Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
- LYRA -
Wordlessly, Devin leads me back to the dining room. All attention snaps to us. Cyrus leaves Willow, making his way over. The rest of the women return to their chattering and dancing.
I scan the room for Marcella. My heart sinks when I don’t see her.
“Lyra?” Cyrus stops in front of me, snagging my attention. His hair is neatly combed back from his hard face, pulled into a dark bow at the nape of his neck. “May I speak with you?”
A lump forms in my throat with both his and Devin’s eyes on me. The last time I spoke with Cyrus my lips were on his, with his body between my legs as he pressed me against a marble column.
I dip my head in agreement, and he moves for the reflection room.
“Wait!” I blurt, unsure if Moe and Stella are still in there. When he turns to face me, I stutter, “P-perhaps…not in there?”
Cyrus blinks. And I’m hoping he’s thinking I’m only proposing not to go in a room alone with him to prevent whatever affair occurred between us the last night we were together.
Even though maybe I’m wishing we would have another opportunity like it.
He nods. “Very well. A dance then, perhaps?”
He looks from my face down to his outstretched hand. I slide my fingertips between his. Wrapping his hand around mine, he guides me out onto the dance floor.
“May I hold you?” he asks once we are in the center. All other eyes falling upon us.
I nod, and he thoughtfully cups my waist with one hand. With the next swell of music, he leads us off into the rhythm. I glance down at my feet every so often, adamant not to step on him.
“Lyra, it’s alright if you step on me. You won’t hurt me,” he whispers. “Just look at me.”
With the softest inhale, I prepare myself to look him in the eyes. Then I look up. The gilded chandeliers and curved arches supporting the ceiling, swirl. His ethereal white eyes are the only thing constant. Fixed.
“What happened with Willow?” he asks quietly.
I look at our clasped hands instead. “Nothing, just…a disagreement that got out of hand.”
He tosses a look across the room to where she watches us. Then back to me. “Lyra,” he says so softly it makes my knees weak. “I thought, since the last time we were together…”
I snap my attention back to him at the mention of that night. His eyes are warm. I’m held in a gaze as gentle as his hands.
He shakes his head. “You said trust was a leap of faith. Why are you shutting me out now?”
I tilt my head, not willing to break our eye contact.
How I’ve yearned for answers, or for closure, for that fleeting night of romance.
There's been silence between us since. And all I’ve been able to wonder is if it was a mistake.
A lapse in judgment. That I should be embarrassed I gave into it so easily. “You haven’t forgotten it…”
His eyebrows bunch together. “How could I have?”
Then his hand on my waist disappears as he guides me into a spin. Round and round I turn. The chandeliers, the women, the dining room, all a dazzling blur. When he slows me to a stop, he pulls me back into him. Closer now than ever.
Swallowing against the heat spreading in my face, I whisper. “I haven’t seen you since.”
“I’ve been advised not to—to give you some space. That I shouldn’t be trusted to be alone with you again. And I agree. There are parts of me, I wish…” He shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Parts of me that even I can’t trust.”
“It’s never been about trusting other people, has it?” I ask. “It’s yourself you’ve always feared.”
His eyes crinkle in thought, only flicking away from me for a moment before returning. He doesn’t need to say more for me to know I’m right.
Another realization that’s blown in on a wind settles over me, before seeping down into the cracks of my soul. Shifting and growing. Transforming. Perhaps it’s wrong of me to force him to trust me, or even harder—to trust himself. That’s something I can’t fix.
What parts of him have shaken his confidence, that he feels he can’t even trust himself? And if I were to tell him I’m a Seer, would that scare him off even more? That perhaps the two of us might not be the right match?
Because some part of me understands him. If I sit with my own truth, there are parts of me I don’t trust either.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, not breaking eye contact. Those white eyes digging into me, searching for every secret. Every memory, every flaw and fear.
I swallow, unable to tear myself out of his gaze. “Nothing.”
He frowns. “I see it in your eyes. In the way your shoulders are tense.”
Immediately, I drop my shoulders. Unaware of the tension I held there until I let it go.
“It’s still there,” he mutters. “Tell me. What has you troubled?”
Blinking to try and clear the vision of him out of my eyes even for a split second, I swear between the flashes of darkness I see his pupils narrow to slits before they are back to normal.
“I don’t know how to put it into words,” I whisper.
“Will you try for me?” He pulls away, his hand leaving my waist as he spins me again. My dress fans out about me in a dazzling show of light blue, swirling about the marbled floors. He pulls me in before I can lose my balance, his grip on me steady.
Shaking my head, I barely squeak out, “I’m scared.”
“Of me?” he asks gently.
Sucking in a breath that lifts my shoulders, I blow it out.
“Yes, perhaps a bit. But it's more than that. I’ve always been scared to be sent home, but now, also scared to stay. And…” I shake my head, glancing over to Willow, then hoping to find Marcella in the crowd but still finding her absent.
“I’m fearful of all the memories I haven’t recalled yet.
I still feel like there’s a part of myself I’m missing.
What if it’s best I forget it? But I can’t? ” I look up at him.
“I understand. Sometimes the darkest memories are the ones that stick the longest.”
“Have you ever wiped your own memories?”
He blinks at the question. “I’ve tried, but…It doesn’t work on me.” There’s a sadness that settles over him like a light snowfall.
A heavy, quick set of clicking approaches and we both snap to the sound as Marcella storms our way.
“I need to speak with you immediately,” she growls from a few paces away.
Cyrus drops his hand from my waist and I slip my hand out of his. I walk to her before she can close the distance between us, resting a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong—”
She flies past me, eyes hooked into Cyrus like she’ll carve him into ribbons.
“Sorry, Lyra, please excuse the interruption—” he says to me then stops, eyes wide at Marcella’s expression.
“You,” Marcella hisses, before Cyrus steps in to cut her off and ushers her away.
I watch after them. Confused. Worried.
Aelia approaches me. “What’s the matter with her? She skips out for a while, then comes back in the most sour mood?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.