He's quiet for a few beats. The candlelight moves across his face, and his expression does something I don't have easy words for, settling into something that isn't his usual cool performance.
"I'm sorry," he says.
I miss a step. He steadies me without comment.
"What did you just say?"
"You heard me."
"I heard something that doesn't fit into any version of Caspian Thorne I've encountered so far, so I need you to repeat it for accuracy."
"I'm sorry," he says again, quieter. "For what's coming." His hand tightens briefly at my waist, then releases back to its formal position. "There are things in motion that I can't stop. Not tonight, not the way things are arranged. And I need you to know that I know that, and that I'm sorry for it."
The music continues. Around us, other couples move through their own careful patterns, and none of them are close enough to hear this.
"What things?" I ask.
"I can't tell you specifically."
"That's helpful."
"I know."
"Caspian." I pitch my voice low. "If you know something is going to hurt me tonight and you're not stopping it—"
"Some things can't be stopped directly. Some things have to be moved around." He meets my gaze, and there's something in his face that isn't performance and isn't cruelty. It sits there, bare and uncomfortable, like something he didn't intend to put on display. "Just remember that whatever happens, I knew about it. And I'm sorry. That's all I can give you right now."
The song ends. He steps back and releases my hand with the smooth formality of a House heir completing protocol, and the moment closes like a door.
"Go drink your wine," he says quietly. "The next one's Valorix."
I drink my wine. I stand near a column and watch the room and think about apologies delivered in advance, which are either the most honest thing a person can offer or the most cowardly, and I genuinely can't decide which this was.
I don't have to wait long.
Thane finds me by the column, which I think is deliberate because he has the expression of someone who planned their approach and would rather not admit it. He's wearing deep charcoal, and his dark hair is neater than usual, and he looksexactly as uncomfortable in formal wear as I would have predicted, which somehow makes him easier to stand next to.
"Protocol," he says.
"I know. Caspian already explained the format."
"Of course he did." Something flickers across his face. "Did he explain anything else?"
"Yes. It wasn't particularly illuminating." I set down my wine glass. "Are we doing this?"
He offers his hand without ceremony. I take it.
The way Thane dances is nothing like Caspian. Where Caspian is fluid and practiced and slightly theatrical about it, Thane is direct. He takes up space without apology, his lead firm and clear, and he keeps me close in a way that stops just short of possessive and then crosses that line anyway somewhere around the second measure.
"You're crowding me," I say.
"I'm leading."
"There's a difference between leading and claiming territory."
His jaw tightens. "Ashford has been watching you since you walked in."
"And your solution to that is to hold me like you're trying to block his sightline."
