Page 8

His heart pounded, thrumming louder in his ears as he staggered away, the taste of the drink still heavy in his mouth, a brief distraction that could never dull the edge of his panic.

I need to leave the country.

The thought crept in like a whisper, a dangerous temptation, but Thorne shoved it down immediately, like a weight pressing on his chest.

No, that wouldn’t work.

He had made it this far, hadn’t he? He couldn’t just turn tail now, not with everything he had sacrificed to be here, to do what he had come to do.

And besides, Kaelen had seen him—seen him without his mask.

That was when the cold reality of it hit him full force.

He’s seen me without my mask.

Thorne’s breath caught again, and a burst of heat flared in his cheeks, as if he could melt the very ice in the room with the intensity of his sudden embarrassment.

The realization punched through him, far worse than any blow or sword.

He knows me.

He’s seen me.

His mask, that crucial symbol of his identity, was gone, and now Kaelen had seen his face—had seen him.

A sense of nakedness, exposed, vulnerable, flooded him, the unspoken understanding hanging between them like a rope that had just been severed.

Fool.

Fool. Fool.

He could barely think straight as he tore a hand through his hair in frustration.

His fingers found his mask—still tucked into the folds of his clothing, that delicate thing made of feathers and gold.

He shoved it back on without thinking, grimacing as the feathers scratched against his skin.

The mask settled awkwardly on his face, a poorly made disguise, a cover for his panic.

His heart raced as his eyes darted around the room.

The ballroom had become a labyrinth of faces, eyes, and distractions, but Thorne’s mind was now focused on the truth: he had just walked into the lion’s den, and Kaelen had already caught his scent.

Somehow, he had made it to the far side of the room, beneath the mezzanine, the very spot where he had been just a few moments ago.

How had he ended up back here? How had everything come full circle so quickly, so thoroughly? He had moved, fled even, but had only circled back to the very beginning.

The distance he’d traveled felt like nothing.

Less than two hours ago, things had been so simple, the plan so straightforward, and now...now he was standing at the edge of his own failure.

Thorne started to pace.

His feet carried him back and forth beneath the shadow of the mezzanine, a small island in the sea of bodies, trying to find something, anything, to ground him, to calm the storm of panic raging inside.

He had to think.

He needed a plan, he needed—something—a way out of this mess, a way to undo what had already begun.

He took another swig of the champagne, the bubbles rising like tiny threats in his throat.

It didn’t help.

Nothing was helping.

His hands were shaking now, not just from fear, but from the realization that he was out of his depth.

So much of this had been out of his control from the start.

His eyes flicked up occasionally, scanning the crowd, desperate for a solution, for a way to outmaneuver what was happening.

His hand instinctively clutched at the hilt of his sword, as if the weight of it could anchor him to some semblance of control.

But what good would it do? Even crafted by a master, it was far from legendary, far from the weapon that could lay low a beast like Kaelen.

Thorne had read enough fairytales to know that nothing less than legendary would bring down something like Kaelen.

And they were deep within his territory now.

Kaelen was taking his time, but Thorne didn’t need to see the prince to know where he was.

The man, the beast in true form, slipped through the crowd effortlessly.

Even without his fangs, his presence was undeniable—impossible to miss.

A figure of power, of dark grace, slipping through the revelers like a predator among prey.

Once Kaelen had caught the scent of his quarry, there was no turning back.

He would never stop hunting.

He stopped to converse briefly with a woman, her hair pale as snow, tumbling down her back in waves of silken white.

Thorne couldn’t quite make out the words, but the small nod the woman gave, the graceful motion of her retreat, was enough.

Then, with a slight smile, Kaelen turned to the group that had followed him, scattering them with a mere gesture as they parted, heading in all directions.

The crowd had dispersed, like birds flying south or flowers seeking the sun, their movements orchestrated by a quiet, unspoken command.

The beasts of burden, the courtiers, the hounds of the court—they all bowed and scattered before their king.

And then, there was nothing.

No one between Kaelen and Thorne now. No distractions. No space. Only the sharpness of inevitability.

Their eyes met.

Thorne felt the air in his lungs freeze, as if the entire room had ceased to exist, all sound and motion melting away, leaving nothing but the two of them.

It was as if he were staring across a battlefield, a gossamer fog thick with smoke stretching between them, and the gleaming crystal of chandeliers catching the sunlight like the edge of a weapon.

Every instinct in him screamed to move, to run, to fight, but he was pinned in place by Kaelen's gaze.

The predator had found him.

A moment later, it was over.

