Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Sunlight streamed through the ballroom's tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor.
Briar stood in the center of the vast space, feeling underdressed in her simple day gown while Eliam circled her with predatory grace.
He'd woken her early, insisting she needed "proper instruction" before tomorrow's ball, though the way his eyes tracked her suggested this had little to do with protecting her from social embarrassment.
"First position," he commanded, stopping directly in front of her.
Today he wore fitted black trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows in a casual display she rarely saw.
It made him look younger somehow, less like the Forest King and more like someone who might actually dance for pleasure.
For the briefest of moments, he reminded her of Arion.
"I don't know what that means." She shifted her weight, hyperaware of the space between them.
"Of course you don't, which is why we're here." He stepped closer, placing one hand on her waist. "The formal dances of the fae courts are nothing like your human fumbling. They require grace, intention, and most importantly, trust."
"Trust?" She placed her hand on his shoulder as he guided her other hand into his.
"You must trust your partner completely, or the magic in the dance will sense hesitation and punish it." His fingers adjusted her grip, positioning her hand just so. "Too much distance between partners shows fear. Too close suggests impropriety. We aim for perfect balance."
He moved her through the basic position, correcting her posture with touches that lingered just long enough to make her skin warm. The mark on her arm pulsed in time with her heartbeat, responding to his proximity as always.
"Now, the basic step pattern." He began to move, drawing her with him in a simple box step. "Feel how I lead? You don't anticipate, you respond. The male leads, the female follows, creating harmony."
"How wonderfully archaic." She tried to watch her feet, but he tilted her chin up with one finger.
"Eyes on your partner, always. The floor isn't going anywhere." His thumb brushed her jaw before returning to its proper position. "In fae dances, breaking eye contact can be seen as an insult, or invitation, depending on context."
"What kind of invitation?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
His smile turned sharp. "The kind that ends with someone bent over a balcony while the ball continues below. But let's master the basics first, shall we?"
Heat flooded her face as he spun her into a turn, her skirts flaring around her legs. His hand on her waist guided her back to him, closer than before, and she could smell pine and winter on his skin.
"Better, but you're still thinking too much." He demonstrated another pattern, more complex this time. "Feel the rhythm in your body, not your mind. Like this."
He pulled her flush against him, abandoning proper distance entirely. Her breath caught as he moved them together, her body forced to follow his or risk stumbling. The dance became something liquid, natural, their bodies finding synchronicity that had nothing to do with learned steps.
"See? Your body knows what to do when your mind stops interfering." His voice rumbled through his chest into hers.
"This doesn't feel like a formal court dance." Her voice came out breathier than intended.
"It's not." He spun her out, then back in, catching her with her back to his chest. "This is what happens after the formal dances, in the darker corners where the shadows are kind."
His arms crossed over her, holding her against him as they swayed. She could feel every line of his body, the controlled strength in his movements, the way his breathing had quickened just slightly.
"Show me a proper court dance," she managed, though staying like this was dangerously tempting.
"If you insist." He released her, stepping back to a formal distance that felt like miles. "The Opening Reverence is traditional for the Wild Hunt ball. Partners honor each other, the court, and the hunt itself."
He demonstrated the male bow—elaborate and graceful, one hand over his heart. She attempted to mirror with a curtsey, but her balance wavered.
"No, like this." He moved behind her, hands settling on her hips. "Weight centered, sink straight down, don't lean forward."
His hands guided her down, holding her steady. The position put his mouth near her ear, and she felt more than heard his approval when she managed it correctly.
"Good girl. Now rise slowly, controlled." His hands helped her up, but didn't immediately release her hips. "In the actual dance, this reverence happens three times. Once to your partner, once to the court, once to the hunt master."
"Who's the hunt master?"
"Me, naturally." His thumbs pressed slightly into her hips before he stepped away. "Again, on your own this time."
