Page 53 of Fortress of Ambrose (House of Marionne #3)

It was time.

Yagrin was right. The ceremony was over quicker than she expected.

She recited the House creed and took her oath.

Her mother cloaked her in the House robes, and she rose as Headmistress.

And other than almost passing out when she stood to be applauded by the crowd, she’d survived.

When the ceremony finished, couples rushed to the dance floor, and she stuck Ainsley back to her side, asking her to please stay.

She scoped for a chance for escape. But every eye in the place was on her. One dance. She could stomach one dance.

Dancing partners lined up, her House’s finest and brightest ladies and gentlemen. But no one approached her. She didn’t approach them either. Instead she chewed her nail down to the nub. The thought of enduring their conversation, their questions, their touching, made the world swim.

“They’re waiting for you to choose,” her maid said. The music hung suspended in the air.

“Bring me him.” She pointed at Yagrin, who’d become a wallflower. Ainsley’s mouth pursed in thought.

“Forgive me for asking, Headmistress. But is he your person? Every Headmistress has a person. Even your mother—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

A single brow rose on Ainsley’s face.

Nore shifted on her feet. “That is not needed. I just, um, if I had a person, which I do not, it would make logical sense to be him. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes.” Ainsley’s lips puckered. “I think I understand.”

“Just get him for the dance.”

Her maid hurried off, and in moments Yagrin’s hand slipped into Nore’s for a promenade around the dance floor.

But when she pressed her body against his, holding him tightly, it stole her next breath.

They swayed as the melody of the song began, easy and soft.

Their chests were pressed so close, Nore could feel his heart beating for both of them.

“You’re nervous,” she said.

Hunger unfurled in his eyes as the tempo grew peppier. Nore danced like there was no one around them, following his feet, the direction in his hips. She got lost in the glee of the movement. It was easy. Everything was always so easy with him.

Yagrin spun her out, then back under his arm until her back hit his chest. His breath warmed her shoulder as he hugged around her for a four count. They swayed left to right, right to left.

When the refrain of the song called for their bodies to separate, it felt like another piece of her had been ripped away.

The song dashed to the finish with a skittering harmony.

His palm rested on the small of her back as they glided with the music from one step to the next.

As if she hadn’t just lived through the horrors of her brother trying to kill her and being locked in a prison as Headmistress for the rest of her life.

That was one of the things she enjoyed most about being with Yagrin.

The weight of her life at Dlaminaugh disappeared.

The moment the music stopped, Nore pulled away from him. But he held on to her fingers as they turned and bowed to the applauding crowd. Once the dance floor swarmed with other couples, she took her chance to leave, tearing her fingers out of his grip.

“Where are you going?”

“I told you.”

“I don’t understand. The dance. Did it mean nothing?”

“It was—” She exhaled. “A much-needed reprieve. Thank you, Yagrin.”

But the hurt in his eyes hadn’t faded. She turned to go.

“You told me you’d try to remember,” he shouted at her back.

“I am.”

He caught up with her. “You are not. You are running.”

“I am protecting you, Yagrin.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”

He did. Life had dealt him a crappy hand. He deserved love. And that was something she couldn’t give him. Letting him love her would only torture him in the end.

“There is no logical reason I should invite you back to my room.”

His teeth pulled at his lips. “So the thought crossed your mind, too?” He brushed the back of his hand gently across her reddening skin. It lit a fire inside her.

“Have a good day, Yagrin.” She didn’t look back.

She couldn’t. She wanted him, even if she didn’t feel an ounce of love for him.

Because she knew he loved her. And no one could ever love her more.

But it was selfish to take his love and not be able to reciprocate it.

When she fell into her bed, she begged for sleep and sweet dreams.

But they did not come.

The moon was high in the sky when the handle on Nore’s door shook.

She sprang to her feet. She’d been lying there glaring at her ceiling.

Yagrin’s audacity was almost admirable. She opened the door, but Yagrin was not on the other side.

Instead there were the two House Draguns escorting a fellow her age with auburn hair and eyes the color of emerald pools.

“Headmistress Ambrose.” The Dragun spoke. “Your final sacrament of coronation.”

Nore froze. The fellow stepped inside and shut the door. He bowed, then strode across her room, taking in the size of it. It wasn’t ornate, but for an Ambrose it was a masterpiece of hard, sterile architecture.

“I’m Vincent.”

“Vincent, I am trying to understand why you’re in my room.”

He huffed a laugh before pulling his shirt overhead, unveiling a carved body forged with much diligence. Then he grabbed the buckle of his belt and slid it off. Nore squeezed her eyes shut. And reopened them. But he was still there.

When he grabbed the zipper of his pants, she finally found words.

“What are you doing?”

He furrowed his brow, but Nore didn’t move, and his mirth faded.

He shifted on his feet. “Uh, I received a letter that I’ve been selected to further the House bloodline with the Headmistress.

To make an heir. It is a great honor, they explained.

A tradition created by a Headmistress a century ago, where the leaders of the House select the most astute genetic pairing for you to ensure the best possible heir.

I speak nine languages. I have mastered four strands of magic, but have never coveted interest in the brotherhood. I plan to continue my studies in—”

“Please shut up!” She pressed her temples. This can’t be. She paced in a circle. Nothing in her wanted to be Headmistress that badly. What would Yagrin think? He slipped down to his underpants and sat on her bed. She marched back to the door, but the knob didn’t turn. “I did not agree to this.”

“I don’t know what to say.” He stared, shocked. “I have a duty to make a child with you. I’ve signed an oath.”

She beat on the door. “Open this door! Ainsley? Get me my maid!”

But she remembered she’d sent her to bed early.