Tonight is the culmination of so many dreams he's held but never dared imagine could come true. As he stands on the stage, dressed in black jeans and a black leather jacket, hearing the crowd cheer "Ward! Ward! Ward!" when his ranking is read aloud, he has become so much greater than that scared kid from Candor.
Tonight, I'm Dauntless, he thinks to himself. In every sense of the phrase.
There's plenty of alcohol lying around, but Ward doesn't indulge. He's picked his poison, and it's something far stronger than booze. His poison takes the form of dark hair spilling down the back of a black dress that shows off more skin than would be acceptable in any faction but this one.
"Hey, Skye," he says, oozing swagger and confidence that come from the exhilaration of the night.
"Hey," she replies, smiling. She's been friendlier with him ever since he showed her the tricks of the simulation test, how you can separate yourself from the horror around you and focus on breathing in and out, in and out. She's never asked how he learned that skill, and he doesn't plan on telling her. Some things are better left buried, and what better place to bury them than in Candor, now that he's well and truly in Dauntless?
"You look good." It's an understatement. She looks stunning, her dark eyes flashing amid the lights and the din of the party. Her dress gives her body a kind of glamor he never would have expected the first time he saw her. Black suits her far better than that atrocious red and gaudy gold. Her name suits her: a black sky could herald anything—the beauty of night, the destruction of an oncoming storm—but whatever it is, its power will be magnificent.
"Thanks." Her face is flushed, and she smiles. "You don't look bad yourself."
"So," he says, tracing his fingers up her bare arm, "are you one for dancing?"
She shakes her head. "Amity dancing is pretty different from this. More spinning and clapping, and fewer strobe lights."
"Yeah, this dancing is pretty primal." He leans in close to whisper in her ear, his lips lingering on each word. "It can really wake something up inside you."
"Can it now?" Her teeth bite her bottom lip, eyes dancing to meet his.
"You want to test it out for yourself?"
In response, she puts her hand at the nape of his neck, ruffling his hair with her fingers, and leads him out onto the dance floor.
He's dancing, but mostly he's watching her: watching her move hesitantly at first, and then more confidently—more Dauntlessly—and then losing herself in the passion and exhilaration of having absolutely nothing to lose, and it's then that he kisses her. He can taste the sweetness of her mouth mixed with the salty layer of perspiration on her upper lip. Deepening the kiss, he pulls her in towards him, so that he can feel every move she makes against his body. There is no such thing as too much of her skin and her heat and her mouth and her.
With his mouth still on hers, he pushes her off of the dance floor, her small backwards steps moving in double time to keep pace with his long legs and forward motion. He aims for a couch and pushes her backward onto it, allowing himself to fall on top of her. Her arms are wrapped around his head; his hands snake down her neck and torso, until they wrap under her thighs. He lifts her up and rolls the two of them around, so she's sitting on his lap, before she even realizes.
"You're too quick," she breathes, before he kisses her again, cutting off any words she might have wanted to add.
As his hand slips under the hem of her dress, she pulls away from his mouth. "I'm not having sex with you on this couch," she warns.
"It doesn't have to be on the couch," he replies fluidly, reaching his free hand toward her face.
She tilts her head away. "I said no, Ward."
"And I heard you," he assures her. "I like what we're doing, though."
"Your left hand is doing a little more than that." Her tone is teasing, but the tension in her face betrays her concern. He's gone too far.
He withdraws the offending hand. "You're right. This isn't the time. But you know the way you felt just then?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like the floor's been swept out from under your feet, like you can't breathe, like you're drowning and you don't know which way is up. That's when you're at your most stunning."
Before she has a chance to process his words, he's off the couch and standing up. Straightening his jacket, he whispers in her ear "If you want to feel that way again, you know where to find me."
With that, he returns to the dance floor, accepting a drink as he melts into the crowd.