58. Chapter 58 #3
My breath hitched and I swallowed but lifted my chin.
"Then walk away," I said, lifting my chin in challenge.
His gaze dropped to my mouth and his eyes darkened. He slowly dragged them back up to my eyes.
"I can’t.” The bond hummed and my quickened pulse answered. “Dance with me."
“Is that an order?” I breathed, trying to keep my shit together.
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist—right over the pulse.
"No," he murmured. "It's a surrender."
I swear my knees were going to give out if he kept this up. I gripped my wine glass and pointed it across the room to Vivienne watching with hawk eyes.
"Your betrothed might object."
"My betrothed is currently being charmed by a Duke who wants trading rights to the northern ports." He stepped closer. Close enough that I caught his scent—steel and thunder. "She won't notice."
His hand extended. Palm up and waiting.
"Dance with me." He lowered his voice. "Please."
Please.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine—firm, proprietary—and the bond purred.
The waltz was slow. Formal. The kind of dance designed for political conversations and careful distances.
We ignored both.
Eryndor pulled me closer than propriety allowed. His hand settled on my hip—the place where my dagger should have been. Where I'd carried a weapon every day of my life until this court stripped me of everything sharp.
His thumb pressed against the empty space.
I'm here, the touch said. I'm your blade now.
The bond warmed between us. Both Marks now—fully tethered for the first time. I felt him in ways I never had before. Not just his presence, but his essence. The steady pulse of his soul against mine.
And the world responded.
The potted roses near the windows began to bloom. Buds unfurling in the candlelight, petals spreading like they'd been waiting for permission. Then the ivy climbing the marble columns started to grow, reaching upward, threading new leaves through the lattice.
Eryndor followed my gaze.
"The roses." His grip tightened around my waist and he brought his eyes back to mine.
"Amaria," he whispered.
I nodded. "Us." The word barely made it out.
We'd caused tremors before. Boiled wine in glasses. Made shadows stretch and candles flare. Our combined power had always manifested as chaos—beautiful destruction, barely contained.
But this was different.
This was creation.
A jasmine vine near the orchestra burst into sudden flower, its perfume drifting across the dance floor. Nobles nearby glanced around in confusion, searching for the source. A noblewoman laughed in delight as a rose beside her bloomed white to pink to deep crimson in the space of a breath.
"The full bond," Eryndor murmured. "Finally."
We're harmonizing.
I looked up at him. He looked down at me. And for one moment—just one—the court disappeared. The wedding disappeared. Everything disappeared except the two of us, wrapped in music and magic, making flowers bloom just by being close.
This. This is what they're so afraid of.
The song swelled and faded. We kept moving, every step in sync, every breath shared. Then he tensed beneath my fingers.
"After the wedding, I'll have access I don't have now." His hand gripped my hip harder. "If I play this correctly—"
"If you marry her."
A lily near the windows opened, pure white, trembling. His hand stayed on my hip, grounding me, claiming me in the only way he could.
"I'm going to fix this," he said finally. "All of it."
"I know." I nodded.
"Do you?"
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The glamour hid my face, but the bond hid nothing. Around us, the ballroom had become a garden—vines climbing, roses blooming, the air thick with the scent of jasmine.
"I know," I repeated. "Because I'm going to help you. And together, we're going to burn this whole fucking kingdom down."
His expression hardened. Hope sharpening into resolve.
"Together," he agreed.
The music had stopped but his hand stayed on my hip, mine stayed on his shoulder, and for three heartbeats we just stood there—two people pretending they weren't falling apart at the thought of letting go.
"Eryndor."
Ugh, that voice. Bright and sharp and perfectly timed to ruin everything.
Vivienne appeared at his elbow, her smile bright and brittle. Her gaze flicked to me—assessing, dismissive—before returning to him.
"Darling, you've been monopolizing Lady Valencourt for three dances now." Her hand slid through his arm, fingers curling around his bicep. Claiming. "People will talk."
Good. Let them choke on it.
But I was Lady Valencourt. And Lady Valencourt smiled.
"The fault is mine, Your Grace." I curtsied, the motion stiff. "His Highness was merely indulging my questions about court. We do things rather differently in the east."
"How generous of him." Vivienne's smile didn't waver. Her grip on his arm tightened. "Come, my love. The Duchess of Ashenvale has been asking for you."
My love.
