ZevandItravelfor another week. We’re mere days from the Arbinji army base, and the thought fills me with trepidation.
Everything will change.
I will be wed.
There will be peace.
But my resolve doesn’t feel as strong as it did when I left Tundrayn. I glance sideways at Zev, walking beside me.
I pretend I don’t know why.
“What will the wedding be like?” I ask that night after we’ve eaten.
“Opulent. Majestic. A bit boring, honestly.” The firelight casts long shadows across his cheekbones.
I roll my eyes. “I mean the ceremony itself. What do I have to do?”
“Walk down an aisle. Say a few vows. Promise to act in the best interests of Arbinj.” He thinks for a minute, eyes scrunched. “And there’s a dance at the reception.”
“Dance?”
He glances at me. “Yeah. Ballroom dance?”
I stare at him blankly. An owl hoots somewhere in the trees.
“You don’t have dancing in Tundrayn?”
“We have dancing,” I huff, crossing my arms. “The drum dance.” He arches a brow. “Lots of swaying? Stamping in time with drum beats? Swaying hips?”
His lips quirk. “There’s no stamping in a ballroom dance.”
I bite my lip, brows furrowing.
He rises to his feet, dusting off his pants before offering me his hand. “Here, I’ll show you. It’s easy.”
His smile is soft, and a warmth fizzles inside me that has nothing to do with the crackling fire. This is a horrible idea—whatever this is—but I don’t want it to stop.
Still, I don’t move, and he clasps my hand and tugs me to my feet.
“Zev, there’s no music,” I laugh.
He looks so happy, a wide smile brightening his face. I don’t want to dim the glow in his eyes.
“We’ll manage,” he murmurs. He positions my hand on his shoulder, while his finds the curve of my waist. With his other hand, he intertwines our fingers, raising our joined hands in the cool night air. “Just follow my lead. Step when I step.”
He’s a natural, swaying me effortlessly to a rhythm I can’t match.
“You’re very good,” I breathe. His molten gray gaze snares my own, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. Something warm and tender andrightwells in my chest. Something dangerous.
“My mother taught me.”
While Zev glides across the ground, I … well, stamp. On his feet. Several times.
After the third time, he whispers, “Come up onto my feet, Mayah.”
“No, I—”
His hands bracket my waist, lifting me until I’m balanced precariously on his boots. His soft smile clouds my reservations. My hands wind around his neck, chest brushing against his with every breath.
