“I’m well aware of my reputation,” I say to put her at ease. “I’m the one who earned it, after all. I learned early on,”maybe too early, “that everyone wants to sleep with a prince. I’m nothing if not a philanthropist, giving the people what they want.”
It’s difficult to ignore the heat of her hand permeating through my leather gloves, or how much I like having her in my hold.
Even as she begins to lean into the dance, I sense a lingering hesitation in her movements, a guardedness that never quite disappears. It’s like trying to hold onto a wild creature, poised to bolt at the slightest provocation.
“I would never slut shame anyone. I’m only repeating the headlines, YourHighness.” She is somehow scathing and smug even in a monotone delivery.
Sparks of excitement pop off in my chest. A woman unafraid to call me on my bullshit. How interesting.
“Well then, it seems you’ve missed a couple of articles. Otherwise, you’d know I’ve seduced a number of men as well.”
“Even more hearts to be broken over your pending nuptials, how tragic.” Her words are as dry as an empty glass in a desert amid a draught.
She’s savage.
I love it.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Appearances matter at events like these, and I have a specific, cultivated look. If she keeps throwing so many zingers my way, I might ruin all of that with a full belly laugh.
We’ve already exchanged more words on this dance floor than we have in our entire lives, yet the banter swings back and forth as timely as our dance steps, with an easy familiarity I can’t account for.
I heave a dramatic sigh for effect. “Yes, so many will be devastated.” Then my lips curve up. “But who’s to say anyone should be deprived of my fantastic dicking skills even if I’m married?”
She snorts, and it’s suddenly my favorite sound.
Despite keeping the conversation light, a weight presses on my chest.
I will have to pick a bride this season. My father needs me to do my part to show the face of strength and commit to growing up. He demands I make a serious commitment to the monarchy and get to work making an heir.
If only he knew how serious I was about the monarchy.
Darkness curls like smoke inside my chest, but I school my features to not let that part of me show.
My dance partner’s shoulders stiffen and rise several inches as she does a quick, almost imperceptible scan of the room. I don’t have to look to know that everywhere eyes press hungrily into us, watching with greedy need and covetous desire. The first dance of the evening, on the first night of a season where I am to pick my bride, I might as well have thrown a spotlight and a gallon of red paint on us.
While I don’t love the feeling, I’m used to it.
“Why me?” Cinder asks in a low, self-conscious voice.
It’s not the question of a woman who does not value her own worth enough to be picked in a crowd. It’s the complaint of someone who wishes I hadn’t singled her out.
“I wanted a dance with the mystery woman.” Then I lower my voice conspiratorially. “It will drive the rest of them crazy, not knowing who you are.”
“If they find out a human has snuck in…” There is a slight waver in her voice. Fear. “I’ll be?—”
“No onewill touch you while I’m with you.” A hard edge entered my voice before I could check it, but I meant it. No one will do her any harm; I will make sure of it. Though why she’s snuck back into Midnight, a human girl among Midnight fairies who’d just as soon step into daylight than endure treating her as an equal, is beyond me.
“Whatareyou doing here, anyway?” I finally ask. The question burns me.
Cinder’s hand tightens, and I suddenly wish my palm was naked against hers. I want to feel her bare skin. I can already tell her fingers are slender, but I want to know if they are soft or calloused, smooth or chapped.
A weird thing to want. Usually, women or men who entice me don’t inspire an interest in their hands, only what their hands can dotome.
I tell myself the reason I’m thinking about her digits is because her appearance has thrown me. I pride myself on rolling with the punches, on being flexible and able to think on my feet, but she is completely unexpected. But now I’m thinking of a human’s fingers and of lifting her veil to see if I remember the shade of her eyes correctly.
“That’s none of your business,” Cinder says. Even through the lace fabric, I can tell she’s addressing the spot over my shoulder.
My hand slides from her waist to her lower back, drawing her closer to me. I can’t help but inhale her unique scent. It reminds me of vanilla orchids with a hint of something deeper, darker, like charred cedar. I’m fast becoming addicted to the heat emanating through her dress.
