When he spins me and pulls me back in, I misstep. Right onto his foot. I blush as I remove my foot from the tip of his boot. “Sorry, I?—”
A burst of a memory flashes behind my eyes,but it’s gone long before I can decipher it. The feeling remains, like dust after the wind. The familiar swing of his steps. His hand gentle on my waist.
I glance up at the man towering above me. “This isn’t our first dance, is it?”
He grins with a hint of sadness. “No, Marcella. It isn’t.”
“And I’m assuming you won’t tell me whatever it is I saw back in the gardens?”
“You already know the truth.”
Groaning, I lightly toss my head back to avoid his eye contact. We’re talking in circles at this point. “Should I be afraid of you?”
“I...”
I glance back at him, demanding an answer through narrowed eyes. The song slips into a new one. One slower.
He shakes his head. “I can’t determine that answer for you. Your fears are for your own.”
I attempt to take a step back to conclude our dance, but he shakes his head. “Wait, please. I need one more—I needonemore with you.”
“I’m not really allowed to refuse anyway, right?”
“You can always refuse me,” he mutters. “Do not confuse the authority of my role with someone I am not.”
“Fine,” I say simply, following his lead into something slower. Swaying back and forth, somehow finding ourselves a touch closer.
Changing the subject, he asks, “Have you truly no idea if any of the women have ulterior motives? Because Marcella, I must know. Tonight I have to send women home.”
I blink, pulling back my head. “Tonight? Right after our first trial? Why?”
“Because Devin demands it of me. He says it’s important to cull the selection so that I might develop deeper bonds and discover who truly deserves the title of Queen.”
“Have you ever thought Devin just has a stick up his ass—” I pause and then slam my lips closed.What is wrong with me?Why is it I cannot keep a simple boundary of formality with this man?
But rather than reprimanding me, Cyrus chuckles and looks over my head to the room behind me. “Careful. I might start thinking you don’t like him.”
“I don’t.”
He looks down at me. “I know. But he’s a good man. An honorable one. I’ve known him long enough that I’d almost consider him a brother.”
The termbrotherstrikes me like lightning, and when my face falls he murmurs, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have even used the term?—”
I clear my throat, looking at his gloved hand cupping mine instead of his face. Now isn’t the time to be thinking of my brother. Not when it might trigger emotions I’m not quite ready to unpack in a crowded room full of people I don’t know.
“Marcella, I’m trying. If I free him on my own, I’ll risk rebellion for pardoning a woman’s brother convicted of murder?—”
“You don’t even know him,” I interrupt. “Nobody does. They all think he is some evil person—rotten to the core. But he is kind, he is…loving…” Memories begin to trickle in, spiking the pressure in my skull. “He loved so much. He loved a man, and the priest of the Millton chapel didn’t agree with it. So he…he…” My voice wavers as I stare out at the whirl of color around us as he spins us.
“Go on,” he encourages gently.
I look into Cyrus’ soft eyes framed in dark lashes, “You already knew all of this, didn’t you?”
But he doesn’t answer, and it spikes anger within me. “Didn’t you!” I say louder, not caring if anyone else hears.
His eyes are soft with sympathy. The memories crest and crash into me with enough force that I rip my hand from his and take a step out of his arms.
“Marcella, wait,” he pleads as I turn away from him.
