Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
FINLAY
Finlay stares out at the ballroom dance floor, wondering what the ever-loving fuck is wrong with him.
Rhea dances with some new prick, his hand clutched far too tightly around her waist as he guides her around the ballroom floor. They glide and twirl, and beneath the spheres of light magic and carefully placed ice crystals—created with his father’s ice magic, Finlay is sure—she looks…
Finlay swallows.
Well, she looks like a glittering midnight sky given form.
He can’t imagine a more fitting dress for her if he tried.
Still, why the hell is he trying? Better yet, why has his stare been fixed intently on the dance floor since the moment she stepped onto it with another man?
Or perhaps even more pressing, why has he been watching her with every man she has danced with this evening?
He’s watched every flutter of her eyelashes.
Every gentle touch she’s placed on shoulders and biceps.
Every smile. Every conversation. He’s maintained a respectable distance, but he has seen it all—made it a point to keep his eye on her.
The man grips the curve of Rhea’s waist with even more vigor, and Finlay balls his hands into fists at his sides.
He doesn’t know this particular noble she’s with.
Not from this distance and with the man’s mask in place.
Though he has every intention of finding out.
Finlay may hate Rhea, but she is still his date for this evening.
His.
No one else’s.
Not tonight, at least.
And the man should show some respect for that.
As the thought enters Finlay’s mind, he resolves to make the man show respect.
To waltz right up and remove his mask, letting the man cower once he realizes he is the Fjolla Heir.
To grovel at his feet. Yet just as quickly as the thought enters his mind, it is accompanied by the resulting action it would bring—Rhea scoffing and rolling her eyes at him, not impressed by what he had done in the slightest.
His scowl deepens. Finlay is seconds away from merely turning his back on them, not deigning to give it a further ounce of his energy, but—before the song has even ended—he sees Rhea excuse herself from the dance and head in the direction of the corridor leading to the washroom.
He stares, watching her go, telling himself that whatever caused her steps to be filled with such hurried purpose, it does not concern him. He has no business following her. Has no business even being remotely interested in where she is going.
His feet move before his mind has time to catch up.
He pushes through the crowd with ease, being both taller and broader than nearly every person in attendance tonight.
When he finally reaches the corridor, he is surprised to find it empty.
With quiet steps, he wanders further into the stone halls.
He reaches for his magic, even though he knows it’s futile.
A Nullifier’s lakt? can’t be sensed.
Go figure the one person he decides is worth chasing is the one person he cannot find easily.
He has just veered left, entering into a hall lined by portraits of past and present kings, when he feels the distinct kiss of a cool blade pressed against his throat.
He doesn’t need magic to tell him who the blade belongs to.
“Do you go anywhere without those bloody daggers?”
“Do you go anywhere without that terrible attitude?”
Finlay huffs, and Rhea drops her blade. When he turns to face her, he soon realizes that for the second time tonight, Rhea looks as though she’s been crying.
Why does the thought of that bother him so much?
“You’ve been crying again.”
Like anyone raised by Tynan Dalmar would, she shows no reaction.
Finlay scans her even more closely. Her dress is crumpled at the torso, as if she was hunched over for a time.
The delicate black lines previously tracing her softly angular eyes are now smeared at the corners, as though she was attempting to fix it but ran out of time.
Her lipstick is smudged, and there is a pointed hollowness to her gaze which leaves Finlay feeling uneasy.
She sheathes her dagger back into the holster hidden beneath her dress, wrapped around her thigh. “Are you spying on me, Finlay?”
“No. Is there a reason I should be spying on you, Rhea?”
She shrugs. “Just trying to figure out why you’ve followed me here.”
“You’re my date for this evening.” He says it so simply. Like that one small sentence should explain everything.
Even he knows it doesn’t. Not in the slightest.
“That doesn’t change the fact that I still hate you.”
“I know,” he agrees. “But it also doesn’t change the fact that we agreed on a truce for tonight, and I am both a man of my word and honor.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gag me.”
To his surprise, a rather crude retort pops into his head, which makes a particular image creep into his mind. He squashes both the thought and the image as quickly as he can. “Must you always be so difficult?” His voice is sharper than he intended, a result of the flustered thought, no doubt.
