He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. The heat radiating off him is unbearable, setting my skin ablaze. “I’d pay to see that,” he murmurs.
“She’s just embarrassed,” Seraphina offers from her seat, her voice sickly sweet.
“She doesn’t know how,” Elena adds with a smirk.
The king tilts his head. “Is that true?”
I glare at the other girls across the table, jaw tight.
Keiren offers a hand. “May I teach you?”
Teach me? Ha! As if I wasn’t in his arms just a few hours ago.
I scoff. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll step on your royal toes?”
“I’ve survived worse.” Then he leans down and whispers so only I can hear, “You’ll need to make allies if you want to survive. Don’t give them any more reason to hate you.”
I hesitate, then nod once. He’s right; I need to play it cool. Reluctantly, I take his hand, and he leads me to the center of theballroom. One hand rests at my waist, the other clasps mine. His touch is warm, grounding me to the present.
Keiren moves with ease. I… do not.
“I’m going to trip you,” I say, loud enough for the girls back at the table. They’re practically breaking their necks trying to hear our conversation.
He chuckles. “I told you, I’ve survived worse.” He sends me into a dip, followed by a spin, and I try not to tense. My hair fans out around us like a flicker of flame.
“You move like a warrior,” he says softly, “not a follower.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” he replies smoothly. “It just means you don’t trust easily.”
“I wonder why,” I retort.
“Trust me,” he coaxes. “Just for this dance. Then you can go back to hating me.”
I look up. His vibrant blue eyes search mine. I take a breath and try to relax as we sweep out over the dance floor. His hand shifts at my back, gently guiding my movements. He adjusts to every misstep, disguising them with his elegance. He twirls me once more, then pulls me close.
His hands feel too steady, too familiar. For a moment, I almost forget who he is. Almost.
“Why would I trust a liar?” I breathe.
Keiren stills. “A liar?”
“You said you were the gardener.”
“I never said that.” His smile is maddening. “You assumed. But it’s true; I am many things. A gardener. A king. A dance instructor.” He twirls me again, slower this time, and catches me against his chest, tucking my hand close to his heart. His eyes burn into mine. “There are many things I’d enjoy teaching you, Fire.”
His voice brushes my skin like smoke, and I shiver. My legs nearly give way, but he catches me.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” I gasp.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “Not to me.”
“I’m not graceful,” I admit. “I’ve never really figured out how to follow.”
“Maybe because you were never meant to.” His hand finds mine again before he continues, “Dancing is a conversation, each step a word. When it flows right, it becomes a story.”
“And what kind of story are we telling?” I ask.
