Page 16 of Revert (The Royal Chronicles #4)

M y throat tightened, a knot of fear and frustration. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist—whether in warning or reassurance, I couldn’t tell. I stiffened at the touch and my mind whirled, a storm of half-formed fears. Did he already know? Had he known all along?

He had obviously been aware of my treachery that night in the dungeon corridor that had ended in blood, but I had no way of knowing how far back his knowledge reached. If this second chance had dropped me into a moment where he already suspected me, then I had been doomed before I ever began.

For now, I had no choice but to follow his lead. As he guided me through the masquerade, I studied him from the corner of my eye—his too-composed posture, the movements that were too precise, the tension coiled beneath every measured breath, a warning I didn’t yet understand.

My tangled thoughts were in such disarray that it took me a moment to realize he was leading me onto the dance floor. A very different kind of panic rose, almost as acute as the fear that my espionage had already been uncovered.

My pulse stuttered. “What are we doing?”

“What we’re expected to do at a ball: dance.”

“ Dance? ” My heart gave a sharp jolt, whether from fear or another emotion, I couldn’t tell.

For a fleeting, dangerous moment I let myself wonder why he would choose now, of all times, to offer me this unexpected romantic notice.

But the thought had barely formed before cold realization cut through: this was no spontaneous gesture, but a calculated move—a deliberate ploy to keep me from slipping away.

I would have to employ every skill at my disposal to win this game.

“Naturally. Isn’t this expected at a ball between two who are betrothed?” A hint of irony edged his voice as he kept a firm grip on my hand.

Perhaps for any other couple, but in five years of courtship, we had never fulfilled that particular duty.

I hadn’t minded that breach of expectation before—though I’d occasionally found myself imagining what a dance with my fiancé would be like—but now I wanted nothing less than to find myself in the arms of the man who had ended my life.

Still, the subtle deviations were enough to tempt my heart away from sense—the subtle protections and warnings I would do anything to explain away as strategy or manipulation, excuses spun from fear. And yet…

“You’ve never wanted to dance with me before now,” I said softly.

“Just because something was one way in the past doesn’t mean the future can’t be different.”

My breath caught at the words, the steadiness of his gaze on mine. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could possibly know the reason I was afraid of him. But no, that was impossible.

He noticed my frown and his voice softened, though it still carried that ever-present undercurrent of warning. “You could at least pretend to be willing, for appearances’ sake. You know my father is obsessed with appearances. I’d rather not give him any more reason to be displeased with you.”

The warning felt different from the one he’d subtly given after the tense confrontation with the king—less like a rebuke, more like an attempt to shield. “I can never tell whether you’re plotting with me or against me. You’re a man of riddles and contradictions.”

“And you, princess, are no different.” His eyes glinted faintly behind his mask.

“But I’ve been in court long enough to know how to conceal what matters.

You’re an expert in masks, traps, and puzzles.

I trust you’re clever enough to navigate this labyrinth.

” His voice lowered a shade further. “You’re currently calculating your movements under certain assumptions that make you reckless.

Everything here is an illusion. You would do well to learn which are real… and which will break you.”

Everything ? Did that include him and whatever strange, fragile thread tethered me to him in a timeline where everything felt wrong, and yet somehow terrifyingly right?

He extended his hand in silent invitation—not just for this dance, but the strange one we’d been participating in since my return.

My heart thudded as I stared at his hand, trying to puzzle out his meaning. Another test…or a genuine gesture? I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his expectant look that offered an unspoken challenge.

His fingers wriggled, almost teasingly as he seemed to be amused at my confusion. “Sometimes an invitation is just that; not everything carries an ulterior motive.”

“Does my suspicion bother you?” I asked.

“I would be more worried if you didn’t have the sense to be.”

He extended his hand again. Every instinct screamed that taking it was the opposite of what I should do, but perhaps deviation was exactly what I needed to change my fate.

He was inviting me to do the seemingly impossible and trust him—to look beyond the patterns I’d clung to and instead piece together the subtle clues he’d offered to make another choice.

With a wavering breath, I placed my hand in his.

