes bile rise in my throat, but at least my mother is happy.

For now.

I turn my attention back to the crowd, their blessings washing over me like water off a duck’s back—unwanted and ineffective.

My smile is cemented to my face, never wavering.

When my mother gestures me to the dance floor, I go without complaint, countless eyes following my progress.

I feel calm right up until the Governor comes into view.

His hands on me in theory is one thing; the reality now grinning coolly back at me is another entirely.

I feel my calm break in my chest, panic rising in its place.

His eyes are the stuff of nightmares. It’s damn near painful to see them skim up and down the length of me. Never before have I felt so violated with only a look.

Those eyes promise suffering that has no end.

Thelma appears at my side, looking her usual radiant self.

“Where were you?” she asks.

She’s the one person in the world I most want to tell. I need her to know about the man in the mask. About my one taste of freedom.

The music starting up reminds me that this is not the time. Certainly not the place.

“I’ll tell you later,” I whisper, stepping forward onto the dance floor.

Her gaze follows me, knowing.

I can never hide anything from Thelma.

The Governor meets me in the middle of the room, arms outstretched in offering. I place my hand into his, my body into a proximity that makes me feel ill.

He grasps my hand possessively. Firmly.

He tells me without a word that I am his. I’m bound to him through circumstances beyond my control.

As he spins me around, white dress flying, I know that it’s true.

No kiss in a dark corner can save me now. I am dancing with the beast of my future. My own personal demon, dipping me gracefully before the eyes of many.

As my vision inverts, my back supported by his palm alone, I see my one respite.

Tucked into the corner, surrounded closely by men almost as imposing, is the green-eyed man.

His eyes follow my every movement.

My skin heats up anew, blood rushing wildly to my face.

I feel his eyes on me even more presently than I feel the Governor’s touch.

They match me, they caress me. They touch me more than any hands ever have.

The hands of my captor feel more oppressive than ever, spinning me wildly about.

I know that there’s no escaping the rough embrace of my fiancé, just as I know there’s no escaping my family.

I am a caged woman, bound since birth to a cause I never believed in.

Still, as my hauntingly bridal dress skims across my feet, I search the ever-spinning crowd. Looking desperately for green eyes.