Page 45 of A Storm of Fire and Ash

The contact sent a jolt through me—but not the kind Zayn’s touch gave.

No, this felt like ice cracking inside me.

My stomach twisted. I didn’t want him touching my back.

I didn’t want him touching anything. His fingers lingered, but all I could think about was how his eyes—golden, bright, entitled—were too similar to his father’s.

Too close to the man who’d chained me to a post and whipped me like I was less than dirt.

The song ended.

Thank the gods!

The music shifted into a fast, thumping rhythm—wild and intoxicating.

I was drunk, and not just on whisky. On fury.

On freedom. On the sheer need to feel something that wasn’t Fintan’s cold fingers wrapped around mine like shackles.

I had just stepped off the dance floor with him, stiff and miserable, when a waiter passed with a tray of drinks.

I snatched a whisky glass without hesitation and threw it back, letting the burn scorch my throat.

I hissed through my teeth as I set it down, the empty glass clank sharply against the silver tray.

“Divine, Elara. You’re being crazy.” Fintan spat. My eyes shot daggers at him. I hated him at that moment.

Then I caught Zayn’s eyes from afar, leaning back in that infuriating sexy way of his, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in a knowing, amused smile. Like he’d been watching me the entire time. Like he could see straight through me.

“You might want to tone it down a little,” Fintan muttered beside me, voice low and sharp. “People are watching, and you already stand out enough. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

Tone it down. Seriously?

I turned to him slowly, my lips parting in disbelief.

Without a word, I stepped away from him and back on that dance floor, and let the beat pulse through my limbs.

I slid into the center of the floor, no partner, no purpose but defiance—and something in me snapped free.

Even my emotions had an echo in so much space.

I danced.

Not the stiff, controlled steps everyone here had mastered.

No, I moved—my hips rolling to the beat, my hands gliding over my own body like I wasn’t afraid of being watched anymore.

My fingers traced the deep cut of my dress, teased up the sides of my thighs, brushed through my pinned up hair as I pulled out the pin and let it fall wildly down my back.

The air in the ballroom shifted. I felt it.

Gasps echoed. Skirts rustled as women pulled back. Men blinked, stunned. They stepped away from me like I was a flame they couldn’t get too close to. And I burned hotter because of it.

I tilted my chin up.

Let them stare.

“You look sinful,” Zayn’s voice whispered through my mind, smooth as silk and dark as smoke. “Don’t you dare dim your shine for anyone, Peach. Let them see who you are. And my gods, if you keep dancing like that… I’m going to fuck you on that dance floor.”

His words rolled over me like velvet, and I let the music take over, hips swaying, body unrestrained, unladylike, unapologetic. My movements became smoother, more seductive, the rhythm guiding every twist of my waist, every bend of my knees. I was electric. I was alive.

Then, laughter. Makar.

Like the wonderful friend he is, he sauntered onto the dance floor, winking at me as he matched my pace, his moves exaggerated and playful but just as suggestive.

He twirled around me like we were both drunk on rebellion, his hand skimming the air near my waist without ever touching.

Our bodies moved in tandem, flirtatious and bold—but not romantic. Just fun. Wild.

Then Kalista joined. In her flowing blue gown, she mimicked me perfectly—mocking the nobles with every unrefined, exaggerated sway of her hips.

She tossed her hair and laughed loudly, her cheeks flushed with mischief.

The three of us danced like we were the only ones alive, unashamed and unafraid.

Eventually, the crowd began to breathe again.

They looked away. They started to dance too, awkward at first, then easing back into the normal rhythms.

But Zayn…

Zayn stepped onto the floor like he owned it.

He moved through the crowd without a word, his eyes locked on me with a heat that made my knees threaten to give.

I didn’t wait. The moment he was close enough, I reached out, planting my hand against his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt.

I let my fingers trail down slowly—down his torso, over his abs, until I reached his belt, then let my hands glide back up as I shimmied against him, teasing him with every movement of my body.

He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “How does a woman so innocent have such dangerous hands?”

I smiled at him, teasing his waistband with my fingers, and said, “Perhaps I’m not as innocent as you think.” I turned around, pressed my back to his chest, and rolled my hips into him—slow and deliberate.