A snarl built in my throat and my fangs threatened to rip free.
Eryndor didn't move.
For one long, dangerous moment, he simply looked at Vivienne's hand on his arm. Then back at me, his lips pressed in a flat line.
His fury came through the bond—banked and burning, but quickly smothered. He didn’t refuse and didn’t do anything except let himself be led away like a prize horse.
Back to the performance. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray. Drank deep and let the burn settle me.
An hour passed. Maybe two.
I danced with strangers—minor lords, visiting dignitaries, men whose names I forgot the moment they left my lips. Lady Valencourt was charming. Popular, even. A mysterious beauty from the eastern provinces who laughed at the right moments and said nothing of substance.
If only they knew. None of them mattered. But I felt him.
Across the ballroom, Eryndor waltzed with Vivienne. The perfect couple. The kingdom's golden future, spinning beneath crystal chandeliers while a court full of sycophants applauded.
She laughed at something he said.
He smiled back—lips curved, but eyes dead.
Then Vivienne put her paws on Eryndor’s chest, leaning into him and laughing like a little drunk devil. The bond flared. I gasped, pressing my palm against my chest where phantom fire licked across my skin. Her hands were on him but I felt them on me.
The lord dancing with me frowned.
"My lady, perhaps you should sit—"
"I'm fine."
But I wasn't. Across the room, Vivienne was leaning closer. Whispering something in Eryndor's ear. Her fingers traced down his arm, and I felt every inch of it—a trail of heat that made my stomach clench and my jaw tighten.
Get your filthy little hands off him before I break every one of your fucking fingers he's mine you preening little vulture I will gut you and…
My fangs were definitely descending now. I knew my thoughts were vicious and irrational. She was his betrothed. She had every right to touch him.
But the bond and I didn't give a fuck about rational.
"You dance beautifully, Lady Valencourt."
My current partner—a Count, maybe, or a Baron, I'd already forgotten—pulled me closer than necessary. His hand slid lower on my back. Not improper, exactly. But deliberate.
"Thank you," I managed, fighting to keep my fangs hidden.
His thumb traced a small circle against my spine.
The bond detonated.
Eryndor's rage slammed into me like a wall of black fire. I stumbled and the Count caught my elbow, frowning with concern.
Across the room, Eryndor had gone utterly still. The dangerous stillness of a predator the moment before it strikes. Vivienne was still talking, still touching his arm, still existing in a world where she mattered—and he wasn't seeing any of it.
He was watching a stranger's thumb trace circles on my spine.
Mine.
The word tore through the bond with a deep, guttural growl—possessive and furious.
I could feel what he wanted to do. The bond held nothing back.
An image flooded my mind: him crossing this ballroom, ripping the Count's head off, and before it even hit the ground, tearing my gown off and taking me right there in front of everyone, claiming me as his.
Fuck. I was instantly wet. I bit my lip and clenched my thighs together.
This full bond upgrade was going to be the end of me.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see his hands shaking and the muscles in his neck cording with restraint. Vivienne touched his jaw, trying to turn his face back to her. He let her. But his eyes stayed locked on me. With a dark burning promise flaring through them.
Later. The word burned through the bond. Every inch of you, Little Fox. Until you forget his hands existed.
I bit back a smile. My own petty jealousy was being pacified and curled up satisfied to wait for that promise to be fulfilled.
I couldn't breathe in the ballroom anymore.
The walls were too close. The music too loud. Every laugh, every clink of glass, every rustle of silk grated against my raw nerves like sandpaper.
And Eryndor—
Eryndor was still dancing with her. Still smiling. Still playing the part while the bond between us screamed. I have to get out.
I pushed off the pillar. Moved through the crowd without seeing it. Found a servant's corridor and slipped through before anyone could stop me.
The noise faded. The air cooled. I leaned against the wall and pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to push the desire to feel his hands on me back into whatever box it had escaped from.
It didn't work.
It was never going to work.
Footsteps. I knew it was him before I looked. The bond brimming with warning and hunger.
Eryndor rounded the corner and stopped dead. We stared at each other. His breathing uneven and his voice raw.
"You left."
"I had to." I whispered as his hand reached around me and fumbled for a door handle. It was a broom closet. Storage. Something. I didn't care, just that he had opened it and shoved me through. He pressed his body against mine, securing the door closed behind him.
"This is insane." My voice came out thin. "Your wedding is tomorrow."