Chapter 4 To Dance with the Devil #2
Ira’s voice sliced through my thoughts. I turned to find my stepmother watching me, her face a mask of composed disapproval.
Her hair was arranged in an elaborate coil that emphasized the regal tilt of her head, and her gown, a deep emerald silk, sparkled with just enough jewels to remind everyone of her station without appearing gauche.
Gods, I hated her more than the man I was soon to marry.
“Contemplating my future,” I corrected, making no effort to hide my distaste. “There is a difference.”
Her lips thinned to a bloodless line. “You would do well to show more enthusiasm, Mireille. King Valen has honored our house with this alliance.”
“Has he?” I arched an eyebrow, emboldened by wine and resignation. “How fortunate for our house. I shall try to remember that when I am dragged to his kingdom of perpetual twilight and bloodshed.”
“Mind your tongue,” she hissed, keeping her smile fixed for the watching courtiers. “This marriage will secure Vareth’s borders and bring prosperity to both kingdoms. My husband has worked tirelessly to arrange it.”
“How thoughtful of him, truly. A pity his daughter’s happiness never entered the calculation.”
She stepped closer, her perfume—too sweet, too heavy—enveloping me like a smothering cloud.
“Oh, but he did consider his daughter’s happiness.” A cold, familiar smile spread across her face. “Did you not know? King Valen first requested Cordelia, the true princess of Vareth. Your father negotiated for him to take you instead. How disappointing that must have been.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, the goblet nearly slipping from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
“I suggest you be on your best behavior for your husband-to-be,” she continued, her voice low. “We wouldn’t want the King of Nocthar more dissatisfied with this agreement than he already is.”
The truth that I had been a substitute for Cordelia, that I was ever the unwanted bride, had loosened something in me, some final tether of restraint.
I met her gaze and smiled, small and cruel. “I know how to satisfy a man, Ira,” I said, my voice syrup-sweet. “Unlike you.”
The color leeched from her face before flooding back in an angry flush.
Her hand twitched at her side, the same hand that had struck me countless times for lesser impertinence.
But we both knew she wouldn’t dare mar my face the night before my betrothal ceremony.
Valen might overlook many things, but damaged goods were not among them.
“Enjoy your final nights in Vareth, daughter,” she said, the word daughter twisted into something ugly on her tongue. “I have waited long to be rid of you.”
With that parting shot, she glided away, every inch the insulted queen.
I drained my wine and set the empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray, my mind reeling. Valen had wanted Cordelia—golden, legitimate Cordelia—and settled for me.
It should have been liberating. Proof that this match would always be merely political. But instead... it hollowed me.
Because, ever the discarded daughter, I would always be the one led to slaughter.
The musicians had shifted their melody, the lively conversation piece fading into something slower, more deliberate. Like a sigh through ancient stone, the notes seemed to transform the very air of the banquet hall.
Courtiers moved with practiced synchronicity, clearing a space between carved pillars where shadows pooled deep against the walls. The dance floor—an unspoken tradition at such gatherings—felt more like the staging ground for an execution. Mine, perhaps.
I watched the transformation from my position. The wine had left me pleasantly numb, dulling my fear but sharpening my senses. An odd contradiction, making the scene before me appear both distant and unnervingly immediate.
Ladies in jewel-toned silks and lords in formal black stepped back to form a ring around the impromptu dance floor, their faces alight with anticipation. Few entertainments rivaled watching their king’s illegitimate daughter dance with the notorious Butcher.
I felt him approach before I saw him. Something in the air changed, grew heavier, as though his presence altered the very composition of the space around him. The courtiers nearest me stiffened slightly, their conversations faltering mid-word.
I did not turn. Not immediately. I allowed myself those final moments of resistance, however petty.
“Princess.”
His voice echoed just as it had during our private audience—deep, with the faintest accent that rounded his vowels, sounding of distant shores and foreign tongues. A voice accustomed to command, to being obeyed.
I turned, my face a carefully composed mask. King Valen stood before me, one hand extended in unmistakable invitation.
