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The color drained from her face and her steps faltered. Even without her scent, her fear was evident. My stomach dropped.

“What did I do?”

She quickly shook her head. “Just… just a memory, that’s all. It’s not your fault.”

“A memory?”

She ducked her hand, stretching her legs in a clear excuse to not look at me. “Of… of Brendon.”

The growl ripped up my throat before I had a hope of tamping it down. Her breath caught, and her gaze shot to mine. The words were hoarse, nearly their own growl.

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Then she stepped onto the mat, adjusted her stance to let her left hand be the main force, and started in on practice repetitions. Her eyes grew luminous the more she did, the more her body aligned and gained power. By the time we finished, her hands trembling and her chest heaving, the plait of her braid mostly fallen from its pins, they burned like quicksilver.

Trepidation should have filled me at the sight, at the similarity to the Alholím, no matter that it was impossible for her to have descended from them. Instead, my entire body ached to press her against the wall and bury my hands in her hair. It would be so easy to start slowly, ease her into it, create in her an inferno that mirrored my own so all she would desire was the slaking of the burning need. I would know the touch of her hands, the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, and the sounds of her pleasure.

It would only cost me my decency and integrity.

I forced the image away even as wisteria exploded around me and her breath caught again, color rising to her cheeks out of arousal rather than exertion. The moment stretched, that thread that seemed anchored in my ribs and connecting to her pulling taut as a bowstring. One small move, and it would be plucked, the arrow flying between us. One tiny move, and I’d throw away forty-five years of being the devout, good son.

Goddess, I wished she had asked for the blood-binding if only to cut this tension and relieve me of the burden of choosing what was right.

“That’s enough for tonight,” I said. The words were ragged, as taut as that unseen string.

For one long, agonizing moment, I thought she might close the distance and ask for my touch. But then she gave me a small smile, unwrapped her hands, and left the ballroom, already picking out the rest of her pins and unweaving her braid.

37

AMETHYST

Monique was resplendent in her silver gown adorned with golden embroidery that shimmered in the warm flow of the bowls full of fire situated on the tables between the vases of flowers and those mounted on the support columns of the covered pathways. Even among the crowd of a few hundred, she stood out like a shining beacon. It was impossible to miss exactly who was being celebrated. Her smile was wide, her dancing relaxed and full of joy. The half-moon scar on her neck hadn’t quite set, still a raised pink welt rather than the silver Sloane’s had been on our call. Nerves rippled under my stomach and tightened around my ribs at the thought of having one, too. What was it that caused it? Were they always so public? With three examples, it was reasonable to assume that they were.

After a moment, others joined her, dancing alone and with partners, smiling and laughing while the musicians eased from one piece to the next with little break and no trips-ups. Everyone was in what I assumed to be full regalia, the gowns dripping with decadence and the tunics pressed and embroidered more heavily than even the equinox. Even the children, laughing and running around the garden, weaving in and out of the columns, wore clothing I’d be terrified would be ruined by their frolicking.

Even as one such group sprinted past me, the little girl in front catching a silver pin that fell from her hair, my focus drew invariably back to Callum. He stood near the stairs, surrounded by a group of men I didn’t recognize and hadn’t been introduced to. He wore his indigo tunic with the intricate silver embroidery as well as his circlet, both catching in the firelight as he laughed, his head tipped back. Tonight he also wore a half-cape that mirrored the guardsmen who numbered at least fifty in the crowd of celebrants. Unlike theirs, though, his reached to mid-calf, the fabric a luxurious silk velvet that shone in the firelight. I’d reworn the dress made for the equinox, the deep blue silk shining, too, with each small movement I made. The hem had been washed after the time spent in the Central Square and additional embroidery and that silver trim Amaria had liked so much at the dress shop had been added along the neckline and under bust seams. It had also come back from the alterations with a new set of short stays, a lining fabric attached with carefully placed, beyond tiny buttons that meant I didn’t need a chemise at all. The added opulence had me terrified to do more than stand in a single spot, my hands twisted behind my back to keep from accidentally messing with the trim.

My hair had been done similarly, too, in the half-up twist Shelby seemed to gravitate toward the most for me, though she’d teased the bottom half into ringlets that fell down my back rather than leaving it straight. The circlet perched just above my ears, the ribbon woven through the twists and hidden underneath various pieces until it disappeared completely. Its weight was still foreign and off-putting. Despite the pins and secured ribbon, I was terrified a wrong move would send it falling to the ground.

Even with the changing of the seasons and the awakening spring, I was nearly positive Phoebe or Simeon had used some kind of magic to make the entire garden glow with warmth. They were here, too, milling with some of the attendees wearing the same gold raven pendant I’d seen Phoebe wear a few days ago. While Phoebe laughed and joked, her body as relaxed as anyone else here, Simeon was more reserved. His smiles were smaller and offered less often, but that didn’t seem to deter anyone from joining him in conversation. There wasn’t the low-lying wariness that accompanied him when I was near, at least.

“Would you like to come dance with us?” Amaria’s eyes were bright, her skin flushed. She held her arm out in invitation, the forest green of her own silk dress the perfect highlight to her sepia skin.

I eyed the group of women still dancing with Monique in the center, laughing with each other, and those nerves grew again, tightening to the point of discomfort. What if someone stepped on the dress and ripped it? Or the necklace’s clasp broke and the lapis lazuli pendant ended up ruined under someone’s foot? Not to mention all the eyes that would be on me. Goddess knew I would do something wrong, say something that would make it clear I wasn’t cut out for this princess shindig.

Amaria seemed to understand my trepidation.

Her voice was softer. “No one is testing you here. Tonight is about celebrating another union, another example of the faithfulness of the Goddess and the start of a new pairing. It would be our honor to have the princess join us in that.”

Even after only a couple weeks, she knew exactly how to draw me out of the shadows. I hated disappointing anyone I liked if I could help it.

“Please don’t let me make a fool of myself,” I whispered as I took her offered arm.

“You won’t,” she assured me, nothing but calm confidence.

Before we crossed the garden, I asked, “Why is it only the women? Do the men not dance?”