"Are you mocking me?" Prince Reuben bellowed, his voice echoing off the gilded walls of the tea room.
His eyes, dark like the raging storm and blazing with indignation, bore into Lara. For a fleeting second, her delicate features, radiant in the torchlight, seemed untouched by fear, caused him to falter. But her beauty did nothing to temper his wrath. How dare she? Even if she was the daughter of a general, she was still ranks below the prince—a common girl stood before royalty with such impudence?
Lara didn't flinch.
Instead, she lifted her chin, unshaken by his fury. Her voice was calm, smooth as silk, but beneath it lay the steely core of someone who would not be broken. "I am not lying, Your Highness. Those moves were taught to me by my master."
Well, that master wasn't Jethru, but a ballet teacher that her father hired because he said ballet could make her body flexible.