“King Valen,” I greeted, my voice steady despite the sudden dryness in my throat. “You honor me with your attention.”
His lips curved into what might have passed for a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “The honor is mine. I believe custom dictates that we dance together at least once before we are bound before the gods.”
Did this man ever ask for anything, or were all his words merely velvet-wrapped commands?
Before I could roll my eyes, I placed my hand in his.
His touch was a shock to my system, his skin unexpectedly warm. Given the coldness of his reputation, I had half expected a touch of ice. Instead, heat traveled up my arm from the point of contact, unsettling in its intensity.
He led me to the center of the floor with such fluid grace that I had no choice but to follow, my feet moving automatically. A new song began, some ancient Varethian melody that spoke of wars and weddings, blood and beauty. All the things that had bound and broken my homeland for centuries.
Perhaps our union will be added to their repertoire next.
Valen drew me into the first position, his left hand at my waist, his right still holding mine aloft. My own left hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the fine fabric of his jacket smooth beneath my fingertips as we began to dance.
We were closer than propriety strictly demanded, his face mere inches from mine—close enough that I could see flecks of amber in his otherwise black eyes. Embers floating in a midnight pool.
“You dance well,” he observed, our bodies moving in unison to the three-beat rhythm. “Your tutors did not waste their efforts.”
“Varethian royalty are taught many skills,” I replied, matching his movements with the precision drilled into me since childhood. “Dancing is merely the most public of them.”
We turned together, our steps echoing against stone. Around us, the court watched with undisguised fascination, their faces flickering in and out of shadow. I fixed my gaze on a point just past Valen’s shoulder, unwilling to meet his eyes for fear of what he might read in mine.
“And what skills do you possess that are not for public display?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “I find myself curious about the private face of my future queen.”
The dance carried us in a wide arc across the floor, moving as one despite my internal resistance. His hand at my waist was firm, guiding me through the choreography with confident accuracy.
Each step was a silent negotiation of control—he led, I followed—but only because I allowed it, and because the dance demanded it.
“Perhaps my private skills should remain private,” I countered, my voice equally quiet, but far firmer. “Mystery has its own value, after all.”
His lips quirked. “There will be no mysteries between us, Princess. I intend to know every facet of you. To uncover every secret.”
The threat beneath his words stirred a familiar wave of contempt, even as the heat of his touch remained disturbingly pleasant.
He hadn’t wanted me, the bastard princess, and now he wanted to know every facet?
His hand shifted slightly at my waist, fingers splaying wider, as though staking claim to more of me. The unexpected intimacy of that small gesture, the proprietary nature of it, sparked something rebellious.
I pulled my hand from his grasp for a beat longer than the dance required, creating a momentary but noticeable break in our rhythm before returning it with forced poise. A small defiance, witnessed by dozens of courtiers whose whispers immediately intensified.
Valen’s eyes narrowed, though his smile remained fixed in place.
“Careful, little sparrow,” he murmured as he pulled me closer, our bodies now nearly flush. “Your wings are soon to be bound. Do not make me clip them entirely.”
His breath was warm against my ear, carrying the scent of spices and wine. The music crescendoed around us, pulling us into a faster turn. My skirts swirled against his legs, the heavy silk catching between us like a secret.
“Oh, but sparrows sing so very loudly when caged,” I replied, my voice a silken thread of sweetness. “Perhaps you should consider what melodies you wish to hear before you tighten those bindings too severely.”
His hand at my waist twitched, fingers digging into the flesh beneath my gown. Almost enough to hurt. A reminder of the strength he contained, the power he wielded.
“I have heard many songs in my time,” he said, guiding me through a complex series of steps that brought my back against his chest, his breath ghosting across my neck. “From sweet nightingales to proud peacocks—and all of them, eventually, sang for me.”
We spun again, the music swelling around us. My heartbeat quickened, though whether from exertion, fear, or something else entirely, I couldn’t say.
The wine in my system made the room tilt slightly, or perhaps it was the dizzying effect of his body’s warmth. I couldn’t be certain.
