Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GRAY
Gray paces back and forth across the red carpet lining the commons area, biting at the inside of his thumb.
It took him two weeks. Two whole weeks to convince Marcella to come with him to this Winter Solstice ball, and frankly, now that the night is finally here, he’s practically a disheveled mess.
They haven’t spoken much lately. Not that they’ve been ignoring each other, but things between them have been…
different. After their stay in Ninmere, where nothing happened yet everything changed, Marcella has put distance between them.
Understandably so. It claws at Gray knowing his actions hurt her, regardless of whether he believed them to be right or not.
Though, the more he ponders it, the more he struggles to reconcile what truly would have been the right thing to do.
It’s as if the harder he tries to choose correctly given the current circumstances, the more incorrect things become.
Like when he approached Marcella only a few days after they got back, determined to explain everything to her and let her know how desperately he ached to know the taste of her that night, but how he feels like, in some illogical way, doing that while Lyra’s still being held captive somewhere seems wrong to him.
Feels selfish and insensitive. Yet he never got the chance.
In his attempt to do the right thing and tell her his reasonings, he only brought sadness upon her, made certain as he had to watch the pain flashing in and out of her eyes at him opening what she’s clearly deemed an already closed wound.
He only forced her to erect her defenses as she shut down the conversation before it could truly begin, strapping on the armor she now feels she needs to wear around him.
He wishes he could make her see she doesn’t need it. Not with him. Yet he fears he drowned a beginning before it could ever truly bloom, ruining their chance at ever being something beautiful together.
Gods, if only she could feel the utterly hypnotic rhythm his heart dances to when she’s near.
If only she could understand how she haunts his every waking thought and caresses him in his dreams. If he could somehow make her know that he spends every waking second longing for her, pining for her affection, curling his fingers into his palms just so they don’t do something foolish like reach out and brush her lips.
The memory of her lips so close to his swirls through his mind, and it’s pathetic—how many times he’s replayed the moment.
He has turned it over, inspected it, reimagined it with an alternative ending.
One where he slams his mouth to hers and drinks from it as though he has never known oxygen.
A different outcome where he twines fingers through the mane of her hair and pulls, exposing her neck to him so he can place reverent kisses down the slope of it.
Where he gives into his burning need for her and bites at her ear before roving lower, lower, lower—
The sound of heels clicking from the nearby stairwell, soon muffled by the plush carpet, snaps Gray from his thoughts. He halts his pacing and drops his thumb from his lips and back down to his side, staring at the figure emerging into the room.
He sees a goddess.
There is no other way to describe the captivatingly beautiful woman standing before him.
She is draped in a deep, royal blue beaded dress that hugs her waist and spills out near her feet.
The neckline clutches her throat, and the short sleeves taper inward, cutting into her shoulders and revealing the entirety of the vines and leaves composing her wielder’s mark.
Her coppery hair is twisted back into an elegant, loose braid, and tendrils frame her delicate features.
Her accompanying mask is midnight blue, and it glitters with the same subtle shine as her dress, lined by an ornate silver thread which twists into a design mirroring woven branches, rising into a small peak at the base of her forehead.
Gray stills at the sight of her, and for a moment, he swears his heart ceases to beat in his chest.
Just one look.
One look at her, and he knew he would give her the sun if she asked.
He would crumple time with his fists and do away with every moment they wasted, every second he pretended as though he didn’t feel a maelstrom of emotions for this beautiful, wild, brilliant girl in front of him.
This one look is all it takes for him to realize he has been hopelessly ruined—doomed to never have a chance of feeling so much as a glimmer of the overtaking emotions clamoring in his chest for another person.
She braces a hand on her hip. “Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to offer me your arm like a proper gentleman and escort me to the meeting spot?”
Gray clears his throat, running fingers through his hair, only to remember it’s been styled and he probably shouldn’t be doing that.
He strides across the room, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips as he bends at the waist and presses a tender kiss to the back of it, relishing in the tingling sensation he feels the moment his mouth brushes against her skin.
Marcella snorts at the gesture, pulling her hand back. “Unnecessary chivalry,” she chides, mirth gleaming in her bright eyes, accentuated into sparkling cobalt jewels by the mask covering the upper half of her face.
“All the same. Who would I be if not chivalrous?” He clasps his hands behind his back and rolls his shoulders while straightening his spine, mocking excellent posture.
Marcella barks a laugh at him. “Ever the gallant guy,” she muses through her tilted grin.
Gray shrugs, smiling like a helpless fool at her. “It’s kind of my thing.”
“Oh,” she laughs, “I know. In fact, everyone in the whole gods-damn Three Kingdoms knows now. It’s so much your thing, it’s gotten you an invitation to one of Erandor Kingdom’s most elite events, Lion.” She drawls his nickname with a comedic flare, grinning tauntingly at him.
And like a fool, all Gray can do is stare at the work of art that is Marcella Lynderful, mesmerized and hopelessly captivated by her charm—by the charisma dripping from her sharp smiles and playful taunts, helpless to fall prey to her magnetism.
Gods, has he missed seeing and engaging with such treasures. Missed laughing and teasing and bantering with her.
For a time, she holds his gaze—whether in defiance of him or for some other reason, he can’t be sure—but her glittering eyes remain connected to his, and embers rise in his chest, heating his skin at the way holding eye contact with her is like being hit by a jolt of lightning.
Silence stretches between them, and he feels this overwhelming desire to reach for her.
To act like she is his just as he knows he is irrevocably hers.
To pretend as though he didn’t ruin their chance at something more.
He thinks about giving into the overwhelming feeling, too.
But then Marcella sucks in a sharp breath, retreats a barely noticeable step, and cups her elbows with her hands. “Where’s your mask?” she asks, a noticeable shift in her tone as the earlier playfulness melts away and her wall erects firmly into place.
The space between them has never felt so distant.
Gray expels the strange mix of pain and longing clenching in his chest on a single breath, determined to make the best of tonight. “I don’t have one.”
She balks. “It’s a masquerade ball, Gray. What do you mean you don’t have one?”
He grins at her before pressing two fingers together and twirling them in a quick spin. He feels his magic warming in his veins, and at Marcella’s arching eyebrows, he knows the illusion has taken effect.
“Can that really last the entire night?” There is both an air of approval and skepticism to her question.
His answering smile brims with confidence. “Definitely. I’ve strengthened my lakt? considerably over these past few months, and the illusion requires such little magic from me, I suspect I could cast it for days, maybe even weeks.”
Her lips tilt, and she rests a hand on her hip. “Well, aren’t you just something to behold?”
“Yet I still find myself eclipsed by something greater in this moment.”
Marcella’s cheeks flush with a pink tint, and she playfully shoves his shoulder, tucking a stray strand of coppery hair behind her ear after. “Come on,” she drawls, taking Gray’s arm and holding onto it in a way that sends his heart skipping. “We have a long night ahead of us.”