Chapter 44
The air outside was cooler. Quieter. The moment the doors closed behind them, the music softened into something distant and indistinct—no longer commanding attention, only existing somewhere behind stone and glass and polite society.
Valerius did not speak at first. He simply continued along the path, and Dara followed.
The garden stretched beyond the manor in careful symmetry—low hedges, pale gravel paths, lanterns placed at measured intervals, their glow soft against the dark. Somewhere farther in, the faint scent of night-blooming flowers lingered in the air.
Behind them, at a respectful distance, Grace followed—not close enough to intrude, not far enough to be absent. Farther back, Leon and Edric kept pace with practiced discretion, close enough to guard the Crown Prince but far enough to allow the conversation a measure of privacy.
Valerius slowed near a quieter section of the path, where the lanternlight dimmed slightly and the noise of the party faded into something almost forgettable. Only then did he turn to her.
“From what I gathered,” he said, “Lord Fenwick was unwise.”
Dara exhaled lightly. “He made it easy.”
“That does seem to be the general opinion.”
She folded her fan loosely in her hands, the earlier sharpness of the confrontation still lingering at the edges of her composure.
Valerius watched her. Not critically. Not even analytically. Just… watching.
“You were merciless,” he said.
Dara met his gaze. “Yes,” she said simply. “I was.”
No apology. No hesitation.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The night settled around them, quiet and cool, far removed from the warmth and noise inside. Then he stepped closer. Not abruptly. Not enough to startle. Just enough that the space between them changed.
“You enjoy this,” he said.
Dara’s lips curved faintly. “I enjoy competence.”
“And power.”
There was a pause.
She did not deny it.
That was answer enough.
Valerius’s gaze shifted slightly—not away, but lower. To the necklace, the earrings, the subtle glint of green and gold that marked her as someone very clearly favored.
“You wore them,” he said.
It was not a question.
Dara lifted her chin slightly. “They were suitable.”
“Only suitable?”
“They served their purpose.”
“And what purpose was that?”
Her eyes met his again. “To be seen.”
A flicker of something—approval, perhaps—crossed his expression. “You were.”
“I assumed as much.”
His hand lifted then. Slowly. Deliberately.
Dara stilled. Not because she was afraid, but because she was suddenly, acutely aware of him.
His fingers brushed lightly against her hair, adjusting a loose strand near her ear. It was a small gesture. It should have felt small.
It did not.
His hand lingered just long enough that she felt it, just long enough that something in her chest tightened in a way she did not immediately understand. Dara did not step back.
She should have.
Probably.
Instead, she stayed exactly where she was.
Valerius watched her, giving her time. Space to move away.
She didn’t.
That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned in, the movement slow, deliberate, unhurried enough that she could have turned her head, stepped back, or said something sharp and clever and entirely deflecting.
She did none of those things.
And then he kissed her.
Not the brief, polite brush of a cheek. Not a courtesy.
A real kiss.
Gentle. Intentional. Warm.
Dara’s thoughts stopped.
Completely.
For one suspended, breathless moment, the world narrowed to nothing but the quiet night, the faint scent of flowers, and the unmistakable reality of him.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the front of his coat. She had not realized she had reached for him. Had not realized she was holding on. And when he drew back—not far, not fully—she did not move.
Did not speak.
Did not immediately recover the careful composure she wore so easily everywhere else.
Her breath caught. Just slightly. Her face was warm. Her thoughts were nowhere to be found.
That was highly inconvenient.
Valerius watched her. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just steady.
Waiting.
Dara blinked once. Then again.
Still nothing.
Still no clever response.
How ridiculous.
She forced herself to breathe, to think, to regain some semblance of control over her own reactions.
And failed for one more second.
Then—
“…That,” she said, her voice softer than she intended, “was unfair.”
Valerius did not step away. “Was it?”
Dara looked at him. Still too close. Still very much aware of him. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I wanted that.
Absolutely not.
Her chin lifted slightly, grasping at the nearest piece of dignity available. “Because I was winning.”
A pause.
Then Valerius smiled.
Not faint. Not restrained.
Real.
“You still might be.”
That was not the correct answer. That was not helpful.
Dara stared at him for one long second, trying very hard to reassemble the parts of herself that had just disappeared. This was supposed to be simple. Strategic. Useful.
Not this.
Not the way her heart had just decided to behave without her permission. Not the way she was suddenly, irrationally aware that if he leaned in again—
No.
Absolutely not.
Dara took a small step back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to think.
“This,” she said, regaining a fraction of her usual composure, “is becoming complicated.”
“It was always complicated.”
“It was manageable.”
“And now?”
She hesitated.
That was new.
“…Less so.”
Valerius considered her for a moment. Then, without comment, he offered his arm.
The same gesture as before. The same posture. The same composure.
And yet not the same at all.
Dara looked at it. Then at him. Then, after a very brief internal argument she was absolutely not going to examine too closely, she took it.
Of course she did.
They began walking back toward the manor.
Behind them, Grace followed at her usual impeccable distance, her expression unreadable and her presence entirely unintrusive in the way only a truly excellent attendant could manage.
Farther back, Leon and Edric trailed with practiced discretion, close enough to guard the Crown Prince and wise enough to behave as though they had seen nothing at all.
The music grew louder as they approached. Voices returned. Light spilled out from the open doors.
And yet something had shifted.
Dara felt it in the space between them, in the way her hand rested on his arm, in the quiet, persistent awareness she could not seem to dismiss.
This was no longer just useful.
And that was a problem.
A very dangerous one.