The chatter was lost, the clinking of glasses fading as eyes glued themselves to them like nothing else mattered. The air seemed to be still as they waited.
Zalthor's gaze flashed with something—so brief it was almost missed—before returning to his usual composure. His lips curved slightly, barely there, but nothing reached his eyes. It was as though the hall itself was holding its breath.
Zalthor stood.
He walked down the steps, his eyes remaining locked on her defiant emerald ones as he moved. He reached her…
Then walked past her.
Yeara softly gasped as she turned her gaze…but there he stood, his hand stretched out.
"May I have this dance, Lady Yeara?" he spoke, his cold voice reverberating around the hall so clearly that even the music had stopped.
Yeara smiled softly as she placed her hand in his softly before speaking, a small smile resting on her lips.
"Yes, you may."
Soft gasps echoed through the hall as they walked toward the center of the ballroom. The lights dimmed, now focused solely on them, all eyes watching.
Yeara's heart began to beat loudly. She did not know how she managed to walk all the way there— the sudden confidence that had surged through her diminished just as quickly as it came earlier. She knew all eyes were on her. She could not mess this up.
But what if….
Zalthor's sharp eyes rested on her as his hands moved to her waist, then he pulled her in swiftly. A soft gasp slipped from Yeara's lips one more before she could stop it, her eyes widening slightly as she stared at him. A slow, sinful chuckle left Zalthor, as Yeara's hands moved to his shoulders. She looked up at him, almost glaring.
The music started, and then they began to dance.
They moved in sync with the rhythm. Zalthor's hands wrapped around her waist possessively, pulling her closer. His rich, masculine bergamot scent drifted to her nose in the most pleasing yet spellbinding way. Her knees almost weakened as she sharply lifted her gaze to him.
"Why the glares tonight, wife?" Zalthor's baritone words rolled out slowly.
Yeara's legs faltered as she missed her footing. Expecting it, Zalthor held her waist, raising her up skillfully as he turned her. Her legs swung lightly, effortless—like a swan floating beneath the ocean's surface—before he set her down and the dance continued.
That did not miss the crowd's eyes, and surely they would learn and use it, for the king had just revealed a new step in the dance… only if they knew.
Yeara's heart thudded in her chest as her breathing quickened. The way he had said that word—wife—with such certainty, as though it was not the first time he had spoken it.
"D…do not…" she spoke, unable to meet his eyes. She steadied her voice as she moved in sync with him before adding,
"Do not call me that, Your Highness."
"Hm."
His cold hum sent a shiver through her. Her eyes drifted to his throat as his Adam's apple moved slightly.
She caught it—and she did not understand her sudden attraction to it at all. It shocked her more than she cared to admit.
"Erotic Her… is it?" Zalthor asked, his gaze locking onto her face.
Yeara's chest rose and fell at the mention of her book name.
He had seen it.
Her heart pounded loudly as her face burned with embarrassment.
"Who would think such an innocent young lady would read such…" He deliberately trailed off, allowing her to complete the sentence in her mind. Sinful glee swam in his gaze as his lips curled into a faint smirk.
Yeara's hands tightened on his suit as she pressed her lips together.
"What are you on about, Your Majesty? Perhaps you read such books as well?" she asked, lifting her chin defiantly, almost daringly.
Zalthor's body stiffened momentarily before a slow, predatory smile stretched across his lips.
"Interesting question," he said as he spun her, pulling her back against him.
"The proximity at which you pull me to yourself is surprising…if your wife were to see this, I am sure she would be very displeased," Yeara said deliberately. She wanted to see his reaction. She wanted confirmation.
Zalthor's smile widened.
Chills ran down Yeara's spine as she instantly regretted her words. His hands moved from her waist to her back, then up to the bare skin of her neck. Yeara's breath hitched in shock as he spun her again, his hands returning to her waist as he leaned in, lowering his voice.
"She seems pleased… very pleased."
He slowed his words intentionally, his deep tone turning huskier on the last part.
Yeara's chest rose and fell.
He was toying with her..
She could not believe this man was making her feel this way. Every touch, every look—her body was losing control, and she hated it. Was it because she had never been this close to a man before? Even from the first moment her gaze had landed on him, her body had felt strange in a way she did not understand.
"I see your parent must have already told you about my wish," he said.
Yeara gritted her teeth.
His wish?
This man truly dared to call it that—after already concluding matters with her parents.
"I do not wish to marry you, King Zalthor."
As soon as the words left her lips, the music slowed as if mocking her—then resumed its pace.
Zalthor chuckled slowly, his dark eyes fixed on her calmly, giving nothing away. His lips stretched wider, sinfully, as he spoke.
"Your memory is selective, I see."
Yeara's eyes widened at the backhanded insult. Then it dawned on her—what she had said to him the night before about marrying him. Her heart raced. She had shot herself in the foot twice now.
Zalthor drank in her expression, watching as realization dawned on her face.
Yeara tried to follow the music, moving her feet in sync, forcing herself to concentrate—but she couldn't. Not with his piercing gaze on her. She could no longer meet his eyes.
Finally, she lifted her gaze, locking onto his as her face hardened.
"King Zalthor," she said, her voice steady.
"Do you love me?"
Zalthor's body stiffened. His expression flashed with something unreadable. The way his name rolled off her lips struck him—she had never called him by his name before.
A brief silence passed.
Then he spoke.
"No."