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His perceptive (Tristan):
I always thought of myself as the hero, the man who could do no harm. But then…. I met her and I realized the only difference between a hero and a villain is perception. For her, I was the hero, and for anyone who looked her way… let’s just say they won’t be doing that again.
Her perspective (Addilyn):
We made eye contact from across the ballroom, he was beautiful, no doubt, lounging back at his table. His hair is dark, almost black, his body lean but cut sharply with toned muscle. I’ve never thought much of brown eyes but then, I’d never seen him. Molten whiskey. The kind you’d see a boss drink, swirling it in their glass while looking - or more like plotting - upon their city of crime, cars, lights and stars. Eyes that make the world come alive, and girls look quickly away, blushing. I look at my glass of water, suddenly thirsty. I should have got the wine.
Of course, I’d only be here for a little while, balls generally suck. I’m sorry, but who wants to eat caviar and the meat the chef got too lazy to cook? Regardless, I’m here to do what I do best, dance. That's why I snuck in after all. I look up to seek out a partner just to be drawn back over to the whiskey colored eyes that I find have never left me, making my heart speed up irrationally. I’m not sure what I’m doing as I stand from my table and start walking over to the beautiful man, I just know that I want to dance.
A small smirk appears on his lips as I move towards him, as if he can read my confused thoughts. God, this is a bad idea but I remind myself It’s just a dance, just a dance. I will never see this man again unless it’s on the cover of a magazine and with that thought my inhibitions subside and- I stop in front of the beautiful man and look down at him. He’s even more striking up close. With razor sharp cheekbones, and a dark little beauty mark an inch from the edge of his right eye.
It isn’t until his full lips move to form a deep “hmm?'' I snap out of it to ask “um, hello. Would you like to dance?”
He chuckles as if he finds my question amusing.
“Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?” His deep voice growls.
“Well this is the 21st century, and you haven’t, so I am.”
“Hmmm, and what if I said I didn’t know how to dance?” He says in thought, taking my hand in his rough fingers. WHAT? He doesn’t know how to dance?
“Well then I’ll lead, of course.” I manage to get out. Amusement dances in his eyes as he looks up at me and replies,
“You’ll lead?”
“Yes, I will.” I say stubbornly.
“Well then,” he stands, kissing my hand, and only then do I realize his true size. He’s almost a foot taller than me, but the way he takes my hand and the heat - or more like blaze - with which he’s currently staring down at me, makes me feel delicate rather than small. My throat dries and I stare back up at him only to break eye contact when I hear the current music stop to change, I remember my goal. I take his hand and he lets me lead him, easily keeping up with his long legs, to the center of the ballroom.
My favorite place.