Whispers raced. Heads turned. Even the champagne seemed to bubble with excitement.
I kept my chin high, swiping a flute off a passing tray, trying and failing to emanate a vibe that was cool and unbothered.
But it was impossible to ignore the stares, the murmurs, the way the elven court looked at me as if they couldn’t decide if they needed to be scared of me or worship me.
The sweet drink fizzed against my lips, bubbling all the way down. Only when the strings of the harp filled the room and the servers got back to their rounds did court politics and succession become the topics of conversation, prodding eyes getting bored and drifting away.
All except one pair.
I could feel his stare burning into my skin, gliding over the dips and curves of my body, pleading for me to turn his way—once I did, I knew it was over, knew I’d be crossing that floor in a storm of cerulean fabric and want and rage.
Then I saw him: an angel leaning against a marble column. Cutting jaw, slicked hair, a fresh scar on his throat, white collar open, tattooed clavicle exposed. Ryder’s gaze, still rimmed with darkness but brighter than before, flared with a knowing heat.
It was so much worse than wanting. He was like gravity, like air. I needed him.
Placing my nearly full glass onto a table stocked with every cured meat known to man, I squeezed past the beads and jewels and flowing dresses, the bright suits and patterned ties.
The hunter didn’t move, tracking me solely with his eyes. And then I was cutting across the empty dance floor, and then I was standing in front of him, my chin kicking back to take all of him in.
Face wild with that same yearning that set me ablaze, he towered over me.
The light softened, and the music seemed to fade.
Where did we go from here?
He held out a palm. “May I?”
It was probably just the shadows from the flickering candlelight, but I could have sworn he was trembling.
I took his hand. It was cold. Weirder, it was smooth, with none of his usual calluses. They must have faded from his skin during those lonely, weaponless nights spent in the dungeon.
Bringing us closer, he slid an arm around my waist. Timid, unsteady, so the opposite of him. “Is this okay?”
I nodded. “Yes.” My free hand drifted to his back.
Who was this person?
Who was I?
We swayed to the gentle thrums of the harp, but my spine was stiff, my posture rigid and boxy.
There were too many questions left unanswered, too many things left unsaid.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?” Strands of his dark brown locks fell over his temples. I wanted to run my fingers through them.
Instead, I said, “For not slaughtering my friends when I left the Terrordome.”
He bowed his head.
“I have to admit”—blood flew through my veins in a dizzying rush—“I wasn’t sure for a minute. You seemed awfully cozy with Flóki. Were you working together?”
His jaw worked to form the words. “He’s a Chthonia supporter. Same rank as my brother. Handles the elven squadron.”
My gut twisted. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
