The Betrothal Ball

A silver chandelier dripped light through the marble floors. This room has always been a trap for people dressed in fancy clothes. Tonight, all eyes were upon me.

The mirrors extended every flicker of the candles into numerous reflections, and people became a labyrinth of bright fabrics and faces hidden away.

The sweet scent of perfume lingered in the air, gardenias warmed by glass walls, wax from the fresh candles, but something else, something grittier, something pricier, buried underneath.

At the door, I stuck to my mother and father, holding my hand on my father's sleeve.

I could see that he was shaking, but just slightly.

Leaned in, voice almost husky, touched nothing at my hairline. Secrets spilled from her words. Walk tall. Keep your face gentle. Our name means something. Tonight is important. Ahead of most nights

The minute it occurred. That split second they handed me to the wolf so casually.

The fabric clung like a shadow, deep and motionless. The wavering light made it less harsh - a deep lake of water that held its breath. All around me, things muted, sucked down into its depths. The observation was weird, but inescapable.

That was when he came into view.

A figure near the stairs gathered all the attention like a magnet pulls smoke. With a red that was almost black as if it soaked up the light, like spilled beverage on oak floors, his head tilted toward the ceiling as if laughing at the words of an old woman. The room leaned toward him as if bending to see inside. Victory rested upon his shoulders as if they'd long known each other.

Something caused him to look up, perhaps because he felt he was being watched. He locked his eyes on mine without urgency. The shape of his mouth didn't change, but became intent, like a knife being honed to cutting edge. That grin was from something that hunts. His head subtly nodded down to discourage the presence of everyone around. He started walking without pushing but simply moving while everyone else got out of his way.

His grip tightened, pressing hard against mine. "Hold on, Paige," he whispered, his words full of something that didn't make sense - maybe pride, maybe sadness, maybe fear.

Then Christian appears, and the rest of the world just melts away. My hand shifted from my father's arm to his. There, warmth greeted me, a dry and constant heat. He held me firmly, leaving no question.

“He said this loudly, addressing people around him, not just me. His future wife, who was standing there with him. ‘ Wasn’t she glowing,’ he asked, his eyes taking in the group around him? ‘Just like light reflecting off water at dawn’”

A silence fell, gentle nods spreading through the audience. Up went our hands, as if in evidence of something. And then—his thumb began its journey. Sliding slowly across my knuckles, cool and jagged. Not gentle, but as if tracing what he believed to be his own. Frozen in place, as if a chill had settled within me and refused to leave.

Voices closed in on me, hazy, each cheer an empty sound. Arm trapped against Christian's, fingers locked against the fabric of his coat. Words leaked out anyway, smiles plastered, head nodded on cue.

     The action passed in silence, only movements in sequence.

There was something in the mist that was not distinct, but definite. It drew my gaze like a snag in fabric. While all the other faces blurred together into chatter, that shape remained distinct.

A figure held back by the glass wall, staring into the darkened trees. That was Duke Wingknight.

A hiss escaped me, my breath exhaling in wisps of smoke.

But that book didn’t even come close in describing what he looked like. Not just attractive, but he came at me like a shock. Littering the crowd, he towered over everyone but me, and then just by a head. He moved as if he were something wound very tightly, like he was at all times perfectly comfortable. In sharp black and black metal. Not a thing out of place, not a hint of playfulness in his outfit. Sober black hair swooped back from his forehead, as if something intense lay behind his eyes. Not soft, as if molded from hard light and stone. All angles. The one thing about his nose said nothing would ever give, never yield. The line of his jaw as if shattering what touched it.

The thing that caught me, though, are those eyes. From across the room, they tugged at something within. The warmth of them, shining like a spotlight, cutting through candlelight like they were substantial. Not on the music, not on the talkers. He searched each face, one by one, as if a calculating mind observed everything but felt nothing. A chess player sees the board, a big cat watches the cows move slowly across the pasture, unconcerned.

Then, as if my look carried meaning, his wide-open eyes froze. Just then, they locked onto me.

Then all sound stopped. A strange pair of eyes caught mine. Not an inkling of recognition, or the spark men so often exhibit. His eyes remained keen, far-off, almost analytical, like someone studying the chess piece that had suddenly changed on its own. There was the dark cloak, the tight hold of Christian on my arm, the helpless look that I couldn't hide. The whole pathetic sight was before him.

Just like that, his eyes shifted, neck turning towards the stiff figure standing by his side. He spoke low, and it was directed at the man who led him: Captain Alex Starwood. I became nothing. Just a fleeting presence that faded into nothingness.

A shock wave passed through my body when he walked away. It had nothing to do with pain. To do with something more acute. It was obvious to everyone in the room what my role was in their agenda, something tidy and predictable. But he? He sensed how the situation really was.

His fingers dug deep into my arm, and Christian’s grip was strong even under his smooth skin. The pain flared quickly, severing whatever strange connection we had made just moments ago.

His whisper is close to my ear, gentle but low, as if his grin could stand frozen on that audience of watchers forever. Sweet wine breath clung to his words. “Stay with me, love. And this is just for us.” Slow and sweet, he'd whispered “Stay with me, love”

"A twist occurred under his control, hard as metal. A baron got a tilt of his head. Closer he came, with biting breath. His smooth face dropped. What appeared next held poison, formed like words that only I could understand."

A whisper - soft, but edged beneath. His smile like that? An warning veiled in satin. He fell silent long enough for the silence to weigh heavy. Enjoying my reaction was fun for him. Watching me take a step back, yes. Then again, quietly, “Soon you’ll be mine.” Each word dangled from his lip like a tendril of smoke. Not love. Control. Family troubles with money? Toys now, in the palm of his hand. All of them. Dad’s suffering? Money. Fuel. Evidence He stepped back and left room for him to have his view of this pale wash across my skin while his quiet triumph settled into his features. He ceased talking, the words escaping him in hushed whispers beneath crashing chords. I belong to me, he was saying. His eyes held mine without drifting from their trajectory. And in that instant, everything altered An eruption of music burst forth in the air, bright and loud. Laughter began rippling among people who remembered something old. All things continued moving, as they always do. There I was, planted right in the middle, fingers crushed by my promised one, the Duke watching without care, his stare stuck inside my head. That cage door slammed shut—it rattled in me, vibrating further than any note that orchestra was playing.