The tension broke, and Kaelen began his approach, his steps sure and unhurried, a presence that seemed to swallow the space around him as he drew nearer.

"This is my victory, then?" Kaelen’s voice was calm, almost too casual, with that tiny, almost banal smile playing at the edges of his lips.

But the flicker of mischief in his pale blue eyes—eyes so clear, they almost seemed to shine—betrayed the amusement lurking behind his words.

And Thorne, who had been anticipating this moment, was still somehow struck breathless, as if the sight of Kaelen in the flesh, this version of him, was something he hadn’t been ready for.

The Prince of Erethos, a divine warrior stepping out from some forgotten myth, was nothing like the beast Thorne had expected.

He stood before him now like something carved from sunlit stone, a figure that commanded attention even in a room full of courtiers.

The dark elegance of his attire, the way it clung to his form, was a stark contrast to the pale light of his eyes, as if he were a celestial being dressed in shadows.

His presence was overwhelming, almost divine.

Thorne felt his heart falter, the weight of everything bearing down on him all at once.

He swallowed hard, fighting to keep his composure, but his body betrayed him—his heartbeat trembling, rabbit-weak in his chest.

Even as anger began to flicker inside him, it was drowned out by a sense of awe he couldn’t shake.

"You!" Thorne’s voice cracked with frustration, a futile attempt to assert some control over the situation.

"I—I didn’t—"

"I did not mean to deceive you," Kaelen interrupted with a shake of his head, his tone laced with a surprising note of sincerity, though his smile shifted—unsettlingly quick, like a hastily hung painting falling from a wall.

"I’m sorry.

I simply assumed that with how extravagant my costume was, everyone would know it was me.

I wasn’t trying to hide from you, I swear it."

Thorne recoiled, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

How could he have been so blind, so foolish, to not see through Kaelen’s disguise? The realization hit him like a fist, a punch to the gut that knocked all the breath from his lungs.

All this time, he had been walking into Kaelen’s world, moving deeper into a game he had no hope of winning, and it had all been orchestrated from the start.

Kaelen took another step toward him, trying once again to catch his eye, but Thorne turned his head away sharply.

He sought refuge in the shadows of the mezzanine, the familiar dark space offering him a temporary solace.

He was cornered now, there was no denying it, but he couldn’t let Kaelen see him cower.

Not now.

Not when everything felt so... wrong.

“Hmph.”

Thorne’s voice was barely a whisper, caught between frustration and something else he couldn't name.

The prince paused before him, close enough now that Thorne could feel the weight of his gaze, like an invisible thread pulling taut between them.

“I really do apologize.

Are you upset with me?”

Kaelen’s voice was rich, smooth, and unexpectedly soft, carrying with it a note of something—something that sounded almost mournful.

It stirred something in Thorne, something fraught and yearning, something horribly at odds with the cold, sharp reality of the six knives hidden within his clothing.

Each blade seemed heavier now, like a mockery of the man before him, this prince turned predator.

“No.”

Thorne’s voice was firm, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty.

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

He risked a brief glance at Kaelen.

Kaelen caught it, of course he did.

His smile widened, just a little bit more this time, a little less hesitant, like the pieces of a mask falling into place.

He tilted his head, that gesture so strangely disarming.

It felt almost natural now that he wasn’t the beast in the shadows.

“I’m glad,”

he said, his tone almost lighthearted, but with something else in it—something that made Thorne’s heart beat a little faster despite himself.

Thorne scoffed, rolling his eyes as he fought to hold onto whatever shred of control he still had.

His grip on his sword loosened for a brief moment, only to clench again, tight as a vice.

He had to tether himself to reality.

He had to focus on the task at hand, not on the damn prince with his infuriating smile and the way his presence seemed to fill the room like an intoxicating drug.

“So…”

Thorne began, his voice sharp and biting as he drew out the word, trying to anchor himself in the moment.

He flexed his fingers around the pommel of his sword again, forcing himself back into the role he was supposed to play.

He was supposed to be a professional.

“If you’re the prince, who in the name of the gods had the authority to shut you in that beastly atrocity?”

Kaelen made a choked noise, his expression shifting in an almost bewildered way, before flushing a dainty pink that only made him seem more charming.

“My uncle, and an, ah, particularly enthusiastic tailor.”

Thorne snorted in disbelief.

“Tailors.

Wicked creatures, are they not?”

he muttered, tugging at his own lace with exaggerated derision, as if to punctuate his words.

It was an attempt to steer the conversation back to something—anything—he could control.

