9. 8 #2
Lance inhaled through his teeth and moved toward the railing, planting his hands on its edge.
His eyes settled on the singer, lingering for a beat before drifting over the sea of bodies below, all writhing and desperate.
A world trying to drown itself in pleasure before the weight of morning returned.
He’d chased the same distractions tonight. Anything to drown out the buzz in his head and the red-haired girl who refused to leave his dreams.
She’d plagued his dreams even before her arrival, though they hadn’t started out so intimate.
A glimpse into the woods, her easy voice beckoning him to follow, a flick of her striking hair.
But then he met her, and Auren had better ideas.
Breathy moans. Warm, plump skin against his.
And when she couldn’t even meet his gaze that morning? He knew she’d been having them too.
It was wrong, the way he craved her. He knew that. But knowing didn’t stop the pull.
Her eyes haunted him. Wide, quietly defiant, too knowing for someone so new to power. And that fire she kept buried beneath obedience and restraint? He wanted to see it burn. Wanted to be the one who lit the fuse.
And that blush—gods, that blush. Innocent, infuriating. He wanted to ruin it. Wanted to see what she looked like when she stopped pretending she didn’t want him too.
Branley’s fingers toyed with Lance’s collar, undoing ties, slow, as though he were testing the limits. His hand slid against the prince’s warm chest underneath his tunic, tracing over the lean muscle underneath.
“You’re tense,” Branley whispered, glancing up at Lance. “Let me help with that.”
Lance said nothing. He slipped past him, descending the stairs like a shadow drawn downward. Branley followed delightfully.
Lance reached the final step and paused, eyes sweeping the floor below. Bodies pressed together in lounges thick with velvet and heat. Private rooms flickered with candlelight, some closed, some cracked open.
But his gaze halted as he caught sight of his brother.
His jaw tightened.
He shouldn’t care. Mabel wasn’t his to protect. She wasn’t his, full stop.
But the thought of her—at home, unaware, still trying to be good, still trying to be worthy of a man who spent his nights in places like this—made something sharp twist in his chest.
It was irrational. Dangerous.
And it only made him more furious.
He felt his pulse thunder in his palms, but it didn’t stop him. Branley caught up, following the line of Lance’s stare. His breath grew tight. “Bad idea,” he said under his breath, a hand lifting as if to steer him elsewhere.
Lance flicked Branley a glance, dismissive, before his gaze tethered itself to Theodore. A man and woman draped themselves across his brother, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his tunic with careless intent. Theodore didn’t stop them. He didn’t even flinch.
“Lance,” Branley muttered, unease drawing taut across his spine, “don’t.”
But Lance moved without a word, his stride fluid and unwavering as he closed the distance between them. Still, the moment slowed, thick with the weight of past sins and unspoken vendettas.
Their eyes locked.
Neither blinked.
Theodore’s gaze sharpened, posture snapping rigid. He sat up straighter, the two at his side looking toward Lance.
“Hey there, handsome,” one of them cooed, her voice syrupy.
Lance didn’t answer. A glance between them and a single nod was all he gave. Just enough to let Theodore know he’d seen him. That he still had the upper hand.
He turned on his heel, his pace measured. But before he could reach Branley, a hand shot out, iron-hard, clamping onto his arm.
He spun, eyes locking with Theodore’s. The glare settled instantly.
“Get your filthy hands off me,” Lance snarled.
“If this gets back to Mabel,” Theodore growled, voice lethal, “you’ll regret it.”
Lance scoffed, unbothered. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?”
The answer came fast.
Theodore’s fist cracked against his jaw, sharp and brutal. Lance staggered back. Gasps rippled through the room. Music faltered. Heads turned. The air held its breath.
Lance’s fingers grazed his jaw, the sting blooming beneath his skin. His gaze lifted slowly, eyes glinting with something feral. A smile tugged at his mouth.
“Trouble in paradise?” His laugh filled the thick air. “Don’t tell me she came running to you after this morning.”
Theodore’s brow furrowed. “This morning?”
Lance’s chuckle was dry, darker now. “Ah … so she didn’t mention it.” He stepped in, close enough for his voice to drop. “Shame. She really is a pretty little thing.”
Theodore’s jaw ticked. “What the hell are you playing at?”
Lance’s smirk didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” His voice turned bitter. “As I’m sure she’d love to know where you’ve been tonight.”
Theodore’s expression hardened. “You keep your damn mouth shut.”
“Or what?” Lance tilted his head, wholly unbothered. “You’ll hit me again? Go ahead. It won’t change the fact that you don’t deserve her.”
