And they danced.
CHAPTER 11
Her eyes opened without her permission.
Marigold hadn't meant to look—she'd been doing so well with them closed, feeling instead of thinking, letting her body follow his guidance without her brain getting in the way—but something had shifted. The quality of the silence. The texture of the air between them. And suddenly she needed to see.
Thallos was watching her.
Not her feet, not the space over her shoulder, not the strategic middle distance that polite dance partners maintained. He was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
"You opened your eyes," he said.
"So did you."
"Mine were never closed."
He'd been watching her this whole time. Through every stumble, every moment of vulnerability, every small surrender—he'd seen all of it.
She should have felt exposed. Uncomfortable. Violated, even.
Instead, heat pooled low in her belly.
"The dance is different now," she heard herself say. "Slower."
"Yes."
"Is that part of the lesson?"
His hand pressed more firmly against her lower back, drawing her infinitesimally closer. "If you want it to be."
*I want.*
The thought came unbidden, startling in its clarity. She'd spent so long cataloging all the things she didn't want—didn't want her mother's chaos, didn't want to be fooled by charm, didn't want to fall for someone who would leave her broken—that she'd forgotten wanting could feel like this. Clean. Simple. A hunger that had nothing to do with fear.
They weren't really waltzing anymore. The steps had dissolved into something slower, more intimate—a swaying that kept them pressed together, his thigh occasionally brushing against hers through the thin fabric of her dress.
"You're thinking again," he murmured.
"How can you tell?"
"You tense." His thumb traced a lazy arc across her spine, and she shivered. "Right here. Every time your brain starts working overtime, I feel it."
"Maybe I should think less."
"Maybe you should."
His voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper. She felt it more than heard it—a vibration in his chest where her body pressed against his.
The lanterns flickered overhead. The grove seemed to tighten around them, the ancient trees leaning in like curious spectators. She could smell him now—warm earth and wine and something wilder underneath, something that made her think of thunderstorms and growing things.
"Thallos."
"Marigold."
She loved the way he said her name. Like it meant something. Like she meant something.
His hand slid higher on her back, following the curve of her spine, and she arched into the touch without thinking. A small sound escaped her—half gasp, half something else—and his eyes darkened.
