Chapter 12
Harthon’s hand was heavy against the crook of my elbow, even though his touch was light as he guided me down the platform’s steps.
I hadn’t had so much wine as to require his assistance, but it was comforting to know he wouldn’t allow me to trip and faceplant in front of hundreds of people—all of whom were openly watching us as they created a wide berth at the base of the platform.
At Ellan’s party, we’d danced amongst the guests, most of them too intoxicated to give us more than a passing glance. But now, a mock stage was being created for us on the floor as the crowd parted, forming an attentive semi-circle.
And Harthon was leading us directly into the center of it.
As my hands grew clammy, I was very much regretting the one-word answer I’d just given him. I’d been thinking of him and me, not of what a dance actually required. I stole a glance at the platform, where Ana sat wearing a delighted smile.
I wouldn’t get any assistance from her.
My frantic eyes found a servant bustling across the floor, bowls piled high in her hands. Maybe I could pretend to be sick from all the food, or flat-out faint, or—
Harthon drew his thumb along my arm, the small sensation stealing me from my panic. The gesture reminded me of his presence and strength, which for some reason, reminded me of my own.
You’re the key to Centralis. You’ve fought off armed men. Survived Koerlyn. It’s just a dance.
I was certain my palms were drenched with sweat by the time we came to a stop.
Just a dance.
My buzzing thoughts were the only sound I could hear.
The musicians were silent as they prepared for their next song.
The people surrounding us didn’t whisper, only watched, perhaps because they were too afraid to gossip in front of Harthon.
Lord Alrich was among them, his beady eyes observing us with far too much focus.
Just a dance.
Harthon rounded on me, his body moving so that his wide chest, not Alrich or any of those prying strangers, was the only thing in my sightline.
His palm slid from my arm to the curve of my waist, settling there as if it’d done so hundreds of times before.
His free hand guided one of mine to his shoulder before grasping the other, long fingers swallowing mine. They squeezed.
I took a deep breath. The familiar scent of leather and musk seemed to dampen my fears, so I took another. Then one more.
“I didn’t realize my chest was so fascinating,” Harthon said softly, his lips beside my ear. Realizing I had yet to move my sight from his chest, I tipped my chin up to meet his eyes. They didn’t contain the same sarcasm as his words. Rather, they were steady. He squeezed my hand again.
Finally, the musicians began to play, an easy waltz taking shape in their melody.
“Are they going to watch the entire time?” I whispered in an effort to delay the inevitable.
But Harthon didn’t grant me that delay. Instead, he began to step—forward, to the side, then rotating—applying pressure on my hand and waist so I moved with him.
And I did, my body moving like it knew instinctually to follow him, trusting him completely.
His eyes, which hadn’t strayed from mine, demanded that trust, as did the gentle way he kept squeezing my hand.
I kept my steps small, not wanting to smash his feet like I’d done before, and he effortlessly matched my strides as we finished the first short sequence of steps and began to repeat them. Still, my steps were shaky—not very magvis-like, and everyone could see me, and even though I wore a crown—
The hand on my waist slipped lower, to the top of my hip, bringing my mental conversation to a screeching halt.
His mouth shifted, that stubble twitching as he catalogued whatever was on my face. Probably a combination of surprise and heat.
But if he could see the surprise and heat burning my cheeks, everyone else could, too, and that alone was giving far too much away about Etarla, the human.
The thought of revealing things I shouldn’t unlocked an uncomfortable memory, something from my time with Koerlyn.
Somehow, he’d known that Harthon and I had danced together at Ellan’s party.
“Go with this.”
I’d hardly registered his words before Harthon twirled me away, completely exposing me. My pulse tripled as far too many people came into view. He brought my arm up and twisted his wrist, and I spun back into his embrace.
“Don’t do that again,” I hissed once my pulse recovered from the maneuver.
His grounding solidity sparked with mischief. “Do what? This?” he asked innocently, flinging me out again.
Instead of the sea of eyes before me, I focused on glaring at him. “Yes. That,” I said, twirling back into his arms.
His head bowed toward mine, and our chests brushed. “But you look so lovely when you spin.”
I swallowed as we fell back into step, repeating the sequence all while the whiskers of his jaw brushed my hairline. It was distracting. It was… provocative.
