Chapter 28 Claus
I spun around. It wasn't graceful at all. It was pure defensive reflex because I thought someone was about to jump me from behind.
Claus d'Alen?on was just standing there like a massive black wall blocking my only way out.
Up close, the guy was huge way bigger than he looked from across the room.
His uniform was stiff, covered in medals, and it seemed to swallow the moonlight.
It was totally suffocating. My brain completely short-circuited. I couldn't think of a single lie.
"A victory celebration?" he asked again.
He didn't even wait for me to answer. He just took a step forward, crowding me, forcing me back until my spine hit the cold stone edge of the fountain.
He didn't look angry, but there was something worse in his eyes.
Just cold curiosity. He was looking at me like I was a weird bug he wanted to dissect.
"Just getting some air, Duke," I mumbled.
My voice cracked a bit, which sucked, but I forced it to stay steady.
"The ballroom was way too crowded." He didn't say anything back.
Instead of leaving me alone, he held his hand out.
It was a formal dance invitation, but out here in the dark, empty garden, it felt completely wrong.
"The music is still playing," he said, his voice flat and heavy. "Give me a dance, Mademoiselle de Varannes."
It wasn't a request. It was an order wrapped in fake manners. If I said no, I was provoking a general who literally just got back from slaughtering rebels. If I said yes, I was stepping right into his grip. I took his hand. His palm was rough as hell, covered in weapon calluses, and freezing cold.
He yanked me out of the shadows of the fountain and into the bright moonlight. No guards. No nobles. Just the two of us.
Claus put his hand on my waist. His grip wasn't a normal dance hold, it felt like a lock.
Like he was making sure I couldn't bolt.
Every single move he made was perfectly disciplined and crushing.
I had to focus 100% just so I didn't stomp on his expensive boots, all while trying not to shake like a leaf.
"You look a lot calmer tonight than the information from my aide about you," he whispered. His deep voice literally vibrated against my face.
I kept my eyes glued to his uniform collar. No way I was looking at his face. "Why would I be nervous around the empire's big hero?"
He didn't laugh. Instead, he stopped spinning, pulling me way too close.
His hand on my waist dug in, pinning me against his chest.
For the first time, he was analyzing my face from inches away.
He scanned my eyes, my nose, my jawline, his forehead wrinkling like I was a math problem he couldn't solve.
"Your eyes are different," he muttered, almost talking to himself. "And you don't act like a spoiled brat at all. The rumors are garbage."
I could feel his breath on my hair. He was so close I could see the tiny scar near his temple. He wasn't looking at a girl, he was interrogating a suspect.
"Gossip is usually wrong, Duke," I said, keeping my face deadpan.
"Maybe," he replied, his grip tightening even more, forcing me into a faster pace as he started moving again. "But my gut is never wrong. Someone changed you, Ilse. Or someone is using you to cover their tracks."
The dance felt like a literal interrogation. Every turn was just him testing me, trying to see how fast I'd break under the pressure.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I wheezed, my head absolutely pounding from the stress.
He yanked me to a dead stop in the middle of a turn.
The hand holding mine squeezed until my fingers turned numb.
He tilted his head, staring down with a look that could freeze water.
We were so close I could actually feel his heartbeat, totally slow and calm, the pulse of a guy who kills people before breakfast without feeling a thing.
He leaned in, his lips right by my ear. It wasn't romantic. It was a threat wrapped in a smooth whisper.
"Who wrote your script for that garden party, Ilse? Tell me before I lose my patience."