Chapter 8 A Thing of Beauty #2
It shifted further when she took it, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor, the music already having shifted into a soft, romantic melody.
Something flared hot behind Cedric’s sternum. A pulse of heat, uncontrolled and sharp, licking up the back of his spine.
What in all four hells was wrong with him? It was just Tristan. They were just dancing.
He tried to beat back the ugly, wholly inappropriate surge of jealousy blooming in his chest. Reminded himself that Tristan was his friend. A friend who knew everything that happened between Cedric and Elyria in the Sanctum, who seemed to have a pretty good idea of what she meant to him now.
Even if Cedric himself still hadn’t quite figured that out.
More to the point, he tried to remind himself that Elyria was not his in the first place.
And yet—
She laughed. And stars above, how he’d missed that sound. It dove under his skin, curled around his bones like smoke. He wanted to fuse with it, keep it there forever—a tattoo on his ribs.
The tether in his chest went taut as a pulled bowstring, propelling him forward. He took another step toward her. Was only perhaps ten, twenty feet away now. So close. Too far.
She wasn’t facing him, but somehow, he sensed the moment she knew. Saw the way she went rigid. Heard her sharp intake of breath. And then saw the gleam in her eyes—those silver-flecked emeralds—as she turned.
For a moment, there was nothing but them, the line of their connected gaze.
No Tristan. No music. No voices. No distance.
Just her.
He saw the shock ripple through her expression, the flicker of something wild, disbelieving. And something else too. Something like . . .
Joy.
Unbridled. Unbound. Unexpected.
And Cedric, he—
He waved at her.
A small, rather pathetic flap of his hand, before he could stop himself.
Four fucking hells, he thought, promptly wishing he could disappear into the floor.
Elyria pressed her lips together, the apples of her cheeks quivering. He knew that look, the way she was trying to fight a grin or a laugh. It warmed something deep within him.
She shifted on her feet, her body tilting forward. As if she might step closer. As if she might come to him. As if she felt it too—this unbearable, inexplicable pull.
But she didn’t.
She stopped. Hesitated. Her eyes flicked just past him, her brow creased.
And Cedric turned his head to follow her gaze, just in time to hear his name spoken in a bright, familiar voice.
“Cedric!”
Tenny collided with him, all poofy skirts and red-blonde hair as she flung her arms around his neck like he’d been gone months, years. He caught her on reflex, his hands going to her waist, blinking as she pulled back enough to beam up at him.
“Stars above, you’re a sight,” she said, eyes bright, cheeks flushed.
“It’s good to see you too,” he replied, his returning smile full of warmth. It wasn’t a lie. He was glad to see her. She was one of his dearest friends. He just wished there weren’t so many things layered on top of and underneath that.
“Never thought you were the kind to care about being fashionably late,” Tenny continued, the golden locket sitting against her clavicle drawing Cedric’s eye as it bounced with each excited breath.
“But I suppose I’m just grateful you showed at all.
I wasn’t even positive you’d be back in time for this thing.
” She released him from her hold to gesture broadly at the ballroom around them, then flashed him a smile.
“Much to my father’s chagrin, I’ll add. Why didn’t you let us know for certain you’d be here? ”
Because I didn’t want to be here. His eyes flicked over Tenny’s shoulder, to where Elyria was still watching him with an unreadable expression. I didn’t think I did, at least.
Tristan began moving toward the two of them, and Cedric forced a smile. “Because I didn’t know. For certain, that is. We got, uh, delayed, quite a few times. Just barely made it.”
She didn’t seem to notice the hollowness in his voice—or, if she did, she ignored it.
“Yes, well, that I can see. You look . . . well, you look exhausted, if I’m being honest. You both do,” she said as Tristan sidled up beside Cedric.
Then, at Tristan’s expression of mock hurt, she added, “Fear not, you’re still handsome as ever.
But I think you could do with a few good meals and a proper night’s sleep . . . or seven.”
Tristan laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t turn either down. I think our Lord Victor here has just a bit more to get through before that can happen, however.”
As if on cue, trumpets blared a royal tune. Tenny gave an exaggerated sigh and looped an arm through each of theirs, turning them both toward the ballroom entrance like it was the most natural thing in the world . . . though, for Cedric, turning his back to Elyria felt anything but.
“I thought my father might turn to stone earlier today when he realized you hadn’t returned yet. Addison nearly fainted from the stress.”
“Oh, we are well aware,” Tristan said, craning his neck to watch the procession as King Callum entered the ballroom, swathed in robes of deep purple, his golden crown perched perfectly on his brow.
Cedric mumbled some low words of apology as his own neck twisted—not in order to better see the king, but to scan the crowd behind him, searching for a glimpse of gold fabric or periwinkle hair.
She wasn’t there anymore. And Cedric didn’t know how to name the feeling scraping against his veins at the realization—something almost like loss.
But that was ridiculous. Everything about this was ridiculous.
Tenny noticed. Of course she did.
She squeezed his forearm lightly—a reassuring pressure. “You still haven’t quite returned, have you?” she said, voice gentle, tone full of kindness. “I’m not sure you ever did.”
It felt like there was so much held in those little words, a secret kind of acknowledgment. Did Tenny already know what her father had asked of Cedric? Did she know the conflict it stirred in his gut? Was she telling him she understood?
“I—” Cedric didn’t know how to respond.
“Still,” Tenny added, a sympathetic smile on her face. “I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”
Her honesty poked at something in him—not guilt, exactly, but a sort of forlornness. A memory of a time when that admission would have made his heart soar rather than ache.
Before the Crucible.
Before Elyria.
He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t know how. He just watched King Callum ascend the dais at the end of the ballroom, settling onto the throne with practiced grace. Until finally, Cedric’s heartbeat had steadied long enough to at least admit one small truth.
“I’ve missed you too, Ten.”
It would have to be enough.