Zayn moaned behind me, his grip snapping tight around my hips. His mouth dropped to my ear, his voice a low growl. “You keep moving like that, Peach, and I’m going to drag you out of here and make you scream my name so loud, the stars will blush.”

A sharp, breathless noise escaped me—half laugh, half moan. Then the music changed—softened—slowed into something tender and aching. The ballroom calmed with it. Zayn turned me gently in his arms, one hand still resting at my waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“Dance with me, Peach,” he murmured, all fire and velvet. “Just us this time.”

He drew me into him, one hand resting low on my lower back, the other guiding mine to his shoulder.

We were the only ones in black, surrounded by a sea of frost and snow and carefully polished elegance.

But we moved like we were born for it. Like fire wrapped in shadows, swirling across a frozen world.

I felt the electricity between us—alive and pulsing.

It hummed beneath my skin, crackled in my fingertips, sang in my blood.

And in that moment, I wasn’t hiding anymore. I was seen.

Zayn and I danced a few more times, completely out of sync with the rest of the world, like the music played only for us.

I caught a glimpse of the queen near the far end of the ballroom.

Her expression was carved from stone, her disapproval sliced through the room like a winter wind.

I lifted my chin higher and ignored her.

“Let her look.” He said silently, his eyes looking deep into mine.

“She hates me. She wants me to marry the prince.”

“Do you? Do you want to marry the prince?” His tone shifted to something possessive.

“No. I do not.” I said out loud.

“Good.” He smiled.

“How are we able to do this? Talk to each other through our minds?”

“I’m not sure, Peach. But I like it.”

“Me too,” I smiled.

The music stopped mid-beat, a haunting silence swept across the ballroom like a held breath.

Couples paused mid-dance. Laughter died.

A thousand eyes turned toward the grand staircase where King Aymon now stood, draped in deep blue and silver, his gold crown gleaming beneath the chandelier light.

“Thank you all,” he began, his voice booming with practiced authority, “for being here tonight, to celebrate unity, tradition, and strength.”

Zayn tensed beside me. Then he grabbed my hand, he was leading me off the dance floor, toward the shadows along the side wall. We stopped near one of the tall windows, half-concealed behind a curtain. His grip on me didn’t loosen.

Aymon’s voice rang out again. “For years, we have endured the threat of Fae aggression. We’ve tolerated their existence in the shadows. But the time for tolerance has passed.”

A cheer rose from the crowd—one that made my stomach twist.

“We will reclaim our lands,” Aymon continued, “and remind the Fae what it means to trespass on human soil.” Another roar of approval.

I stood frozen, lips parted, heart pounding, as heat surged beneath my skin.

“And thanks to the brilliance of our blacksmiths,” Aymon said, gesturing toward a servant who carried a velvet tray, “we now hold one of the keys to their destruction. The other, remains a secret.”

The servant unveiled a thick silver-and-iron neck cuff, gleaming under the torchlight like something from a dungeon. “With this,” Aymon declared, lifting it high for all to see, “we will strip the Fae of their magic. Bind them. Break them. And then…” He smiled. “We kill them.”

The cheers that followed were deafening. Gleeful. Violent. Applause thundered through the marble floor as nobles raised glasses in celebration—of murder.

My hands trembled.

The hum beneath my skin grew louder—my magic reacted to my fury, to the injustice, to the sheer horror of the moment.

I felt like I was going to explode, fire and air and earth twisting through me with nowhere to go.

Across the ballroom, Eryn stared at me, her lips pressed into a hard line.

Gavrin’s brow furrowed in quiet disbelief.

Makar’s usual smirk was gone—replaced by something colder.

And even Kalista looked shaken as her eyes flicked between Zayn and me.

Zayn leaned in, his voice barely a breath against my ear. “We need to get out of here.”

But I couldn’t look away from Aymon. Couldn’t unsee the iron cuff, couldn’t unhear the cheers. “I want to see my father,” I said, jaw tight.

“Elara—”

“I need to see him.”

He didn’t argue. He just nodded once, jaw clenched, and took my hand again. As the celebration continued behind us—bloodthirsty and blind—I walked away from it all, hand in hand with Zayn.