Page 116 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She laughed—a real one, surprised out of her. “Is that meant to be reassuring?”

“It’s the truth.” His hand was still waiting, his smile cajoling. “Come on, Starling.”

She looked at the dance floor, then back at him, and sighed. It was a ball after all. “Fine. One dance. Then promise you’ll let me hide behind a potted plant for the rest of the night.”

The previous song had just finished, and the couples retreated to the fringes of the room. Her stomach flipped at the sight of the empty dance floor, her bravado evaporating. A crowd would have hidden her, let her disappear into the thrum of movement. Now there was nowhere to hide.

Head up, Cassia. You can do this.

The orchestra caught the subtle lift of Ark’s chin and slid into a slow, sweeping melody. He stepped forward, drawing her with him. His hand clasped hers, his other settling at her waist—a quiet, confident claim. And then they were moving.

His lead wasn’t a question; it was a promise. And somehow, her body—stiff from lack of practice—caught on to the rhythm of him. They moved as if connected by a shared pulse, her steps aligning with his like they were drawn by an invisible tether.

The glittering room dissolved, the whispers a distant sea. The enchanted snow blurred into muted starlight. There was only his steady, gold-flecked gaze, the searing heat of his palm through the silk at her back, and the unyielding strength of him as he guided her through a turn so smooth it felt like flying. It was a performance, yes—a bold, defiant statement—but the intimacy was real.

When the music began its final descent, they slowed, drifting to a stop as the last note trembled in the air. Their breaths mingled, her chest rising and falling against his. The world had narrowed to the intensity in his eyes, the unbearable few inches between their lips.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Because I have spent this entire dance fighting the singular, overwhelming desire to kiss you. And I am losing.”

A reckless, giddy thrill shot through her, burning away any vestiges of nerves. Here, in this den of wolves, under a hundred judging eyes, she felt only a wild, defiant certainty. “Then stop fighting.”

Ark didn’t hesitate.

His mouth found hers—searing, claiming. It wasn’t a polite kiss for the crowd. It was hunger and recognition. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. The world incinerated. There was only the press of his lips, the low sigh vibrating from his chest into hers.

He broke it first, easing back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. The spell was broken. The performance that was not at all a performance was conclusively, spectacularly over.

Reality rushed back in—gossiping voices, the weight of their shared, public transgression. Cassia’s knees trembled, her body humming with the aftermath. She felt flayed open. Magnificent, but a little overwhelmed.

She needed a moment—not to recover from the dance, but to prove she could walk away from him without trembling. The story they were selling tonight needed a woman who could hold her own, not one who dissolved at his touch or swayed at the sight of his smile. She needed to show them—and herself—that she wasn’t someone who could be unraveled by a kiss, no matter how searing.

“Is there a powder room?” she asked, her voice steadier than her legs.

“Down the hall to the left. I’ll wait for you at the base of the stairs.”

She smiled at him and followed his direction. The hallway beyond the ballroom was quieter, the music softening as she pushed open the gilded door marked for the women.

In a typical home, a powder room meant a modest chamber with a mirror and a water closet. In the Varil mansion, it was a lounge—gilded vanities, tufted seating, crystal chandeliers, private stalls tucked behind decorative screens. The space shimmered with pale gold, touched by perfume and lavender water.

Cassia had just dried her hands and stepped toward the mirror when the door creaked open behind her. Her eyes flicked to the reflection.

A tall, silver-haired demoness entered, her Daemaric-blue sheath dress clinging in clean, effortless lines. Her straight, shoulder-length hair shimmered like spun moonlight; her gait was the sort one developed by being watched her whole life.

Their eyes met in the mirror. The woman slowed—then smiled, faint recognition flickering in her silver gaze. “Didn’t I see you at the Aetherium a couple of weeks ago?”

Cassia straightened, smoothing the front of her gown. “Yes. You’re Agmon Alderrath’s sister, aren’t you? We didn’t get a chance to speak the other night.”

The demon offered a graceful smile and extended her hand. “He was in one of his moods. I’m sorry for that.” Her voice held genuine contrition. “I’m Agmon Lucindra. It’s a pleasure to formally meet you.”

Cassia accepted the handshake, surprised by the warmth in her grip, her easy charm. “Aura Cassia,” she said with a nod. Then added, wryly, “Though I imagine you might already know that. I’ve made myself a bit of a nuisance in your brother’s plans.”

Lucindra gave a light laugh. “Oh, that. He’s been in a sulk for days. Which usually means someone’s dared to say no to him.” She leaned closer, as if sharing confidence. “Good for you, by the way.”