His eyes moved quickly to the black lightning bolt-like lines that danced up her neck, but Maeve didn’t miss it. She was used to the stares of curiosity at her unique markings, but being beneath his gaze felt like an honor.
“I was hoping to steal her for a dance, Alphard,” said Malachite, slipping his black leather gloves off one finger at a time.
Maeve’s stomach flipped.
Alphard took a swig of his drink and didn’t miss a beat. “That’ll save me the trouble.”
Malachite didn’t humor him with a laugh. He merely extended his now ungloved hand to Maeve, his bright green eyes on her. Her eyes lingered on the scar that ran across his eye, splitting his brow.
He was devastatingly dark.
Realizing her stare, she quickly placed her hand in his. She nearly recoiled as a crack of Magic sliced down her throat and settled at her heart.
The Dread Prince’s eyes shot to their hands. Maeve took a steadying breath as his icy fingers curled beneath hers, trapping her in his grip. He guided her gracefully onto the ballroom floor, never dropping her hand. He rounded on her and stopped. She looked up athim, certain by his glance down at her chest, and the small smile of victory that played at the corner of his lips, that he could feel just how unsteady her heart was.
His Magic had calmed since his arrival, like he was keeping it close to himself.
Malachite closed the gap between them. In one step, Maeve instinctively lifted her free hand and allowed him access to her waist. His hand did not settle above her hip as she anticipated. His slender fingers reached around her fully and pressed against her exposed back, drawing an involuntary inhale through her lips and bringing them closer than necessary for such a formal dance.
He was bold.
His eyes followed her hand as she placed it on his shoulder.
Magic swelled between them. Maeve looked at their joined hands and realized his Magic trickled down her arm in soft waves. The feeling settled into her bones. With a contented exhale, she allowed herself a breath closer to him.
An image slipped across her mind, something dreamlike and impossible, as her thoughts often were.
“Have we danced before?” she asked softly, already certain of the realistic answer.
Malachite’s chest rose and fell, his eyes also on where their hands joined. “No,” he answered simply.
Their heads turned back to one another in synchrony, and he began to move her across the ballroom gracefully, joining those already in their dance.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
Maeve didn’t move her attention from him. “It’s an honor to be here.”
Malachite chuckled.
More Magic swelled between them. She ignored it, doing everything she could to write it off as his own, overflowing power.
“You sound like your cousin,” he elaborated. “So political.”
Maeve smiled softly. “Given unto us from a young age.”
His gaze slid to her hand that rested on his shoulder. The one stamped with three stars. “Pureblood divinity.”
Maeve’s smile faltered. His eyes returned to hers.
“Are you ashamed of your Father’s house of Magic?”
“No, my Prince,” she replied, feeling the weight of too many eyes on her.
“Then it is your mother’s unknown heritage that haunts you?”
Maeve nodded softly.
“You requested special permission from the crown to visit Earth, correct?”
