We moved to the floor, and he settled a firm hand on my waist. A demon quartet in the corner switched from an upbeat melody to a slow, sedate waltz.
The dragon spun me around the dance floor, which was otherwise empty. The dozens of men lining the perimeter pretended not to notice us, although several pairs of eyes slid our way.
I kept my spine straight as I let the dragon lead me through the steps.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said.
“Thank you.” It didn’t matter what I looked like. If fate wanted us together, he’d marry me even if I looked like a cave troll.
He turned me again, and disappointment flickered in his eyes. He’d felt it, too. Or rather, he’d felt nothing. No spark. We weren’t mates. We were just two dragons going through the motions.
The song ended, and I murmured something polite and excused myself, weaving through the crowd as I made my way toward the window and my abandoned champagne. Another dragon intercepted me. Gritting my teeth, I accepted a second dance.
Then another.
And another.
Each time, the mate bond failed to flare, and my partner and I parted ways.
Breathless and sweating from the dances, I returned to my champagne at last. Downing it in two gulps, I leaned on the windowsill and let the chill from the window seep through my clothes.
It was 2048. The humans had just built a manned research facility on Mars, and yet my fathers expected me to play debutante at a ball straight out of the eighteenth century.
But I’d dressed on my own terms. Taking my mother’s advice to heart, I’d forgone a gown in favor of a crisp white shirt, black dress pants that hugged my hips, and a tailored black jacket. Heels gave me an extra three inches that put me above eye level for a quarter of the men in the room.
When I’d surveyed my reflection in my bathroom before dinner, I’d looked like I was prepared to negotiate a hostile takeover, not meet potential mates.
Perfect.
A server passed with a tray of champagne flutes. Hopping from the sill, I grabbed a fresh glass and took a long sip. The bubbles fizzed on my tongue. My dragon stirred under my skin, the itch rising with her agitation. She didn’t like being trapped, not by walls, expectations, or the eyes of males who appraised me like a prize mare.
I scanned the Hall. Dad stood near the massive hearth with several dragons, the firelight playing over his golden hair. Father was nearby, a wineglass pinched between his fingers as he discussed something with a pair of witches in dark red barastas. My mother moved through the crowd with her usual grace.
None of them were watching me.
I set down my champagne and slipped toward the doors.
The corridor outside was blissfully empty, the only sounds the sputter of the torches positioned on the walls in regular intervals. Bending, I removed my heels and let the straps dangle from my fingers as I made my way upstairs, the hum of men’s voices fading behind me.
By the time I reached my bedroom, my dragon twisted under my skin. I shut the door and leaned against it, my sigh of relief loud in the hushed chamber. Light flashed at the bottom of my vision. A glance down showed emerald green scales flickering over my cleavage.
“Not now,” I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut.
My dragon subsided, reluctance echoing across the bond that linked us. She wanted to fly, and I couldn’t blame her. But the castle overflowed with guests. Someone would inevitably spot me if I tried to leave.
With another sigh, I crossed to my bed, chucking my heels on the ground as I went. The full moon shone through the glass doors that led to my balcony. Mum probably felt its song in her bones. Her mother had been a werewolf, and those traits lingered in Mum’s veins.
My phone buzzed on my nightstand. A second later, a tiny image of my brother’s face swelled from the screen, and a woman’s voice announced,
“Incoming hologram.”
“Accept,” I said, snatching the phone from the stand and sitting on the edge of my bed.
The air shimmered. Then Malcolm stretched on the mattress, his form so lifelike I could’ve reached out and touched him. His blond hair was mussed, his golden eyes bright with amusement. He held the string of his crimson Harvard hoodie between his lips as he scrambled into a sitting position next to me.
“Hey, Sis,” he said, dropping the string. His accent was the same mix of Scottish burr and flat American he’d developed over the past five years. He was the image of Dad as he raked his gaze over my clothes, a lopsided grin appearing on his handsome face. “Why are you dressed like a ballbuster?”
I rolled my eyes. “Our fathers threw another dinner.”
