As I pull her closer, she stiffens, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, I think she might push me away, but sheholds her ground, even as I sense the effort it takes for her to endure my proximity.
Others usually swoon when I pull them near. Her head turns to the side, the only part she can pull away with.
She truly is unlike anyone else I've ever met, a puzzle I’ve never been able to figure out. Her aversion to touch intrigues me as much as it frustrates me, and I find myself wanting to unravel the mystery that lies beneath her prickly exterior.
I almost concede by giving her those inches back, but I don’t want anyone to overhear us.
Being this close only fuels a fire within me that I can't explain. Every nerve in my body is on edge, buzzing with raw desire. Not just lust or attraction, but it’s as if my entire being is coming to life, recognizing something in her my brain isn’t smart enough to comprehend yet. Her lips are magnets, drawing my gaze and thoughts to them over and over again like they are stuck in a loop.
As a prince, I have been taught to recognize power and dominance. People think I’m important. They don’t know the meaning of the word.
Cinder effortlessly exudes a force that money and status can’t buy. She undeniably knows who she is, and now I’m desperate to know her too.
“Au contraire, it is my business,” I continue to tease. “You have come to my bride-finding party. I can only assume you are here because you are one of the hopefuls wishing to tame the famous playboy prince.” I say the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.
Her lips twitch, and I can’t tell if she is fighting a smile or a disgusted grimace.
“Aside from the fact you are fae and I’m a human, I can’t say I’m the marrying type, yourhighness.” She loads my title with open irreverence. As if she meant to say,your lowly scumliness.
It’s delicious.
But she makes a point I share. Marriage is not on my ‘to do’ list either.
“That makes two of us,” I grumble. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why you are here.”
She inhales deeply. “My father—” Cinder abruptly cuts herself off, not completing the explanation as if she doesn’t trust herself to speak.
My brows knit. Her father died ten years ago.
Then my forehead smooths.
She must know what I’ve suspected all this time.
“So you’ve come back to find out who killed him,” I say the obvious in a hushed tone.
Cinder’s head snaps up toward me as her body stiffens under my hands. She misses a step and then another. I practically lift her off her feet and continue moving to keep pace with the other couples. Even with all her full skirts, she’s so light.
“Milady,” I say, even though she isn’t a noblewoman to warrant the moniker. “If you don’t move your feet, we may be in danger of being trampled by the rest of the dancers.”
Her chest jerks up and down in unsteady movements, and I key in on a jumping beat that reaches my ears. Cinder’s heartbeat. It’s erratic, like a bird repeatedly trying to land but can’t actually settle.
The scent of her blood hits me like a freight train. Suddenly my pants are too tight and my mouth waters with a thirst that is needy as it is urgent.
Witchtits. I need to get a hold of myself.
More importantly,sheneeds to calm down, or that heady copper and vanilla scent is going to arouse the interest of nearby dancers.
I lower my voice to a more intimate tone that I hope is soothing. “Cinder, I need you to breathe.”
There is a slight shake of her head.
I put a little more force into my words. “Breathe in, yes, thattagirl, and now breathe out,” I coach. She follows my instructions, though it takes three full breaths for them to turn somewhat even.
Shit, she didn’t know about her father.
Not that I know for sure, but the likelihood her father was murdered is too probable that it’s a damn near certainty.
But then why is she here?
