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Wilder seemed to sense the shift in her, because he held her upright when her knees buckled. ‘Look at me, Thea…’ he murmured.

She did, and gasped at what she found. His silver eyes were aflame with fury.

‘What’s going on?’ she managed, leaning into him.

‘I believe the king just used his empath abilities on you,’ the Warsword told her, placing her hand on his shoulder and drawing her close by the waist.

Thea gaped. ‘What?’

‘Dance with me, Thea… We cannot talk of it here.’

Doing her best to recover herself, Thea straightened and took in the sight of the warrior before her, clad in black finery, poised to dance with her.

‘I thought you didn’t dance?’ she muttered.

‘I don’t. Haven’t for a long time, anyway,’ he replied. ‘Except with you.’ He didn’t wait, just swept her up in a brilliant waltz, the music wrapping around them, leading them through its own form of magic.

Where Wilder touched her, Thea came alive. The warmth she felt in his arms was different. Rather than a blanket over her senses, it came from within, rich and golden, a symphony of feeling. She revelled in his strength and rhythm, in the fact that she was the exception for him. The music, the Warsword, the magic – it enraptured her like nothing else, and she felt her own power simmering, rising inside her —

‘Easy, Princess…’ Wilder murmured. ‘If I can feel that, there’s a good chance the royals can.’

But it was like a drug, like a cyren’s call, and Thea fell to its lure.

Wilder swore under his breath and practically hauled her from the ballroom floor, pulling her out into an abandoned corridor.

If there weren’t rumours about us before, there will be now, Thea thought abstractly, as she swam in Wilder’s quicksilver stare.

‘You need somewhere to blow off some steam,’ he said quietly, looking around, checking that they hadn’t been followed.

Thea’s blood instantly heated, her cheeks burning at the memory of what he’d done to her in front of the mirror earlier.

‘You’ve got a filthy mind, Apprentice…’ Wilder told her, surveying her parted lips with a darkening gaze.

Thea was too tightly wound to laugh.

Wilder’s voice was hoarse when he spoke again. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Where to?’ she asked, feeling utterly untethered from herself.

‘Where all the Warswords used to go when they needed a night off. Come with me…’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THEA

As they stepped out into the crisp night air, Thea came back to herself little by little, finding her throat dry and her hands trembling. She barely noticed where Wilder was taking her until they stood before a familiar sign swinging in the breeze.

The Laughing Fox.

‘I believe you owe me a growler of sour mead, Princess,’ the Warsword said, before pushing the door open.

Thankfully, the low lighting within hid Thea’s blush. Wilder knew she’d stolen liquor from him. She’d done it in anger at the time, but the warrior beside her seemed more amused than anything else.

It felt strange to be walking into the establishment in formal wear, but Thea soon forgot her discomfort. The tavern momentarily quieted as they entered. Some patrons offered Wilder the three-fingered salute to their shoulders, while others simply stared in awe.

‘Warsword Hawthorne,’ the owner of the bar greeted them, offering his hand.

Wilder shook it firmly. ‘Bertie, good to see you.’