Chapter 3: A Dance with Knives

POV: Wáng Shuǒrán → Lín Yàonán (blended)

Setting: Jiucheng skyline gala, main ballroom → secluded terrace

Tone: Razor flirtation, veiled truths, first physical spark

The music swelled into something decadent—violins flirting with danger. Shuǒrán set her glass down, fingers brushing the rim with theatrical care. One last look at Jian, one final twist of the knife before she turned away.

She didn’t need to see him twitch.

She could feel it.

Yàonán walked beside her now, neither guiding nor trailing, as if pulled along by some unspoken gravity. Guests parted as they moved—some out of awe, others instinct.

She stopped just before the dance floor. Her bare shoulder grazed his sleeve. The warmth of his body brushed her skin like static. He didn’t step back.

“You came,” she murmured, voice low enough to be mistaken for a moan. “Most men flinch when I bare my teeth.”

“Maybe I bite harder,” he said.

She turned to face him fully. That was close, she caught the way his pupils dilated—not from drink, but focus. His control was taut. Military. But his pulse, just under the collarbone, betrayed him.

He wants me.

Good.

She took his hand.

His fingers were rougher than she expected. Warm. Steady.

She guided him onto the floor as the orchestra shifted into a slow, sensuous waltz. Each step measured, every movement deliberate. She pressed close enough to make him choose: control his body—or betray his interest.

Yàonán matched her stride without comment. But inside, his thoughts snarled.

What is she doing? Who is she trying to provoke—Jian? Me?

She leaned in, whispering beside his ear. “Smile. Jian’s watching.”

He did.

And it was lethal.

“You’re not drunk,” she said, pivoting them perfectly between gold-drenched chandeliers.

“No.”

“You’re not here for pleasure.”

“No.”

“Then why are you holding me like you mean it?”

His hand slid just a breath lower along her back.

“Because you’re dangerous,” he said, “and I don’t take my eyes off the threat.”

A slow smile curled on her lips.

Good answer.

The music swirled, dizzying. Shuǒrán tilted her head back in mock abandon, throat exposed. Yàonán's gaze flicked to it before catching himself. She felt it. All of it.

Outside, a gust of wind flirted with the terrace doors. Shuǒrán turned without warning, slipping from his grasp.

He hesitated.

Then followed.

The terrace was cool and sharp with night air. City lights blinked like distant memories. Her arms rested on the marble ledge, exposed shoulders glowing like pale fire.

“You let me follow,” he said.

“You followed without hesitation.”

He came closer, but not too close. “What do you want, Miss Red?”

She glanced at him, lashes like razors. “What do you want, Agent?”

His breath hitched.

She smiled.

Bingo.

Silence stretched. Heavy. Honest.

She turned to face him. Her perfume hit him first—intoxicating, dangerously familiar. And then she stepped into his space.

One hand lifted, slow and precise, until her fingertips touched the knot of his tie.

“You wear your mask well,” she whispered.

“I was trained to.”