8. 7 #3
They circled each other now, rhythm building. Attack, defend, counter, retreat.
The air shimmered with heat and light, spells met and ricocheted, echoing off the walls. Mabel’s breath came hard, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. But she didn’t falter. She saw it in his stance—he was no longer just testing her. He was responding. Matching her. Respecting her.
She spun on her heels, letting the magic guide her movements. She sent another orb flying, this one heavier, brighter. It slammed into his shield, forcing him back a step.
His smirk shifted, less mocking now.
Then he struck. Fast, sharp, a flicker of heat that nearly broke her guard. Her shield flared, the impact driving her back, but she slipped from it before it knocked her down. She answered with a burst of light, and moved with it, closing the distance. He matched her stride.
They collided—magic meeting magic, a flash of heat and brilliance that rattled the room.
The shockwave hit them both.
They went down hard.
Her palms hit the floor on either side of him, the last flickers of her magic sparking between them. She was straddling him before she even realized it, breathless, her hair falling forward to frame his face.
Lance blinked up at her, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “Well, that’s one way to win.”
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn’t move—couldn’t—not with the thrum of adrenaline still in her veins and the weight of his gaze holding her there.
“Not bad for someone who just discovered they have magic.” Lance arched a brow, the corner of his mouth curling. “Though if this is what you wanted, Miss Ravenov … all you had to do was ask.” He winked.
Mabel’s brows drew together, a sharp scoff escaping her. “You’re disgusting.” She shifted to stand, but his hands caught her wrists, holding her in place as he sat up. His face was suddenly far too close.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” His voice was smooth as silk. “And don’t pretend Auren isn’t speaking to you. It’s quite rude to ignore a god.”
“How do you know I’m speaking to Auren?” Her irritation flared white-hot. Light sparked at her fingertips, and she slammed it against his chest.
He inhaled sharply, biting the corner of his lip, the faintest wince breaking his composure. “Because he speaks to me.” His tone was dangerous. The look in his golden eyes, the curve of his full lips, his hands on her waist—
Is he having the dreams too?
“Careful, Miss Ravenov,” he said with a devil’s grin. “Keep ignoring him and you’ll only make it worse for yourself.”
Mabel froze when she felt the shift. The sudden press of him beneath her. She shoved him back hard and rose to her feet, brushing off her skirt. “Our lesson is done.”
“You’re not the one who decides that,” he replied, standing with unhurried ease.
“I am now—since you’re clearly too … impassioned to keep going.” She snatched her discarded heels up and strode toward the door.
“Impassioned?” His laugh followed her, low and amused.
The door groaned open as Mabel stepped into the corridor, her pulse still racing. She was more flustered than she’d ever admit. No matter how tightly she tried to lock it down, a flutter stirred low in her chest.
He couldn’t possibly be having the same dreams. Right?
“Mabel,” Lance’s voice called after her, still laced with laughter. He followed her out, matching her stride with infuriating ease.
“Don’t you have princely duties to attend?” she said, turning her face away, refusing to let him see how deeply he’d unsettled her.
“You were part of my duties this morning,” he said with a smirk. “If you’re unsatisfied with the lesson, I’ve got other things I could teach you. They’d satisfy you much more.”
She froze mid-step, heat rising fast. “Have you no shame?”
“None,” he said, eyes sweeping over her with slow appreciation.
“You do realize I’m betrothed to your brother?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” He stepped into her path.
She turned sharply, meeting his gaze with a glare. “I—you are—”
“I’m what?” he asked, stepping closer, testing her.
She opened her mouth again—but then she heard it.
Theodore’s voice. Clear. Close.
“Have you seen the princess?”
Her heart stopped. She stumbled back, eyes darting between Lance and the end of the corridor.
“I-I thought you said he was gone today,” she whispered, voice trembling.
Lance glanced casually toward the sound, a cruel smile curling his lips. “He was. Must’ve come back early.”
Her pulse pounded in her throat, thick and suffocating. She spun, searching for any exit, any escape. She lunged for the nearest door, tugging hard. Locked.
“What’s the harm?” Lance cooed mockingly. “He’s your betrothed. Won’t he understand?”
She shot him a glare, but it cracked under the weight of panic. “I told you. We can’t be seen together. Just help me, dammit.”
He took his time crossing to her, where she clung to the handle like it might save her. His hands slid around her waist, head dipping low to her ear.
“This might sting a little,” he whispered, voice deceptively soft.
She didn’t have time to react. His magic surged through her, buzzing like static beneath her skin. Her vision blurred. Her breath caught.
And then—darkness.
They were inside the closet. Small. Silent. Her back pressed to his chest.
“How …” she breathed as she regained her vision, staring into the shadows.
His chuckle was low against her ear. “Magic.”
“No shit,” she snapped, shoving his hands off her. She retreated as far as the cramped space allowed, heart still hammering.
“Teleportation,” Lance muttered, like it was no big deal. “Rare skill. Few can manage it.”
“Gloating again?” Mabel huffed. “Try impressing someone else—I’m sure your whores find it charming.”
He grinned, hand drifting to the closet knob. “And I’m sure your prince would love to find you tucked away in here with me.”
“No, Lance—”
But before she could finish, his hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes flared, fury rising fast, a muffled protest vibrating against his palm.
“Shut up,” he whispered, voice strained.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, slow, aching in their pace. Boots scuffed against stone, each step dragging time longer. Mabel’s breath caught, her pulse thudding hard in her chest.
They stood frozen, pressed close in the dark, the silence between them louder than any spell.
It felt like an eternity before the footsteps faded.
Mabel seized his wrist, yanking his hand away from her mouth.
“Touch me like that again,” she muttered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “and you’ll regret it.”
Lance’s smile was slow, sharp, and far from friendly. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Miss Ravenov.”
Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white with restraint. “We’re done here,” Mabel said, lips tight as she moved to slip past him.
“Auren says we’re not.”
Her eyes widened with fury, hot and sharp. “Your god knows nothing.” She reached for the handle.
Lance shook his head. “You’ll be sorry you said that.” His arm shot out, palm pressing flat against the door, blocking her exit.
“Excuse me?” she snapped, glaring up at him.
“A thank you would be nice,” he said, dipping to her height, his breath warm against her cheek.
She refused to look at him. Refused to acknowledge the scent of cinnamon clinging to his skin, or the way his lips looked maddeningly soft, or how his hands had fit around her waist like they belonged there.
She shook the thought off like a curse, muttering, “Thank you,” under her breath as she unlocked the door.
Her eyes swept the corridor—empty. No sign of Theodore.
She straightened her spine, smoothed her skirt, and slipped out without another word.
Lance watched her go, a smirk tugging at his lips.
She’d barely met his gaze that morning.
Now she walked away with fire in her veins.