AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I was about to meet Antonio Armando Castillas Morales. Now twenty-one, he was the youngest mentor in the history of the Blood Tournaments.
The deep timbre of his voice filled the hallway. “It was fine.”
His voice was firm, but the quality of his comments left something to be desired. Las Patrias had devoted our lives and bodies to mastering this craft so clearly borne out of the heart of Arrebol culture. Even if he didn’t like it, surely he could acknowledge our skill, and use literally any other adjective.
I scoffed and murmured, “Fine as my ass, you pretentious bastard.”
Calm down, Carmen,I told myself as the two men rounded the corner. I was going to walk back into the hallway when the red curtain in front of me parted.
My body was all awkward angles, legs slightly too far apart, toes inverted, and my hands nervously clutching at the folds of my dress.
Fernando grinned. “Ay, mi amor. Bailaste como un ángel. Cásate conmigo, por favor.”
My cheeks heated. Damn Fercho for the way he begged me to marry him. Again.
It was fine when he did it behind closed doors, but in front of guests? It was mortifying. Fernando didn’t even like girls, his attention was on a young man who lived in the same corner apartment building as his mother.
I kept my eyes from Antonio’s face, but felt him watching me straighten my atrocious posture. Perhaps I recognized the sensation of his gaze now because he hadn’t spared a glance to me all night.
“I’m sorry, Fercho, but I am going to say no. Again. I’m not the marrying type,” I said with a shaky voice. Fernando was about a half a head shorter than me, so I ducked down to kiss him on the cheek while thanking him for the compliment.
Not wanting to be rude one moment longer, despite Antonio’s lack of reciprocation, I turned my attention to the most esteemed Blood Tournament ex-Campeón of all time. Trying to keep my thoughts analytical, I focused on the black wool suit instead of the dazzling face. Mourning clothes. It was strange that he was still mourning his wife and father, who had died in a car accident over a year ago.
Every article of clothing was pressed and crafted to fit him with excellent skill. His hair was shaved at the bottom, fading up to his chestnut brown curls. Those curls were interesting, a bit of softness in someone who seemed as frigid and sharp as ice. More surprising still, his eyes were the softest brown. Like chocolate or undyed cashmere.
Taking in one piece at a time, I could almost say he had a kindness to him. But looking at his expression, I felt utterly disarmed. Like I had done something wrong. A fission of fear shot down my spine—being rude to an Élite would have consequences.
I did a little curtsy, and he watched that too.
I blinked. He did not.
“Señor Castillas Morales, this is Carmen Asbaje. La primera bailarina.” Fernando offered helpfully.
I smiled at Señor Castillas and held out my hand, which he did not take. I glanced at his wrist and noted a couple of golden cuffs. There was no doubt they were real. What must it be like to wear something so valuable in such a careless place?
“Encantado,” he said as my hand sank down to its place near my hip.
If he was charmed by meeting me, then I was a volcano troll.
My heart was shriveling up more and more by the second, and I wished I could sink down through the floorboards, into the very foundations of the theater. It would be more enjoyable than this exchange. Perhaps I had made a mistake with the etiquette without realizing? He was an Élite, after all. It took them their entire lives to learn their rules.
A new thought flashed through my mind. After nervously tugging at my sleeves, I wondered if he could sense my secret writhing beneath my skin. It wasn’t as if I had used it in front of him, or anyone other than Magda.
“Señor Castillas told me he is looking for a new apprentice for the upcoming tournament, isn’t that right?” Fernando said.
The man grunted, and I forced my lips into the sweetest smile I could manage. Clearly, it was painful for him to be here.
I could help with that.
“It is nice to meet you, Señor Castillas.” It really wasn’t, though. In fact, this may have been one of the most disappointing moments of my life. It was awkward. I had admired him for his strength and talent, things which I foolishly thought he might recognize in my art. He had seemed charming, if not somewhat quiet, on camera.
Antonio’s eyes searched my face for something. At last, that sharply sculpted mouth opened, and he said, “You are taller than I thought.”
That was the last straw. I needed this unforgettably awful experience to end.
I narrowed my eyes. “I am.”
My cheeks were so hot I was sure I looked like a blotchy mess. Insulting him was out of the question, so I settled on, “Well, perhaps the next time you are invited to a Flamenco performance, give your tickets to someone who would actually enjoy the show. Con su permiso.” I dipped again and looked up to witness a scowl hot enough to burn down trees formed on the ex-Campeón’s face.