Kaelen’s gaze traced over him, and Thorne could feel it as a tangible weight, lingering on his throat and moving slowly upward, lingering just a bit too long before finally settling on his ears, which were, Thorne was certain, flaming red now.

"Perhaps," Kaelen said, still flustered, "But I think it looks dashing on you."

A strangled sound rose up in Thorne’s throat, his breath catching with the unexpected compliment.

He cursed himself for the flush threatening to creep into his own cheeks now.

He clicked his tongue, trying to steady himself, but the words escaped before he could stop them.

“I don’t trust your taste in anything.

You still left your room looking like that, uncle or no.”

Kaelen’s smile faltered for a moment, and then his eyes glinted with something more playful.

“Then I don’t believe I trust yours much, either.

Save for weaponry, of course.”

Thorne shot him a look that could have been a dagger.

“You are a fool.”

Kaelen’s expression softened into something unexpectedly vulnerable, a shift from the mocking bravado that had been there before.

“Will you still do this fool the honor of dancing with him?”

he asked, his voice a little more hesitant now, as if there was a hidden sincerity behind the jest.

Kaelen’s gauntleted hand, black leather, black claws—like the very image of a beast’s offering—was extended toward him.

A beastly present, a prince’s peace offering.

The absurdity of it made Thorne’s chest tighten, and in a strange moment of clarity, he almost wanted to shove the man off a balcony.

He needed to push a dagger through his heart.

But the prince didn’t seem to notice the internal conflict.

His hand stayed there, waiting for Thorne to take it, offering a strange kind of peace even as the chaos of their circumstances swirled around them.

Thorne’s eyes darted from Kaelen’s hand to his face.

Bright, piercing eyes, eyes that watched him intently with the kind of focus that felt almost invasive.

His lips were pressed together, shy for their teeth, and there was something in the way he stood—something that exposed a vulnerability Thorne hadn’t expected.

The warmth in Kaelen’s cheeks had nothing to do with the cold of the evening.

It was there because of Thorne.

The prince, the mighty predator, stripped of his confidence, standing before him as if asking permission to move forward.

Thorne’s heartbeat fluttered again, far too fast, the rhythm wild and unsteady in his chest.

All the confidence Kaelen had shown in his pursuit of Thorne, in his game, had been stripped away at that moment.

The hunter now stood bare, a prince before a ballroom, a beast at the edge of a wood, still asking for approval.

Thorne’s mind screamed at him to refuse, to walk away, to rip his hand from Kaelen’s grasp and to end it now.

But something—something deeply rooted in the madness of this night, in the strange tension between them—made him reach out.

His fingers brushed against Kaelen’s, tentative at first, before he allowed himself to fully take his hand.

And just like that, he was being led, willingly or not, out onto the dance floor.

The music swelled around them, the cacophony of the ballroom fading into a distant hum as the world seemed to narrow down to the two of them.

The eyes of the other couples followed them, the envy in their gazes palpable.

A prince and a southern stranger—no one batted an eye at two men being close in Tarvela, yet in this particular moment, amidst all the spectacle of the night, Thorne realized just how much their pairing stood out.

Perhaps the climate wasn’t the only thing Erethos seemed intent on fighting.

Perhaps the rules of propriety, of what was allowed and what wasn’t, were even more deeply ingrained in the people than the winds or the land itself.

Well, Thorne thought as he moved, eyes cutting sideways to his partner.

It was hardly proper to dance with a man before you murdered him, but here they were.

For all his concern, Kaelen’s hand never wavered in Thorne’s, guiding him with a surety that Thorne could hardly comprehend.

The warmth of his touch—steady and constant—pressed through the barrier of their gloves, seeping into Thorne’s skin, making him want to clutch just the barest bit tighter, a desperate grasp to keep himself anchored in this strange, volatile moment.

It was a pull, something subtle yet undeniable, a tether that kept him from floating away into the maelstrom of his own thoughts.

They found a suitable space among the other dancing couples, and Kaelen turned fully to face him.

Thorne’s breath caught in his throat, a sudden, weighty tightness settling there.

No recourse now.

No excuses.

No turning away.

The space between them had already been eroded, and now it was only the two of them, drawn into the middle of a grand performance neither had fully prepared for.

Kaelen shifted his grip on Thorne’s hand, cupping his folded fingers gently within his own, his palm warm and solid against Thorne’s skin.

He raised their clasped hands parallel to their shoulders, the motion smooth and practiced.

The other hand came to rest at Thorne’s waist, fingers pressing lightly into the hip bone, holding him with the precision of an instructor who had long mastered the art of guidance.

