Page 78 of A Dance of Lies

The song comes to a close, the desert’s might overcoming the storm, the message I wonder if they’ll ascertain. I’m ready to pirouette away, to draw back my force.

But Copelan doesn’t release me, his chest heaving. His gaze tracks up my throat, hooks on my lips. And I don’t have time to think, to back away, because one minute, he’s staring at me, and the next—

He’s gripping my neck and pulling my mouth to his.

My surroundings tunnel as his other hand fists my curls, drawing me closer. Waves of dizziness lave over me, from both the built-up tension, the fury—

He breaks away, fast as a snapped sitar string.

Everything goes still.

I don’t think I imagine the intake of breath from the crowd or the loud barrage of his heart. It’s all I can do to stay upright. My ears ring wildly. And he’s gaping at me, his eyes molten.

Time stretches like a wrung-out cloth. I can’t tell if he wants to yank me back or toss me away.

Then, as if returning from a trance, he grabs my hand and lifts it, sinking us into a bow.

Claps fill the audience. We break for the exit. But as we reach the divider, I turn back.

I don’t see Illian’s gaze, the press of his lips, no.

I see only his fist, clenched white at his side.

Back in my room, my hands shake ferociously as I scrub millen from my pores. I want to bury myself in blankets. I don’t want to return. Not to mention, my muscles feel as though they’ve disjointed from my body, and even that doesn’t compare to my addled mind.

After our dance, Copelan disappeared without a word. He left me outside the Hall of Thrones, panting, not knowing what to think or how to feel.

I should pretend it never happened. But the sting of it lingers like a barb under my skin. What he did was both a long time coming and something I never thought would happen. Something we both wanted and refused to do, because there was a line. I don’t know how it was drawn, but we both felt it, both respected it. Then Copelan blazed right through it as if it were made of wet parchment. Copelan, who lives in constant fear of the Crowns. Copelan who, until recently, never broke the rules.

He smashed his lips to mine in front of the whole Gathering, then fled as if I’d burnt him.

I slide into a simple green gown, its satin grazing my ankles, then coil my hair into a loose chignon before gathering slippers for my throbbing feet.

I cannot have him.

I cannot want him.

He wouldn’t want me if he knew my truths. Where I spent the last two years, what I’ve done, even here. What I still might do. HowangryI am.

A rough knock rattles my door. Annais, perhaps, returning to assist me.

It isn’t Annais who stands at the precipice of my door, but Copelan.

His hair is soaked, his skin scrubbed clean, yet he has the gall to say nothing. To stare, open-mouthed, like he did after that souls-forsaken performance. Anger curls my palms and tightens my fists. Has he come to tell me it was a mistake? Has he come to make it my fault? “What,” I bite out, “could you possibly want?”

He lets out a breath, as if he has the right to be angry. Buthedid this tome.He smeared our line. “Well?” I hiss.

“I don’t know, Vas!” he explodes, stepping toward me. “This is wrong. It’s reckless, dangerous, but—” He brackets my face in his hands. “I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t wash you from my skin.”

My throat feels thick as I swallow his words.

I shake my head, because no—I can’t start this with him. I can’t afford the cost of it. Not with a chance that I’ll lose myself and my purpose between touches and silken sheets. “We can’t.”

He leans his forehead against mine, breathing me in.

I should push him off. But then his hands are once again in my hair, gliding down my aching back, whisper-light caresses like the press of satin. He sets his lips over my eyes, my cheeks. My jaw. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he says hoarsely, tugging on theties of my dress. He doesn’t feel the way I tremble. “You’re too much trouble and yet . . . you, Vasalie, are my shackles. I can’t seem to set myself free.”

Shackles.