Chapter 38 Belle of the Ball
BELLE OF THE BALL
Noblemen and women filtered into the grand ballroom in a nauseating mixture of bold perfumes and obnoxious fabric choices.
They soon found themselves indulging in food, drink, and conversation.
Slaide stood still as a statue at King Magnus’s side, a dog tethered to his master.
Their circle consisted of Magnus’s most ass-kissing noblemen from the most powerful houses in Aeos, his Hand, and Prince Tristan.
Conversation drifted to some attack on a Border patrol unit the night before.
Slaide caught bits and pieces as they discussed the details in a hushed manner, all the while ignoring the very public crowd around them that could likely hear what they were saying.
As if citizen morale wasn’t low enough already, the last thing they needed to overhear was a discussion of the instability of the Border and the masked bandit making everyone’s life a living Hel.
Slaide smirked into his glass as they tried to mask the panic in their voices.
Their discomfort was a drug, and he couldn’t get enough.
Slaide noticed Prince Tristan ignoring most of the conversations around him, and he couldn’t fault him for it.
He was maturing into a handsome young man, and that was not lost on the ladies who practically crawled over him, vying for his attention.
He may be a prince, Slaide thought, but he is still a boy.
“Slaide, what happened to your ward? I thought she was supposed to be attending at your side?” the King’s Hand, Cyrus Goodwin, questioned.
“Yes, indeed, boy. Where is that pet of yours?” Magnus added, smiling into his drink. He knew damn well.
Slaide shifted uncomfortably. “She couldn’t make it this evening. She suffered a head injury during last night’s ambush.” Keep it short and sweet. No need for details, no need for emotions.
“Ah, what a shame,” Cyrus said.
“Yes, quite unfortunate, that,” Magnus grumbled, sloshing his wine, “seeing as she’s your responsibility, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“She was a rare looking woman, that one.” This time it was Lord Marsh who spoke. He was sporting an orange fox mask, where the King and his Hand wore none. Only the lords, ladies, and attendees without greater status would be wearing them this evening.
Slaide wasn’t expected to, but being able to hide his face was a perk he wasn’t going to let pass him by.
Most people knew who he was by stature alone anyway, so it was merely just for fun.
If you could call it that. He swirled his glass of whiskey, disinterested in the frivolous conversations around him.
He tipped it back, draining every last burning drop of amber liquid.
As he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, Slaide noticed the men around him had gone silent. Their eyes cast upward, toward the top of the staircase behind him.
“Who is that?” The man Slaide had marked as Lord Ambrose was practically drooling.
Slaide turned to see what the fuss was about and found himself staring into a daring pair of brown eyes flecked with gemstone hues of emerald and citrine.
Hazel eyes.
She wore a simple yet elegant black mask. Her hooded eyes were kohl-lined and dusted with a smoky-grey powder. His eyes made their way to her lips, plump and painted a deep, glossy red.
As his gaze trailed further down, he found her unruly chestnut hair had been tamed into loose, cascading waves, pinned to one side by an emerald brooch with silver embellishments. There, on a delicate silver chain, rested that pendant she was so obsessed with.
Her black dress was stunning, if not daring.
She bore no sleeves nor straps, instead leaving her shoulders and decolletage bare, her curves accentuated by a sweetheart neckline that was split down the middle, creating a deep V down past her ribs, ending just above her stomach.
A full skirt embroidered with leaves of silver gave the illusion she was gliding across the floor.
She was escorted by a man Slaide immediately recognized as Pimley, despite his mask and attire. Just behind them, he spotted Phaedra, trailing in the shadows. The two of them must have helped her get ready. And good gods, they’d nailed it.
Hazel released Pimley’s arm at the top of the staircase and curtsied politely in thanks.
She turned, facing the gathering crowd, and began her descent alone. She was making a statement, Slaide realized. She came here because she chose to, alone. And she would descend these stairs, alone. Point taken.
All eyes were on her as she reached the main floor where she turned to face the King and curtsied once more. Slaide’s feelings for her betrayed him, and he swallowed dryly.
“I don’t know who that is,” Tristan said, pushing away the two women hanging onto his arms, “But I must dance with her.”
Slaide stiffened. This is not happening. Not him.
Magnus clapped Slaide on the shoulder, laughing heartily as they both watched his son walk up to the woman Slaide had let slip through his grasp. “That boy has tenacity,” Magnus noted.
“He has balls, you mean. And he’s acting as though he just discovered them.” Slaide shrugged off Magnus’s meaty paw, earning him a chagrined, sideways glance.
Prince Tristan met Hazel where she stood, bowing deeply and kissing her hand. She curtsied again, and a blush creeped into her skin. She looped her arm into the prince’s, and they rejoined the group.
Hazel curtsied again in the presence of the King, bowing her head. “Your Majesty,” she said by way of greeting. Slaide wondered if Magnus could tell who she was, or if he was as daft as the look on his face suggested.
“Father, start up the entertainment!” Tristan turned and commanded his father. “A woman this beautiful should be shown off on the dance floor.”
King Magnus pulled one of the servants aside, telling him something Slaide couldn’t hear over the din.
He watched as the servant scurried off in the direction of the main stage.
When he looked back at the group of men, they were dispersing, with Magnus retreating to the ballroom’s seat of honor upon the dais.
