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His gaze lingers on me, then shifts to Griffin and the gargoyle chef. I don’t think either of them blink as they patiently wait for a yes or no.
"A celebration of life, then," Asmo says, more to himself than to us. "It's been a long time since there’s been anything resembling a celebration here." There's a wistfulness in his tone, a longing for a past perhaps not as burdened by the weight of his responsibilities. Or maybe his actions and convictions… I can’t tell.
Griffin jumps, fisting the air as he flashes a smile that’s all teeth—pointed fangs and all. "That’s what I said!" He gestures broadly, to the gargoyles who had assisted in the preparations. “But it was their idea. We just assisted.”
Asmo's smile is slow to return, but when it does, it's hesitant. "You best make that punch strong then," he concedes, his gaze sweeping over the room's transformation. "And I won’t promise to be down here long."
Stepping closer, I'm acutely aware of the tension that lines his frame, the rigidness that’s overcome his spine, the flutter of the muscles in his jaw as if he’s grinding his teeth, though his tone suggests otherwise. "No promises necessary. You do what you can and if you’re still tired, we understand," I say softly, hoping to reassure him. "The Lady of Grim’s Keep will ensure the rest is taken care of."
There's a moment, brief and fragile, where Asmo's guard seems to lower, his eyes meeting mine with a vulnerability that takes my breath away. "I suppose I chose well then," he says, bowing his head as if he’s in the presence of royalty. “I’m holding you to that, though.”
Griffin claps a hand on my shoulder, drawing Asmo’s eyes. It’s a welcome reprieve from the intensity of the moment. I’m not sure how I would’ve responded, anyway.
"Let’s get this party started!” Griffin claps his hands and the instruments in the corner rise all at once. With an elegant twirl of his wrists, they begin playing all on their own, a melody ofviolins and flutes, upbeat but still classical enough to formally dance to if one wished.
“We’re doing this right now?” I arch a brow, dropping my gaze to the floor. I should change into a ball gown, maybe put my hair up but that would take at least an hour and I’d likely have to convince Eep to help me lace up the back of my dress. It’s the only pitfall of my closet and I was lucky enough that the corset strings were in the front of the dress I learned that with. Maybe I could get it to make one with the corset in the front—
“Stop overthinking it,” Griffin says, playfully tugging on the braid in my hair. “Gods, with the strength of the anxiety wafting off you, I’d think you were the queen.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, unsure of how long I’ve been zoned out on the floor, letting my mind spiral. “I should change.” Brow furrowed, I mindlessly spin on my heels, ready to head upstairs, but he grips my elbow and tugs me back before I make it more than a step away.
“No, you don’t. Remember what I said the other day at breakfast?”
I pause, letting the conversation return to the forefront of my memory. He’d told me I don’t need to dress up to be pretty, but this is different. This is an occasion—even though no visitors are present—that a duchess, much less a lady of the house, should be dressed up for.
Nodding, I drag in a deep breath, trying to steady myself before I have to speed change.
“Good, then you’ll understand when I say that you look fine. It’s just your friends here.” He arches a white brow, crossing his arms.
“Sorry…” I’m not sure why I apologize. He’s the one putting his nose where he shouldn’t.
Griffin pats me on the cheek, then bobs his head to the beat of the violin, high stepping backward. “Now, if you’ll excuseme, I have punch to make, and Asmodeus owes you a dance considering you all but starved yourself living at his bedside the last few days.”
No… Why did he have to put it that way?
“Please tell me he’s lying.” I can feel the power rippling off Asmo, though the currents that slide over my skin aren’t as strong as they usually are. Another sign he’s still healing and likely should be in bed and not feeding my insecurities, let alone my desires of feeling normal.
Clenching my teeth together into an awkward straight-lined smile, I go stick straight, turning in a tight circle to face him. “I wish I could.”
“Why? I would’ve been fine.” His brows knit together, and he’s close enough that I can see the faint wrinkle that forms between them.
“You told me I was the tether. I knew you would survive, but I didn’t want you to lose your soul because I didn’t stay close enough.” Now that I’ve said it out loud, to him of all people, it sounds stupid.
I expect him to tell me as much, but instead, the corner of his mouth ticks up and he mumbles a simple. “Thank you.”
“Er… Um… You're welcome.” I curtsey, remembering who he is.
I just demanded the Prince of Death—the Prince of the entire fucking Seven Realms—to attend a ball. I’ve had days to wrap my head around who he is, ever since Griffin spilled his secret during the ritual. Yet, as I stare at his beautifully lethal face, he doesn’t look like royalty. He looks like a man who’s seen some shit and is in desperate need of a nap… and possibly an extra large glass of wine.
Asmo offers a nod, the shadow of hesitance still present but tempered by a glow in his eyes that seems so much brighter than I remember it being. They’re vibrant amber, like flames havebeen trapped inside them, flickering and licking and dancing in the light. Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word for what he is. I’m not sure a word exists to describe him.
He takes a step forward, the smirk on his face growing wider. “Well, then… Would the Lady of Grim’s Keep offer me a dance?”
Reality crashes into me. “You want me to ask you?”
Asmo presses his lips together, ducking his head a bit. It’s a look a child would use to get out of trouble, and something tells me, he’s used it hundreds if not thousands of times. “If I’m honest, you terrify me, and I’m not sure if you’re the kind of lady who wants to be asked to dance, or if you’re the kind of lady who prefers to do the asking.”
“The Prince of the Seven Realms, scared of me?” I can’t help but smile, holding a hand over my heart as if I’ve been wounded.