“Must you always be such an asshole?”
Finlay clenches his jaw. “Gods, you act like such a child.”
She scoffs, the sound holding nothing but bitter disdain. “Oh, I’ll take immaturity over narcissism any day.”
He squares his shoulders to her, which results in her taking a step closer to him in challenge. “Fuck you, Rhea.” He doesn’t know why he is allowing himself to get so angry—so worked up over nothing. But this is how it always goes with her.
Nobody can get under Finlay’s skin like Rhea Brooksley can.
“You wish you could,” she drawls, the words somehow pulling off the cloying contradiction of being at once seductive and spiteful.
“I assure you,” Finlay replies, feeling defensive. “I would never lay a single finger on your body.”
The words seem to strike her far deeper than Finlay intended. Her bottom lip quivers—Rhea’s lip quivers—and she recedes a step from him. Then another. And another.
She jerks her chin away from him, putting her back to Finlay as she wordlessly walks in the other direction. There is that hurried purpose in her step again, and he can’t help but feel like he just somehow royally screwed up. Said something he should not have said.
Though, with Rhea, he has more of those than he can count, his defensive nature always seeming to get the best of him when she is around. Still, something about the hurt that flashed through her features was…different. Deeper.
It looked as though he had openly slapped her.
Though, Finlay can’t work out why. As much as it pains him to admit, he has said far worse to Rhea than, I would never lay a finger on you. In fact, in most instances, he can nearly visualize her mocking smirk and pointed, thank the gods for that, reply.
What is different about tonight? What battles is she facing that he can’t see right now?
Why has Rhea cried twice?
Why does he care?
Maybe it is just because they agreed to lay down their weapons tonight. Because they have a truce in place, and Finlay is offering her the respect of treating her as a date should be treated. He is an honorable man, after all.
Yes, that must be it. They are not enemies this evening—they do not have to lean into the simmering hatred they feel for one another. For tonight and tonight only, they can reach for something different than pointed words and sharp expressions.
For yet another time, Finlay’s feet move without the consent of his mind.
It is not without considerable effort that Finlay finds Rhea again.
She is sitting on the ground at the very end of a long, winding corridor, her head leaning back against stone.
Her hands are folded limply in her lap while her feet are stretched out in front of her, heels kicked off and discarded down the carpet.
Her eyes are shut, and thin black trails run parallel down her cheek.
She looks…broken.
Finlay feels something break inside him at the sight.
“Rhea?” He steps toward her, feeling an odd sense of caution in his movements.
She cracks her eyes open, and—
Gods…there is not a sliver of light behind them right now. They are hollow. Empty. So terribly empty.
“I don’t have the capacity to deal with you right now, Finlay. Go away.” Her voice is devoid of any fluctuation.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He meant it honestly. As a genuine question. But it appears his lack of experience in both showing empathy and consoling people shows, because her response leads him to believe he chose the wrong thing to say.
Rhea scoffs, shaking her head, her eyes somehow dimming even further. “So much,” she whispers sharply. “Too fucking much, in fact.”
Finlay sees two paths diverge before him.
He can either wish her luck in her miserable moment of self-pity, loathing—whatever this is.
In fact, the voice in his head—his father’s voice, specifically—tells him he should.
That sitting here with someone like Rhea is a complete and utter waste of his time and name.
Yet, there is another voice in Finlay’s head—softer and less demanding. Another path he can take.
He knows his decision before he accepts it.
He tries to rationalize it to himself while walking over to Rhea and sitting himself down directly beside her.
He tells himself that he is doing this for Draven.
Because he knows how much she means to him, and he would want someone to be there for her right now.
He does it because he still has so much making up to do.
To Draven. To his own father. Even to Rhea, he supposes. He could drown in the sea of debts he still has to pay for all his wrong choices.
Finlay stretches his legs out, mirroring her position. “Why don’t you talk to me about what’s going on with you. You’ve been off all night.”
“You don’t even know me,” she replies, voice dry and flat.
“I’ve known you for over ten years, Rhea.”
“And I’ve hated you for every single one of them.”