He turned, catching Slaide’s eye, and beckoned for him to follow.
Slaide groaned his annoyance but obeyed orders.
He took a seat on the dais beside the King, feeling royally uncomfortable in the spotlight. This was a most unnatural place for him to be. He had always been more at home, more secure, in the shadows. Let’s get this over with.
Magnus stood and addressed the gathered crowd with a short speech, ending with two solid claps of his hands to start up the music.
Slaide watched as Tristan dragged Hazel to the dance floor. He glared as Tristan held her hand within his own and placed the other on her waist. Something snarled within him, an angered wolf coming out of its den. He shook his head. No, you don’t get to claim her, you fool. She’s not yours.
And besides that, Hazel was… smiling. She was grinning broadly at the prince as he spoke to her.
Had he ever seen her eyes light up that way?
Had she ever smiled at him like that? A servant boy walked by with a tray of drinks, and Slaide swiped a glass of whiskey, downed it in a single gulp, and replaced the glass before the boy had so much as taken a step.
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t his. She was never meant to be his.
The opening song came to a close, and with its end, the end of Slaide’s torment. Or so he thought. No sooner than Tristan had taken his leave of her, kissing her hand again and saying something that made her blush deeply, someone else approached through the parting crowd.
Ezekiel Bertram.
Slaide steeled himself against the jealousy-laden anger welling within, gripping the arm of his chair so fervently it creaked in his grasp.
He wasn’t even sure what he had to hold against the man.
Was it the fact that he’d been in her life first?
Was it the way he looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered?
Or maybe the fact that each of those things was true, and it wouldn’t be long before she caught on? Did that scare him?
He sat deep into his seat and crossed his arms. It would be over soon. Besides, she looked incredible and would probably get asked to the dance floor by several more men. He needed to get over that. She. Isn’t. Yours.
Hazel smiled broadly at Zeke as he walked up to her, his tight onyx curls framing his tan face. As a member of the King’s guard, he was not permitted to wear a mask to these events. Identification was crucial in case of an emergency where time could be of the essence.
He approached her with his arms open wide, scooping her into a full embrace and lifting her into the air.
They hugged longer than two lovers kept apart for years.
Zeke pulled away, looking her over. Slaide laughed to himself, wondering if Zeke thought he needed to check her over for damages. She’s fine, I assure you, he thought.
Zeke leaned in and whispered something into Hazel’s ear. She immediately blushed and slapped his arm. He laughed. She smiled. Slaide wondered why the fuck he was still sitting there.
As if on cue, the first notes of another song started to play. Zeke bowed to Hazel respectfully and offered his arm.
Two songs later, Slaide decided he’d had enough watching. He stood, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from one side to the other. He finished what was left in his current glass of whiskey and set it on the tray of the nearest servant. My turn to play.
He strode down the stairs from the dais, drawing attention from some of the nearer revelers, who stepped out of his way.
But when he arrived where she’d last been on the ballroom floor, Ezekiel was dancing with someone else, and Hazel was nowhere to be found.
Slaide scoped out the room, silently cursing himself for not making a move sooner. Now she was gone, and with her any chance he might have had to explain himself.
And then, through a break in the crowd, he caught a glimpse of her. She’d just crossed the threshold onto the balcony.
He raced through the crowd, parting the dancers as if they were merely obstacles to get past. Once outside, he slowed, running a hand through his hair as he approached her. She stood still as a statue near the railing, overlooking the moonlit gardens.
“Hazel,” he said quietly, voice just above a whisper.
“Slaide,” she replied, scowling, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” There was no ire in his voice, no sarcasm, no anger.
Hazel looked up at him, meeting his gaze, her eyes roaming, searching him. “How did you know it was me?”
He laughed, quietly and with such subtlety that passersby would miss it. “There’s not a costume you could wear, no mask, no shroud, nothing could make it so that I wouldn’t recognize you.”
She swallowed hard, looking away as if it pained her to see him. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He stepped beside her and leaned over the stone railing. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t know that here is the best place,” she said. “Can we go somewhere more private?”
“Seeing as you hate me right now, I’m not sure it’s safe for me to go anywhere secluded with you.” A serious topic, but there was a playful ease in his voice.
“Cut the bullshit, Slaide. This is serious.” She glanced around, looking for prying ears. “Do you have dreams?”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s kind of a philosophical question, and I’ve had far too much to drink for that kind of deep thinking.”
“Not those kinds of dreams,” she groaned in frustration. “Nightmares. I have them often, for quite a while now. But lately… lately you’ve been in them.”
In the ballroom, the performers began another song.
He ignored what she’d said, pushing off the railing and offering his hand.
“Dance?” he asked.
“Slaide!” she hissed. “This is serious.”
“What makes you think I’m not?” His smile faded.
Hazel sighed and continued. “Since I’ve been in the castle, these nightmares have been fewer…
less frequent. There were several days this week when I didn’t have any at all.
But back home, every night was plagued with similar nightmares.
One where I was walking through a dark corridor, hearing screams. Another where there was a dark, winged man stalking me through the halls, reaching out to touch me.
And last night… last night he grabbed my hand.
You grabbed my hand. All this time I thought I was being chased, but then you took my hand, and we were running. Together.”