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“Oh, I don’t know.” I sipped my beer again. “I’m not—I’m not a very good dancer.”

“I very much doubt that,” he rumbled against my ear.

I took a bigger sip this time, skin flushing with heat. A bell rang at the bar and I watched four men throw back a shot of Jameson, hooting and hollering as their glasses slammed back down to the bar.

I wanted to tug Wolfe on the floor. Wanted to see what he’d do amidst the crowds with his hands on my waist. The dancing he would have done likely looked very different than what was happening on the floor in front of us now. He tapped to the beat, long fingers moving against his thigh.

“We would have had partners,” he said, answering my silent question. “A reel.”

I knew a little about period-style dancing from all the adaptations I watched back home. I tried to imagine him on the floor moving in those quick, light steps.

“I still remember how to do it,” he said off-handedly. “Just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I don’t recall the steps.”

I hid my chuckle behind my glass.

“I would teach it to you later, if you’d like,” he offered.

I dared a peek at him out of the corner of my eye. “Yes, please.”

He grinned, pressing closer. Like this, his shoulder was behind mine, my back nearly to his chest.

We watched and listened a while longer, the music switching back and forth between songs I knew and ones I didn’t. When I finished my first beer and went for my second, I was stopped halfway back to my spot on the wall.

The man who stopped me was my age, maybe a little younger. Bright hazel eyes, dark brown hair, a strong build, and rough hands. He smelled like wild, open air and freshly-turned earth.

“Would you like to dance?”

“Oh.” I blushed, eyes traitorously glancing to where Wolfe lingered. I couldn’t read his expression. One brow rose as if to say, well? “I’m—I’m afraid I’m not very good.”

The man smirked. “We’ll be just fine.” His fingers flexed for mine. “What do you say?”

Do it, a little voice inside me said. When will you ever get this chance again?

I nodded, excusing myself long enough to set my beer and coat down. Wolfe only laughed at my flustered expression.

“And now I get to watch you,” he purred. “Lucky me.”

The words made everything inside me turn loose and warm. I’d rather him be on the floor with me instead, but there was an odd sort of intimacy knowing he’d have his eyes on me while I danced with someone else.

I followed the man out onto the floor, his hand clasped around mine.

“I’m Avery!” I shouted over the music.

“Cedric!” he yelled back. “Ready?”

No, but now wasn’t the time to hesitate. I gave him a nod, smile splitting my face, and we began. He walked me through the steps patiently, pointing at me where to step. My heels became more of a hindrance than a help and I kicked them off, burying them in the corner. Barefoot, I moved much easier across the floor.

Every spin, every step and stomp.

By the time we finished the first three dances, I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. My ribs ached, my cheeks stung, but I was alive. Beautifully, gloriously, and terrifyingly alive. The bodhrán and I were one, my heart and its rhythm a perfect match to each other.

Sweat rolled down my neck and the slope of my back, but I had never felt so free in all my life. Even with the crush of bodies around me, every turn had my eyes falling to Wolfe. He watched from the shadows, lips quirked in that little smirk that made me want to do impulsive and reckless things.

There was longing there, too. Hunger. Desperation. Despite the smirk, his eyes were almost wholly black from where he stood. His knuckles were white and he watched me with a level of intensity that made my stomach swoop low.

Was he jealous?

Cedric’s arm snaked around my waist, spinning me back into the melee and I thought I saw a trace of envy on Wolfe’s face. The way his jaw flexed, the narrowing of his brows.