The position felt like it had been forged in some ancient dance, something sacred and old, a rhythm that Thorne had never known he needed until now.

The closeness was overwhelming, the air between them thickening with every breath.

Thorne’s own hand, almost as if compelled by some outside force, moved upward, finding Kaelen’s shoulder.

His fingers splayed out on the strong muscle there, feeling the warmth and solidity of Kaelen beneath the layers of his finely crafted finery.

Less than half an arm’s width between them.

It was the closest they had ever been, and the realization hit Thorne like a sudden gust of wind, knocking him off balance for just a fraction of a moment.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he swallowed, trying to steady himself, but the distance between them felt like an abyss he couldn’t cross.

Not without falling.

Drawn in by some ineffable pressure, Thorne’s gaze raked over Kaelen’s broad form, the powerful lines of his shoulders and the firm set of his body beneath the clothes that framed him like a masterpiece.

His waist tapered down in a line that almost took Thorne’s breath away.

He felt a sudden rush, like leaping off a cliff into the open sea, the fear and exhilaration mingling in his chest.

It was dangerous, this proximity, this closeness.

A soft chuckle floated down from above, warming Thorne’s ears, and the sound tickled in the back of his throat when he swallowed.

Kaelen’s eyes were fixed on him now, a clash of heat and ice—a look that made the world feel both impossibly close and achingly far away.

Thorne immediately looked away, his heart thumping in his chest.

He could feel his face flush, and Kaelen laughed again, the sound deep and rich, full of something far too tempting.

Thorne clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the swirling crowd around them, his gaze darting over their heads, anything to distract from the intensity of Kaelen’s gaze.

The prince was clever.

He’d led them deep into the crowd, away from the farthest edges where they would have been too easily seen, too easily scrutinized.

It was an innocuous arrangement, a stranger and a prince-to-be, blending seamlessly into the revelry, though the undercurrent of tension between them made it anything but.

Still, Thorne could feel eyes on them.

He saw the curious glances between arms, the fleeting looks from other dancers over their shoulders.

The glimmer of cool-toned finery, the rustling of laces, joined by gloved hands entwined as they stood together.

Most eyes flitted away quickly, too shy to stare, but a few lingered, brazenly watching them, and Thorne narrowed his gaze.

He didn’t recognize any of the faces, but he took note nonetheless, filing the observations away.

Turning his head to the other side, Thorne felt a sudden spike of panic shoot through him as his eyes landed on Eryndor Havenstead, a short distance away, impossibly conspicuous in his bright red attire amidst the more subdued, ultramarine hues of the Erethosian court.

Havenstead’s gaze was fixed directly on Kaelen, and Thorne could almost feel the heat of it, the intensity of the scrutiny.

He saw Kaelen twist slightly, catching sight of the gaze, and Thorne’s heart skipped as he watched Havenstead smirk, wink, and then turn his focus to his companion, a woman with a décolletage so low it might as well have been the only thing visible.

Thorne felt his hand on Kaelen’s shoulder tense, a subconscious reaction to the brief exchange, and he squeezed it unintentionally, his pulse quickening with the sudden flare of discomfort.

The suspicion that they were being watched—scrutinized—gnawed at him.

He was already neck-deep in this game, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

He didn’t like feeling exposed, especially when the stakes had just gotten much higher.

It seemed as though a single glance had already sealed their fate.

But just as quickly, the brush of blonde hair against his forehead snapped him from his thoughts.

The sensation was soft, followed by the comforting press of Kaelen’s temple against his own, his warm breath whispering against Thorne’s ear.

“I’ve got you,”

Kaelen murmured, the words low, steady, and somehow calming, as if he had sensed the sudden tension in Thorne’s body.

Kaelen drew him closer, their bodies aligning even more closely, and Thorne felt a strange pulse of warmth flood his chest, followed by the cool realization that he had been so easily led into this.

He couldn’t escape, not now.

But Kaelen, always the guide, started slow—his hand sliding up Thorne’s waist, over his shoulder, the crook of his elbow nudging Thorne’s own arm down until it settled on Kaelen’s waist, his fingers brushing against the fabric of his clothes.

Their hands, still clasped together, tightened ever so slightly, Kaelen’s grip reassuring, grounding.

And then, with the rising crescendo of the music, the conductor’s silver gloves lifting into the air, a single piano key rang out like a clarion call.

The music began, and in that moment, Thorne knew they were no longer just two men on a dance floor—they were two pieces on a board, moving inexorably toward something neither could quite control.