She sways. Just the slightest movement, her hips shifting with the music like her body wants to join them but she's holding herself back.
Fuck it.
"Dance with me." The words come out rougher than I intend, less invitation and more command. I soften it by extending my hand, palm up. "Unless you'd rather watch."
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide behind the silver petals of her mask. For a heartbeat, I think she'll refuse. That she'll thank me again for saving her from that drunk bastard and disappear into the crowd, and I'll be left standing here wondering why the hell I feel disappointed.
But then her lips curve into something that's not quite a smile but close enough to make heat pool low in my gut.
"I'd like to dance." She places her hand in mine, fingers small and warm against my palm. "But I should warn you—I'm not very good at it."
"I'll lead." I close my fingers around hers and pull her into the space between the other dancers, ignoring the curious glances from a few nobles who probably recognize my wings even if they can't see my face. Let them stare. Let them gossip. I don't give a damn right now.
I place my free hand at the small of her back, and she draws in a sharp breath. The silk of her dress is thin enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin beneath, the gentle curve of her spine. She's tense, muscles locked tight like she's bracing for something.
"Relax." I keep my voice low, meant only for her. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Something flickers across her face—relief, maybe, or surprise—and the tension bleeds out of her incrementally. She settles her other hand on my shoulder, light as a thalivern landing, and when I start to move, she follows.
Not gracefully, not at first. She stumbles over her own feet, steps on mine once, twice, and a flush creeps up her neck visible even in the dim lantern light. But I don't let go. Don't pull away. I just adjust my grip, guiding her through the steps until her body starts to remember the rhythm even if her mind doesn't.
The music wraps around us, strings and drums and voices rising in harmony. The incense thickens, sweet and heady, and I watch pink thaliverns drift past—four iridescent wings catching the firelight as they float through the air like living jewels. The Nashai must have released them for this part of the festival. They weave between the dancers, their wings brushing against bare shoulders and trailing silk, leaving faint traces of shimmer in their wake.
One lands on her shoulder, perches there for a moment before taking flight again. She laughs, the sound bright and unexpected, and I feel it like a punch to the sternum.
When was the last time I made someone laugh?
When was the last time I wanted to?
The lanterns dim, their red glow softening to something almost intimate. The crowd around us blurs into shapes and shadows, and it's just her and the music and the way she's starting to move with me instead of against me. Her steps growsurer, more confident, and when I spin her out and pull her back in, she comes willingly. Eagerly.
Her eyes never leave mine.
"You're better at this than you think." I draw her closer, until there's barely any space between us. Until I can count the freckles dusting her cheekbones, faint beneath the mask.
"You're a good teacher." She bites her lower lip, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way her teeth press into the soft flesh. "Or maybe you're just that good."
"Both." The word comes out more arrogant than I mean it, but she laughs again, and I decide I don't care how I sound as long as she keeps making that noise.
We move together, her body fitting against mine like she was designed for it. The music shifts again, tempo slowing further, and I adjust our movements to match. Other dancers press close, creating a barrier of bodies and wings that makes the space feel smaller. More private. Like we're the only two people here that matter.
I should ask her name. Should say something to fill the silence stretching between us. But words feel unnecessary when she's looking at me like that—like I'm something worth seeing, worth knowing. Like I'm more than just the harsh lines and cold edges I've spent years honing into armor.
The thaliverns circle overhead now, their wings casting faint shadows across her face. She tilts her head back to watch them, exposing the line of her throat, and I want to press my mouth there. Want to taste her skin and feel her pulse jump beneath my lips.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I don't do this. Don't lose myself in strangers at festivals, don't let attraction override logic and control. But standing here with her in my arms, swaying to music that seems designed toundo every wall I've built, I can't remember why any of that matters.
"What's your name?" The question slips out before I can stop it, rougher than I intend. Desperate in a way that makes me want to take it back.
But she doesn't pull away. Doesn't flinch or look uncomfortable. She just meets my eyes, her lips curving into something softer than a smile.
"Senna." The name falls from her mouth like a secret, quiet and reverent.
Senna. It suits her—the softness of it, the way it sounds like rain on glass. Beautiful and delicate and entirely too breakable for the world we live in.
"Lorenth." I offer my own name in return, watching her expression for any sign of recognition. Most people know House Varyon, know what my family represents even if they've never met me personally. But her face remains open, curious, without the usual calculation that comes with nobles trying to figure out what I'm worth.