“To answer your question from earlier, yes. They are going to watch the whole time. And I cannot blame them, because I would watch you, too. Now, spin.”
Whatever nerves had twisted my stomach unraveled and took flight, like the butterfly I’d seen out in the garden.
This time, when he twirled me, I didn’t look around, didn’t glare at him.
I just waited for the steps that would bring me back to him as heat blazed from the knowledge that lived within me.
Or maybe that heat was from another place.
We continued like that as the melody peaked and valleyed, stepping, spinning, my chin tipped up so I could watch him watch me. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about those around us, because my thoughts turned to something else.
No matter what I told myself, this was not merely a show, nor was it just comradery or attraction. It was none of the things I’d told myself in the past. It was something more, and I was allowing myself to believe that.
I didn’t want to deny it any longer.
What I wanted was to kiss him. Or for him to kiss me. Or ideally, a combination of the two.
The music dwindled, signaling the song was coming to an end. Harthon spun me one final time, and whether it was my disappointment at the dance ending or just my natural lack of skill, I stumbled when I came back to him.
Both hands landed on my waist, steadying me as I braced myself against his chest. But then his grip didn’t move, even as applause erupted and we were no longer obligated to stand there.
He held me, palms molded to my skin, as his gaze grew heated and flicked down to my lips.
Kiss me.
His focus drifted past my face, to where the crowd watched. He cleared his throat. Regret slammed into me, even as it battled with logic. Of course, this was Princeps Harthon. He would never lose himself to a moment of passion in a room full of subjects.
When did I become the person who would?
Music rose again, and the semi-circle around us dispersed as people resumed their own dancing.
Harthon dipped his head, not to kiss me, but to apologetically say, “I will explain. About Jonathan.”
I wasn’t so enamored by our dance as to forget my frustration. “You should have explained before it happened.”
Harthon dropped his hands. He opened his mouth to respond, but his eyes jerked to something behind me. I twisted to see North rushing through the crowd, urgency across his boorish features.
He nearly slammed into Edmund, Ellan’s second-in-command, who was too busy watching us to see his approach.
“There are visitors,” North quickly informed Harthon. “An older man and woman. They’re asking for Etarla.” Suddenly, Edmund—skies, the entire room—ceased to exist. “And they know far too much about her, which is why we haven’t sent them away yet.”
Harthon grasped my arm. “Did they identify themselves?”
North nodded and opened his mouth. I beat him to it, somehow managing to speak even though my insides were spasming. “Merelda and Marsik,” I choked.
North turned to me, suspicion wrinkling his forehead. “How do you know—”
That was all the confirmation I needed. I yanked away from Harthon and raced to the closest door I could find, not giving a damn about how my frantic expression and movements might appear to those around me.
Nothing mattered but seeing if North spoke the truth. If Merelda was alive and really here.
Uncontrollable hope expanded, rocking me as I burst into a hallway. It was the reckless kind of hope that was dangerous in this world, the kind that would implode if what it sought wasn’t there.
“Where are they?” I demanded to a guard beside the doorway.
He looked at me like I’d asked him to strip. I didn’t have time for this.
“Tell me, dammit!”
“W-who, Lady magvis?” he stuttered.
“This way.” I twisted to see Harthon standing in the hall. He’d left the celebration and followed me.
I hurried in the direction he indicated, rushing ahead of him. He didn’t try to overtake me, just told me when to turn as he shadowed me.
Please, please be true.
“North wouldn’t lie about this,” I said as we rounded a corner, impatience spewing the question disguised as a statement.
“He wouldn’t,” Harthon confirmed, and that hope grew, my surroundings blurring into an inconsequential wash of color as we travelled hallways and staircases that never seemed to end.
Down, down, down—until the scent of mold and mildew slapped me in the face, and I realized we were no longer in a part of the Citadel I knew. The tan stone walls had turned gray, the ceiling hung low, and torchlight was far and few between.
A wail echoed through the hall, and my steps stuttered.
“Is this the prison?” I asked as we turned a corner.
“The entrance to it, yes.”
Anger roared, and I swung around, plowing directly into his body. “I swear to the fucking Domus, if you threw them in a prison cell, I will slice you the same way you did Jonathan.”