Chapter 16 #2
The wine slides through me, warm and heady, softening the edges of the world. I shift my weight—just slightly—and misjudge my balance. His hand is there instantly. A reflex. A steadying grip on my arm.
It’s nothing. Just instinct. A simple gesture. But it lingers—just a heartbeat too long.
I look up, pulse skipping. His fingers are warm, solid, grounding.
The space between us feels smaller now. Tighter. The revelry blurs into something distant. Somewhere behind us, Lyra laughs. But here, in this sliver of stillness—it’s just Thane and me.
And that look in his eyes—the one I can’t seem to breathe around.
“Are you going to keep brooding all night,” I challenge, arching a brow, “or do Warlords actually dance?”
Thane doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me. His thumb brushes against my arm before he lets go, slow and deliberate, the warmth of his touch lingering long after it’s gone.
“Not here,” he says at last, voice low, quiet—almost intimate.
Something about the way he says it—calm, certain, edged with something unspoken—makes me want to push him. To see what’s beneath the composure.
Or maybe it’s the wine.
I take a step closer, swirling the wine in my cup. “Not here? That sounds an awful lot like an excuse.”
My voice is light, teasing—but there’s a challenge underneath it. One I don’t bother hiding.
Thane’s eyes meet mine—dark, steady, almost smoldering. Then, a slow smirk curves at the corner of his mouth—subtle. Unmistakable.
“You think so?” he murmurs, voice like low embers—coaxing, not deflecting.
The distance between us now is mere inches. One move—just a reach of my hand—and I could trail my fingers down his chest. Broad. Solid. I think of how those sculpted muscles flexed when he sparred shirtless with Garrick a few weeks ago.
And by the gods above, I still see it.
I nod, bold with wine and the pulse of the night in my veins. “I do.”
His gaze drops to my hand. To the way my fingers curl tight around the cup. When it returns to mine, there’s something darker there. Curious. Wanting.
“And what if I said I just don’t dance?” His voice is low. Almost lazy.
I arch a brow, letting the silence stretch. “I’d say you’re lying.”
“Hmm . . . you’ve put me in a pickle, Amara.”
Gods—the way he says my name. Like he’s tasting it. Like it means more than it should.
“Do what’s good for the realm . . . ” he murmurs, taking a step closer, “or dance with the Spiritborn.”
He says it lightly, almost teasing—but there’s weight beneath the words. A flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Heat pulses between us. His gaze holds mine, tension thrumming like a live wire.
But I feel the resistance too. Like he wants to close the space . . . and won’t let himself.
There’s something beneath the charm. Something unspoken. And I don’t know if he’s still playing the game . . . or afraid of what happens if he stops.
I feel like a deer caught in a hunter’s gaze—frozen, breath shallow, the rest of the world falling away beneath the weight of his eyes. The boldness I wore a moment ago unravels—thread by thread.
With far less certainty, my voice quieter now, I murmur, “It’s just a dance.”
But it doesn’t feel like just anything. Not with the way he’s looking at me. Not with the way my heart won’t slow.
Thane’s smirk lingers—for a moment. But then something shifts. The warmth from before—his laughter, his teasing dims—pulled back like a tide retreating. His smoke-gray eyes flicker, shadowed by something I can’t quite name.
Something restrained. Held tight.
The muscle in his jaw twitches—like he’s wrestling with words he doesn’t want to say. For a moment, I think he might crack. Might let something slip.
But then—just as quickly—he pulls it back. Smooths the edges. Masks whatever surfaced behind that calm.
The Warlord again. Untouchable.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says at last.
The words catch me off guard. I blink. “Appropriate?”
His gaze shifts—past me, toward the celebration behind us. The soldiers, the staff, the pulse of the Solstice still burning strong.
“I’m the Warlord of the Fire Clan, Amara. Leader of the realm. I don’t have the luxury of—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. A muscle ticks.
He exhales—slow. Quiet. “This is not the place.”
I study him, the silence stretching as realization settles in my chest. This isn’t about not wanting to dance. It’s about control. About duty.
Thane steps back—not far, but just enough to remind me of the space he keeps between us. The shift is subtle, but I feel it like an icy breeze against my skin.
I swallow the sting. Bury it beneath a crooked smile.
“Your loss, Warlord,” I murmur, lifting the wine to my lips. The smoothness of it no longer soothes—it fuels something else. Annoyance. Rejection.
I’m not sulking, I tell myself. But it tastes bitter.
The music swells again, bold and bright. And this time, I don’t hesitate.