She practiced the curtsey several more times, each attempt earning either praise or correction. When she finally performed it to his satisfaction, they moved on to the actual dance steps.
"The Reverence dance tells a story," he explained, taking a position opposite her. "The meeting of hunter and prey, the chase, the capture. Partners alternate roles throughout."
"Let me guess who plays which role tomorrow night."
"You might be surprised. In the dance, power shifts constantly." He extended his hand, and she placed hers in it, letting him draw her into motion. "First, I hunt."
The dance began slowly, him advancing while she retreated in prescribed steps. His movements were controlled but predatory, eyes never leaving hers. She found herself genuinely backing away, heart rate climbing even though she knew it was just a dance.
"Good, let your body show the fear. Now, on the musical cue, power shifts."
He spun her, and suddenly she was the one advancing, him giving ground. The dynamic felt strange but thrilling, chasing the Forest King across the ballroom floor even in pantomime.
"Feel the power in it?" He asked as she pursued him through the steps. "This is why trust matters. I must trust you enough to let you hunt me, even in play."
"And I must trust you not to devour me when you catch me?"
"Oh, little thief." He caught her hands, spinning them both so suddenly she was pressed against the wall, his body caging hers. "In the dance, the capture is symbolic. What happens after depends entirely on the partners."
The position was reminiscent of so many others—him crowding her against walls, doors, surfaces. But here in the sunlit ballroom, with the excuse of instruction, it felt different. Charged with anticipation for tomorrow, with the knowledge that they'd perform this for an audience.
"Is this part of the dance?" Her hands were trapped between them, palms flat against his chest.
"The final position, yes. Hunter and prey united, neither victorious, both transformed.
" His forehead touched hers, the position achingly intimate.
"Tomorrow, when we reach this point, the entire court will be watching.
Wondering if we'll break position or hold it and what it means that you let me catch you. "
"What does it mean?"
He pulled back enough to meet her eyes. "Whatever we want it to mean. That's the power of the dance, it speaks truths we can't voice."
The warmth in her chest pulsed hard, reaching for him, and she saw his eyes darken in response. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, might press her harder against the wall and show her exactly what could happen after symbolic capture.
Instead, he stepped back, releasing her completely. "Again from the beginning. Your footwork during the chase needs work."
She pushed off the wall on unsteady legs, trying to calm her breathing. "How many times will we practice?"
"Until your body knows every step so perfectly you could perform it in your sleep.
" He moved to the starting position with that fluid grace.
"And muscle memory overrides any nervousness. When you can dance with me tomorrow and make everyone in that ballroom wonder why I chose a human, then you’ll be ready. "
"Why did you choose a human?" The question came out soft.
He paused in reaching for her hand and Briar watched as he seemed to consider the answer with more care than he did most. "I didn't choose.
You were chosen for me before either of us drew breath.
But tomorrow..." He took her hand, pulled her into position.
"Tomorrow I want them to see that fate knew what it was doing. "
They danced again, and again, until her feet ached and her legs trembled.
But each repetition made the movements more natural, made the push and pull of hunter and prey feel less like performance and more like truth.
When he caught her the fifth time, pressing her to the wall with controlled force, she didn't even pretend to struggle.
"Better," he murmured, and she felt the approval like physical warmth. "Much better. But you're favoring your right foot during the turns."
"My feet hurt." She admitted it without thinking, then tensed for mockery.
Instead, he glanced down with a frown. "Of course they do. You've been dancing for hours in day shoes." He stepped back, then did something that made her breath catch—he dropped to one knee, hands reaching for her foot. "May I?"
She nodded, speechless, as the Forest King carefully removed her shoe. His fingers found the sore spots unerringly, rubbing with just enough pressure to ease the ache.
"Can't have you limping tomorrow," he said, focused on his task. "What would people think?"
"That you worked me too hard in preparation?"
"That I didn't take proper care of what's mine." He switched to her other foot, and she had to brace against the wall to stay upright. "Which is unacceptable."