A strange sense of déjà vu swept over me as his fingers enclosed around mine—a flicker of memory that wasn’t a memory at all of the first time our hands had touched—shy glances, secret smiles, the breathless thrill of his hand in mine…

images that shimmered and faded as quickly as they came, slipping away like a misty dream, as if they belonged to another life.

It felt as though the next moments unfolded around another Bernice, while I stood apart, a silent onlooker watching as the prince led me onto the dance floor and drew me into a waltz with a grace I had only ever seen from him in swordsmanship practice…and yet there was an aching familiarity to it.

Shyly, I lifted my gaze and found him watching me intently, as though trying to read my thoughts.

Flustered, I withdrew my hand, touching my hair in a flimsy pretense of checking it.

But the moment I lowered it, he seized it once more, his grip firm yet gentle.

Heat bloomed deeper in my cheeks, and I could only hope that my mask concealed at least part of the flush.

As we danced, I become acutely aware of his nearness within the quiet circle of his arms—the warmth of his hand at my waist, the careful pressure guiding me, the way his gaze lingered not just with calculation but with something quieter, almost protective.

For once, the air between us wasn’t charged with tension or terror, but with something softer—a tenderness I was afraid to name, let alone experience from him, leaving me dismayed at how far I had let things progress with my enemy…yet I made no move to stop it.

Unlike the lightly chatting couples around us, we danced in silence, though a strangely comfortable one, as though we didn’t need words in order to speak. I did my best to keep my eye on the stranger in the fox mask, but my gaze was repeatedly drawn back to my dance partner.

It took several orchestral measures and twirls across the marble floor before the prince finally cleared his throat. “You look…nice.” he offered, his voice far less certain than his usual cold confidence.

My eyes widened; in my astonishment I nearly missed a step. “I—thank you, Your Highness.”

“Your…” He hesitated, then nodded towards me, as though unsure how to finish the thought.

“Dress?” I supplied.

His face paled. “No! I mean…I was referring to your hair.”

I peered at him curiously, nearly missing the compliment in my confusion over his peculiar reaction over my attire.

“Thank you. My maidservant, Liora, is a skilled hairdresser.” I cast about in my mind for a polite return, but wasn’t sure admiring his clothing was the appropriate response.

“This is a lovely ball,” I finally managed. “The music is particularly nice.”

The prince nodded, his face unreadable behind its mask. “My father ensures that every detail is impeccable.”

I winced, realizing I’d complimented the wrong royal. I scrambled for anything complimentary I could say about my enemy. “You dance well. Do you practice often?”

Prince Castiel’s expression relaxed a bit. “Not lately, but as a young boy I quite enjoyed my dance lessons. They were rare moments that I wasn’t being drilled in diplomacy and governing. The moves remind me of swordsmanship, and came naturally to me.”

I found myself smiling as I listened to him. This was perhaps the first personal detail I’d learned about my fiancé, and it was both unexpected and strangely sweet.

“I can’t say that I was naturally graceful, but I used to dance with my brother while my sister played harpsichord.

” My throat tightened at the memory of my siblings I hadn’t seen in far too long.

I refused to allow myself to dwell on my ailing father, who had been too unwell to even write for the past several years.

For their own sake, I wished my family to stay far from Thorndale.

Yet a wave of homesickness passed over me as I recalled a more carefree time… before my betrothal had uprooted me.

To my surprise, I felt a small measure of compassion for Prince Castiel. While he held far more power than I did, he too was trapped in a dangerous game of performance and perfection. Neither of us could afford a misstep.

We fell silent again, lost in our individual thoughts.

Without the distraction of conversation, time had never seemed to pass as slowly as it did in that moment in his arms, a torture that, rather than unbearable, was almost pleasant , causing me to react in ways I was certain had never transpired in any timeline.

I had hoped one dance would be all I would be forced to endure, enough to satisfy appearances so I could retreat and create the distance I desperately needed to regather my thoughts as scattered as the steps we’d performed across the polished floor.

But to my surprise and quiet horror—at least I tried to convince myself it was horror—he didn’t let me go, but pulled me into another dance the moment the next song began to play.