If Thane won’t dance with me, someone else will.
I scan the crowd until I find Kieran—grinning, caught in the rhythm. Without hesitation, I stride toward him and tap his shoulder.
“Dance with me,” I say, the words coming out a bolder. Looser. Fueled by wine—and something sharper beneath it.
Kieran doesn’t need convincing. With a grin that’s all mischief and ease, he grabs my hand and spins me into the dancers. The laugh that bubbles up—too loud, too loose—is charged by wine, drums, and firelight.
As Kieran and I twirl—again and again—around the bonfire, the world spins in flashes of color and heat. Through the blur, I catch glimpses of my friends.
Taila is with a tall man whose long dark hair is tied back, green eyes sparkling down at her.
She kicks her feet, dress flaring wild and free with every beat of the drum.
Then she throws her head back and laughs—pure and loud—just as he pulls her close and kisses her.
She freezes. Just a breath. Then grins and throws her arms around him, kissing him back.
At one of the long tables, Fenric and Darius sit with massive glasses of ale. They’re deep in animated conversation with a few soldiers—gesturing wildly, laughing between sips.
I glance around for Lyra—and there she is. That unmistakable red hair flowing behind her as she disappears into the shadows, hand-in-hand with Garrick.
I burst out laughing, the sound unexpected and bright. The world tilts—pleasantly unsteady.
I move freely. Carelessly.
Exactly the way I wanted to. But even in the spin, I feel it.
Him.
Thane is watching. I catch glimpses of him between the blur of bodies—still standing exactly where I left him. Unmoving. Expression stone-faced.
But his eyes?
They follow me. Every step. Every spin. Every laugh that isn’t for him.
And for the first time tonight, I feel something different take root in my chest.
Vindication.
So I do something reckless.
Before I can second-guess myself, I turn toward Kieran—the wine buzzing through my veins, making me bold, careless. He’s laughing, lost in the rhythm.
When our eyes meet, he grins—open, easy, unguarded.
I don’t think. I just act. I grab the front of his shirt and pull him down, pressing my lips to his in a swift, impulsive kiss. Nothing deep. Nothing serious—just a playful, tipsy spark tossed into the night air.
But the moment I pull away—breathless, laughing, my heart racing—I feel it.
Him.
Thane’s gaze. Heavy. Unrelenting.
Look at what you’re missing out on, Warlord.
But he’s not unreadable anymore. His expression has sharpened—colder. Harder. He doesn’t move, but the tension in his jaw, the edge in his eyes—it cuts.
Then, he turns on his heel and walks into the dark—swallowed by the night as if he never stood there at all.
And just like that—the victory feels hollow.
Something twists deep in my chest—an ache the wine can’t quite dull. Still, I smile. Laugh a little too brightly as Kieran pulls me back into the dance.
I let the rhythm drown it out.
The kiss.
The silence.
The way Thane didn’t even flinch.
If he wants to walk away—fine. I’ll dance the night away without him. Even if my steps feel just a little heavier than they did before.
THANE
The music rises—drums pulsing, flutes weaving through laughter and firelight. Summer clings to the night air, golden and warm.
But I don’t feel any of it. I’m standing at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the bonfire’s reach, watching her.
Amara.
She moves like she belongs to the night. Spinning through the crowd—cheeks flushed, eyes alight. In that dress, the bonfire light in her eyes—she’s freedom. Wild and clever and strong. She’s made of flame and wind—untamed and uncatchable.
She came looking for me the other night—when she thought bloody Lady Evelyne was in my quarters.
I see how she looks at me. I know I just have to tell her that I feel—
No.
No!
By all the gods—I have to get this under control.
She’s dancing with Kieran now. Because I told her no. I almost said yes. I was so close.
But I can’t.
Valen steps up beside me like he’s been waiting in the shadows all along.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches the crowd—the laughter, the firelight, the ease with which people lean into each other.
His hands are clasped behind his back, the way they always are when he’s letting me stew in a silence I never asked for.
Then, quietly—too quietly—he says, “You know, you can just tell her.”
Just that. Nothing else. Only the truth I keep running from—dropped like a stone at my feet.
I don’t answer. Not right away. Because it’s not worth denying it—not to him.
It’s written all over me.
Every glance. Every time I find her in a crowd without meaning to. Every time I say no to her.
And ache afterward.
“It’s not that simple,” I say instead, jaw tight.
Valen hums—noncommittal, amused. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
I exhale through my nose, dragging my eyes from the firelight—from the shape of her spinning in someone else’s arms.