I didn’t want to think about being caged, about losing every scrap of freedom I had left. It wasn’t fair that my life could be torn apart by a single vow spoken at an altar.
I was tired of the charade. Tired of playing the well-mannered offering to a man who hadn’t even wanted me.
Gathering courage from the wine and my growing indignation, I leaned slightly closer to him, my lips nearly brushing the edge of his ear.
“Tell me, Butcher,” I whispered, “does it wound your pride to settle for the bastard when you sought the legitimate princess? Does it irk you to dance with the unwanted daughter of Vareth?”
A dangerous stillness overtook him, though our bodies continued the steps without faltering. I looked up, meeting his gaze directly for the first time since the dance began.
His eyes darkened infinitesimally. Something flickered there—something that might’ve made me step back, if he weren’t holding me so securely.
“Does that trouble you?” he asked, voice a smooth caress. “You believe yourself a poor substitute for your legitimate sister?”
“I merely wonder if you feel cheated in your bargain,” I pressed, emboldened by bitterness. “If perhaps you might prefer to renegotiate with my father for the golden princess instead of settling for his shameful secret.”
His grip on my waist tightened further, a coldness entering his eyes that made my skin prickle with warning.
“Make no mistake, Princess Mireille,” he said, each word precise. “After meeting you, your sister holds no interest for me.”
I pulled back slightly, searching his face for deception, for some hint that he was merely placating the bride he’d been forced to accept. But his expression held steady, those black eyes still revealing nothing.
“Although you do surprise me, Princess,” he continued, his lips curling in an infuriating smirk.
I tipped my chin, defiant. “How so?”
His smile was a blade, sharp and gleaming. “I expected you to be far more... amenable. Desperate to please. I did not anticipate bite from someone so unwanted.”
“And I expected the Butcher to look far more beastly,” I replied, each word honed to cut. “But I suppose even monsters can wear a crown.”
He laughed, a rich sound that sent a ripple through my chest. The music began to quiet, almost languid in its rhythm, our steps slowing with the tempo.
“What a fascinating little sparrow you are. I look forward to hearing what tune you sing for me,” he murmured, the words barely audible, sending a beat of ice through me.
Then louder, for the benefit of our audience, “You honor me with your grace, Princess. I look forward to many more such dances in our future.”
He stepped back, releasing me with deliberate gentleness to offer a formal bow. I’m sure the watching courtiers would interpret the gesture as respect, but I saw the hunger that lingered in his gaze, the calculated assessment that made me feel like a chess piece being evaluated for strategic value.
I curtseyed in return, low and composed, holding the position longer than necessary. When he extended his hand to help me rise, I accepted it with a smile as mirthless as his.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty.”
Polite applause rippled through the room, faces betraying a mix of fear, pity, and morbid fascination.
As I straightened, I caught Isolde’s eye across the hall. My faithful companion stood near a side entrance, her ash-blonde hair catching the torchlight. A slight tension in her posture, the angle of her chin—subtle signs only I would notice.
A message. An opportunity.
An escape, however brief.
I turned back to Valen, offering a smile that never reached my eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me, King Valen. The excitement of the evening has left me somewhat fatigued. I fear if I do not retire,” I paused, letting my gaze heat in a way that had brought lesser men to their knees, “I will not be at my best for you tomorrow.”
An answering flicker kindled in his eyes, clearly catching my meaning, before darkening into something colder. I would have stepped back had his hand not tightened around mine.
He must have noticed the shift in my demeanor, the hint of uncertainty with his obvious displeasure, for his expression quickly shuttered, features sliding back into that impeccable mask of composure.
“Of course,” he said softly. “We have many days ahead of us, after all.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my fingertips.
It was chaste. Expected.
And yet, a jolt of something sharp and electric traveled through me at the contact, sinking low in my spine.
“Dream sweetly, sparrow,” he murmured, his lips tipping in a knowing smirk. “For this time tomorrow, your wings will no longer carry you beyond my reach.”