Branley slipped between them, pressing a steady palm to Lance’s chest, the tension beneath his hand taut as wire.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice tight with practiced charm, “surely, we can share a room without drawing blood. Let’s forgive and forget, yes?”
Lance’s eyes didn’t leave Theodore. “This miserable asshole doesn’t deserve forgiveness,” he snarled.
Theodore’s laugh was brittle. “Don’t pretend you are so above it, Lance. We are both neck-deep in this cesspool.”
Branley scoffed at the term.
“I’m not the one getting married,” Lance replied coolly.
“Stop acting like you’re some savior, with your good faith politics and disingenuous attempts at turning Mabel against me.” Theodore growled. “I know you, I know the wretched person you are, I know what you’ve done. You aren’t convincing anyone.”
“And I know you, brother. We are the same,” Lance said. “She’ll see your wickedness soon enough.”
“I’ve always dreamed of being pinned between the both of you. You are greatly souring that fantasy,” Branley huffed in irritation. His gaze flicked to Lance, voice dropping to a whisper, “My dearest prince, shall we find a room? There is no need to fight—”
“We are not the same.” Theodore stepped closer, voice rising. “Do you know what the difference is between you and me?” he spat. “I am the heir to the throne, son of Thalen, I have a right to be here. You are just some bastard my father made the mistake of bringing home.”
Branley’s breath caught. “Shit,” he whispered, slipping aside just as Lance surged forward.
There was no warning—only the crack of knuckles against skin. Theodore reeled, stunned, blood blooming where the hit landed.
The music cut out mid-note.
Chairs screeched against the floor as bodies rose, drinks forgotten. Heads tilted from the balcony above, hungry eyes fixating on the chaos unraveling below.
Theodore lunged, no hesitation, fist cocked and full of fury.
They collided in a blur of limbs, striking with wild precision, grappling like men with nothing left to lose. The scuffle spilled over tables and upended glasses, two brothers locked in a reckoning.
The crowd leaned in, not to intervene, but to witness.
Lance’s fist cracked across Theodore’s brow, splitting skin and sending blood into the air. Theodore ducked low and slammed his shoulder into Lance, driving them both into a table that shattered beneath their weight.
Theodore was on top now, fists flying, each blow brutal, breath ragged, knuckles splitting skin with every strike.
Branley lunged in behind him, grabbing at his arms. “Theo, stop—stop it!”
But Lance felt it.
Like a crack splitting glass.
Magic flickered in his veins, wild and waiting, the pressure unbearable. It surged upward, begging to be released. He barely managed to lift his hand, pressing it to Theodore’s chest.
A pulse.
Theodore fell, slammed backward by the force of the spell, limbs sprawling.
Lance rolled, breath catching, the flare of magic roaring inside him. Blood trickled down his face, warm and slow. His vision blurred, head buzzing with light and heat. But he didn’t let it break. Not yet. He held it—barely—like a thread pulled taut between fury and restraint.
“Pathetic,” Theodore roared, voice echoing off the stone. “You’d use a spell against me? Unarmed?”
Lance coughed, blood in his throat, fists curling tight, but the smirk was unmistakable. He rose slowly, each movement deliberate, wincing as he stretched, one hand gripping his jaw, the other already sparking with heat.
He reached for his side, unsheathing a slender blade at his waist and tossing it to the ground in front of Theodore. The blade clattered against stone, catching the light like a threat. “Let’s make it even then.”
Theodore’s glare sharpened on the metal as he snatched it from the floor, regaining his footing. His fist tightened around the hilt, knuckles white. “It’s your funeral.”
Lance didn’t offer a reply. Magic lit his fingertips, cracking with barely held restraint. He cocked his head to the side. His golden eyes shimmered with wild abandon. He pretended not to notice the coins being passed among the throng of onlookers.
“Outside!” Branley barked, stepping between them. “You’re not breaking any more of my shit.”
But Theodore moved quick, sidestepping Branley in a blink, dagger raised.
Lance sighed. The air around him pulsed, dangerous and waiting. He flexed his hand. Magic flared against his ebony skin, bloodred sigils painting light across his arms.
Theodore closed the distance between them, arcing the blade high, aiming for more than a brawl.
Lance snatched his wrist in one fluid motion, halting the blade’s descent and searing into Theodore’s skin. The blade clattered to the floor with deafening defeat. He pulled Theodore close, his grip tightening. “What was it you said about tricks of the light?” he spat at his brother.
Theodore’s jaw clenched, masking the pain rippling through his entire body. Magic burned through every inch of him. He yanked his arm back—denied. Lance’s hold was unforgiving, unyielding.