The words land like an unexpected blow—not painful, but precise.
Just me.
I’m not sure I remember who that man is.
Before I can find an answer, the music changes. Quintus is at the makeshift sound system, of course—Laura’s declared him “Keeper of Vibes.” The new song is slower, something with a gentle, swaying rhythm that makes couples drift toward the open grassy space between the trees.
As the melody shifts, uncertainty flickers across Sophia’s features, as if she’s calculating an equation with too many variables: Can I do this? Will I look foolish? How many eyes will be on me? Her fingers tap a little faster.
Maya, in a dress that would cause a priest to stare, bumps her hip against Sophia’s. I can’t hear the words from here, but I can imagine them. Maya is incapable of letting someone stand still during a song with a rhythm that even my untrained feet understand.
Sophia protests. I can see the way her hands flail for a moment, how she shakes her head. Then Laura chimes in, laughing, and just like that, Maya is tugging her toward the dancing area, that tapping pattern on Sophia’s thigh turning into something more frantic as she’s swept into the current.
The smile on her face looks more like a mask than flesh as the noise presses in. The party is loud tonight. Music, laughter, and conversations layered over each other. For me, it’s a celebration. For Sophia, I’m learning, it’s something to navigate. That she’s letting Maya pull her into the center of it, that she’s stepping into this, means something.
Without even choosing to, my feet move.
I weave through clusters of people—Cassius holding court near the grill, Lucius in deep conversation with one of the volunteers about herbal tinctures, kids shrieking near the edge of the fountain—and by the time I reach the open space beneath the lanterns, Maya has corralled Sophia and three other women into what could generously be called dancing.
Sophia’s movements are careful, a half-second behind the beat. She’s clearly thinking about every step, every shift of weight, as if she wants a rulebook for how bodies are supposed to move to this particular song and no one gave her one.
But her head tips back as she laughs at something Maya does, and in that moment the calculation falls away. The laugh is open, unguarded, utterly unaware of who might be watching.
Goddess, she’s beautiful.
“Go,” Thrax’s voice rumbles at my back. I jump; I hadn’t heard him follow. “This is your chance. You want her. A blind man could see it.”
Before I can argue, he gives me a shove that sends me stumbling forward straight into the edge of the circle.
Maya, who lives to stir things up, spots me and grins. “Flavius! Rescue Sophia from my wicked influence.” She spins away, pulling another woman with her, deliberately leaving Sophia alone in the middle of the dancing.
Sophia turns, a little breathless, cheeks flushed. When she sees me, her smile does something strange—less wide, a flash of heat in her eyes that wasn’t there before yesterday, then more… focused. Intense.
“I should warn you,” she says as the song blends into another, slightly slower one. “I’m terrible at this.”
“Funny,” I say, offering my hand. “So am I.”
For a heartbeat, she hesitates. I can see the war inside her—the instinct to flee, the urge to step back into the safety of the edges, the habit of sitting out rather than risk awkwardness. Then her breath catches. Color rises in her cheeks, and her eyes go dark for just a moment before she schools her expression again.
I know that look. I saw it yesterday, when my hands were in her hair and her back was pressed against the stable wall. When there was nothing between us.
Then she reaches out and puts her hand in mine.
Victory tastes like wine and lantern light.
“Shall we be terrible together?” I ask.
Her fingers curl around mine. Warm. Certain. Choosing. “Apparently, we’re doing this.”
I lead her away from the center of the dancing space, toward the edge where the music is a little softer and the press of bodies less dense. Close enough that we’re still part of the celebration, farenough that the air feels breathable. Her shoulders drop half an inch when we reach the quieter pocket, a tiny tell she probably doesn’t know I’ve learned to watch for.
My other hand finds its place at her waist. The first touch is tentative. I’m used to gripping opponents, not holding something delicate. But she steps in just a fraction, and the heat of her body against mine is familiar now—not new, not shocking, but still powerful enough to make my breath catch.
“I really am bad at this,” she murmurs, eyes on my chest rather than my face. “I can’t follow the rhythm properly. My brain doesn’t… pick it up the way other people’s do. And the music’s loud, and there are so many people, and I keep thinking I’m going to step on your feet or crash into someone—”
“Then we don’t follow the music,” I say simply. “We make our own.”
She releases a laugh that is half nerves, half genuine amusement. “That’s not how dancing works.”
