Page 20 of The Immortal’s Curse (Bound to the Immortals #2)
DES
Every instinct, every ounce of discipline I’ve cultivated over the centuries tells me to walk away. To turn on my heel and vanish into the crowd before I hurt her… again.
But I don’t move.
How can I?
How can I walk away when she stands there, golden curls haloed in candlelight, her eyes the color of a sea I want to drown in. Smiling at me.
Just one dance, I tell myself. One taste of the yearning I’ve spent lifetimes avoiding.
It’s a mistake. I know it.
I step forward anyway and offer my hand. “Dance with me.”
Her beautiful smile brightens under the soft glow of candlelight. She places her palm in mine, and the contact shocks me. Like it always does.
My fingers close around hers, and I lead her toward the center of the ballroom, each step through the crowd a battle to remain composed.
Lome and Thane’s pointed stares pierce the center of my back, but I ignore them. Nothing matters right now—nothing but her.
We stop in the middle of the dance floor, and I draw her close.
My hand finds the curve of her lower back.
Her body fits against mine like we were carved from the same stone, separated only to be reunited here, now, beneath chandeliers dripping with firelight and illusion.
Our joined hands rise, and the music lifts around us, a slow number that thrums in my blood.
She moves like a memory. Like a dream I’d nearly forgotten but never truly let go of. I can barely breathe.
“Are you going to make conversation, Signore?” She asks, eyes twinkling behind her mask.
My voice is low with a slight tremble, “You are the one who approached me.”
A blonde brow lifts. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”
Hell no.
I twirl her in time with the rest of the couples.
When she’s back in my arms, she speaks again, “Is this your first Carnevale?”
“No. Yours?” Another twirl. I pull her back in close, closer than I should.
“My third,” she answers, the words laced with bitterness. “And if my betrothed has his way, my last.”
A searing pain scorches my insides. My nostrils flare, and it takes all the self-restraint I possess not to whisk her away from this palace. From this city. From everything she’s ever known until she is well and truly mine.
I force my features into the impassive mask I’ve mastered over the centuries. When she doesn’t rear back in fright, I assume I succeeded .
I scan the sea of lace and satin around us. “And where is your… betrothed ?”
Creator help me, I yearn to watch the mother fucker burn.
“Not here.” The beauty replies. “Thank the Saints.”
I drop my gaze. A flicker of haunting flares in those stunning eyes.
And I know, without asking, the betrothal is not one she wants.
From the expensive gown she wears to the fine jewels dripping from her earlobes, it’s apparent she’s a member of the upper class. This marriage is undoubtedly arranged.
Once again, the urge to steal her away threatens to consume me. But I resist. That is not why I’m here tonight.
We spin and separate, gliding around the couple dancing towards us, before reuniting once more. Again, I bring her closer than I should. Especially now that I know she’s a taken woman.
But she’s meant to be mine.
I shove the thought away. At least, I try. But the electric sparks emanating from her touch make it nearly impossible.
“Do we know each other, Signore?”
You have no idea.
“No, Signorina.”
“And yet…” Her eyes glint through her mask, full of mischief and mystery. “I cannot help but feel we’ve met before.”
Her recognition is equally painful and joyous. I need to end this before I do something that destroys us both.
She spins again, and for a moment, it looks as if the silk of her gown wraps around us like mist when I draw her in. Her chest rises against mine, breath shallow and quick, as the orchestra’s notes dwindle.
Creator, I want to kiss her.
But I don’t.
Instead, I drop my arms, fisting my hands to keep from reaching for her again. “I have to go.”
Disappointment flashes across her face. “Oh.”
I take a step back .
She counters with a step forward. “You never asked my name.”
“This is Carnevale.” I take another step back. “No need for names.”
Her lips twitch with amusement, but her disappointed stare remains. “Thank you for the dance, Signore.”
“The honor was mine, my flower,” the endearment slips from my lips without thought. I pinch my lips together and spin on my booted heel.
My soul claws against my ribs as I force myself forward, weaving through the whirl of masked couples in their gilded silks and jeweled finery. Laughter and music crash around me, too bright, too loud.
Every step away from her is a wound splitting open, a betrayal I feel in my bones.
Everything I am yearns to return to her, but I can’t.
My contact waits in the shadows. And if I stay a moment longer, I will undoubtedly doom the one person I swore to protect—the one soul I desperately want, but Creator knows, I will never be able to have.