Chapter nine: The Dance.
The ballroom glowed with candlelight, glittering like the mouth of a jeweled beast.
Whispers coiled between nobles like smoke. Eyes followed Elira wherever she moved, not with admiration—but with calculation. Curiosity. Hunger.
Lucien had kept her close, one step behind his shoulder as if she were an ornament he did not care to flaunt, yet refused to set down.
The music shifted—deeper now, richer. A call to the floor.
Then the herald's voice rang out like a blade drawn across silk:
"A waltz, in honor of House Vaelric."
A low murmur swept the court. It wasn't just a request—it was expectation. Display. Dominance wrapped in grace.
From across the ballroom, the crowd parted like a curtain drawn by invisible hands. Elira stood at the edge of the marble dance floor, stiff in her spine, her fingers cold. The collar burned gently around her throat—a warning.
Lucien extended a gloved hand toward her.
"Elira," he said, voice dipped in shadowed velvet, "you will dance with me."
Not a question. A command.
Eyes were already on them—rows of crimson, sapphire, and gold. Vampires in silks and polished obsidian, half-masks and jeweled collars. Predatory grace behind polite smiles.
She met his gaze. His expression was unreadable, aristocratic calm over something colder.
"You intend to parade me like livestock again?" she murmured.
His jaw flexed.
"Would you prefer I left you to Alric's attentions?"
Her spine straightened. Reluctantly, she placed her fingers in his hand.
His grasp was firm, gloved, and warm through the silk. He led her with minimal pressure, yet every step he took bent the room to his will. As they joined the center of the floor, the musicians lifted into a slow, haunting waltz—some ancient court melody older than the manor itself.
They began to move.
Lucien guided her in a slow rotation, his hand at her waist a mere breath of contact. Yet it tethered her with startling precision, controlling the space between them—dangerously close, yet never crossing into intimacy.
"You're stiff," he murmured near her ear, his breath cool. "Relax your shoulders."
"I would," she said, "if I weren't being used like a pawn on your chessboard."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips—bitter and amused.
"You always think everything is about you," he said. "Tonight isn't about humiliation, Elira."
"Then what is it?"
"Control."
She faltered. His hand steadied her mid-step, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly.
"Not yours," he added. "Theirs."
They twirled again, crossing through a shaft of moonlight cast from the stained-glass arch above. For a breathless second, the collar around her neck shimmered violet.
"You've made them afraid of you," he said. "But fear isn't enough. Not in a court like this."
He dipped her slightly—only just—before pulling her upright again.
"You want answers? Then learn to wield attention. Let them see you, but never know what you're thinking."
"Like you do?"
Lucien tilted his head faintly, the gleam in his eyes unreadable. "I was bred in courts like this. You were born to be swallowed by them."
She glared up at him, heat flooding her throat. "Then stop throwing me to the wolves."
The waltz swelled.
"You're not thrown," he said coldly. "You're placed."
He pivoted smoothly, and now they moved across the outer edge of the floor. Every noble's gaze followed them—some with hunger, some with suspicion. Seraphine Duskmoor raised a glass, lips curved in mocking amusement. Lord Cairos Vanthe, beside her, ran a hand through his silver hair, eyes narrowed as if already plotting her demise.
The steps were slow, methodical, and tense. But somewhere between the glances and the rising music, Elira's feet began to follow the rhythm—not just of the waltz, but of Lucien's unspoken dance with power.
"You hate this," she whispered.
"Of course," he said. "But I hate weakness more."
His voice, low and edged, brushed her neck like the sweep of a dagger.
I respect the game," Lucien murmured. "But I do not care for the players."
"You parade me like a trophy. Then glare when others look."
His eyes met hers fully. Mask Off. No veil.
"I did not bring you here to be wanted," he said. "I brought you here to be seen
"And if you're going to survive under my roof, you'll learn to make your enemies bow with nothing but a look."
She glanced up. His face was carved in moonlight, the edges harsh, aristocratic, yet hauntingly beautiful. Not soft. Never soft. But the kind of beauty that left bruises.
The final refrain echoed, slow and mournful. He spun her—once, twice—and brought her in close for the last beat. The space between them disappeared.
The moment hung.
Elira's breath caught in her chest.
Then, with precise finality, he let her go.
As the final note rang out, the court resumed its breath—chatter rising like ripples across the ballroom.
Lucien stepped back, releasing her hand with the cool grace of a man finished with a weapon. Yet his gaze lingered on her, something unreadable flickering beneath the frost.
Something had shifted.
Not just in the way the nobles looked at her—with new interest, veiled caution—but in the way he looked at them. As if their presence now required calculation.
And… in the way he looked at her.
Before she could gather her thoughts, a flicker of motion caught the corner of her eye.
Her head snapped toward it.
A face.
Standing half-shrouded in shadow near one of the marble pillars. Dressed plainly. Tall. His eyes—burning blue, impossibly familiar.
Something in her chest stilled.
Calen?
She took a step forward—blinking once.
Gone.
The space where he'd stood was empty, swallowed by the shifting crowd.
"Elira."
Lucien's voice cracked across the noise like a whip. She turned sharply.
His eyes were on her. Cold. Alert.
"You saw something," he said. Not a question.
"A man. Watching me."
His expression sharpened. "Describe him."
"I… I didn't see enough."
Lucien's face closed like a door. His voice returned, hard as stone. "Enough for tonight."
"But—"
"We leave."
He turned and began walking—expecting her to follow.
And though every part of her still trembled with the memory of that vanished face, Elira obeyed, her pulse echoing like footsteps down a long, dark corridor.
Somewhere, someone knew her.
And that was the most terrifying thing of all.