He plucked a second one from her bun. More hair slipped, loosening the style further, but he didn't hesitate. He used the second pin to secure the other side of the lace.
Then, with precise fingers, he twisted the two pins together where they crossed, turning them into a makeshift hook and bar.
He leaned in a fraction more, his breath warm against her bare shoulders.To tighten them properly, he brought the twisted metal closer to his mouth.
Elissa felt the ghost of his breath first—warm against her skin—then the faintest touch of his lips at her back as he used his teeth to press and bend the metal ends.
Her heart hitched, her breath catching in her throat.
"Alistair…" she whispered, the name slipping out before she could stop it.
Goosebumps rose along her shoulders and arms. Something fluttered low in her stomach—strange, new, and impossible to name.
"Be still," he murmured. "Just for a moment. Tell me if it feels too tight or too loose."
She only nodded, not trusting her voice.
He tested the fastening with a gentle tug, making sure the pins were secure yet wouldn't scratch her skin. Then, satisfied, he reached again into her hair.
This time, he plucked out one of the tiny pink flower buds.
Carefully, he tucked the stem between the pins he had twisted together, hiding their sharp ends in the flower's sturdy little stalk. The makeshift repair now looked almost intentional, like some delicate hidden detail of the gown.
In the quiet of that small space, only her uneven breathing could be heard under the distant music.
Alistair looked at her back for a moment longer: the smooth line of her spine, the soft curve of her shoulders, the pale skin framed by silk and falling hair. A thought flickered across his mind—to run his fingers down that bare line, just once.
His hand lifted slightly, hovering close, inches from her skin.
Then he pulled it back and reached for the remaining pins instead.
One by one, he pulled out more pins and tiny flowers from her loose bun. Each pin he removed let her hair fall more, undoing Martha's careful work but creating something softer, wilder.
"Alistair," she breathed, her voice low and shaky, "wh…what are you doing?"
He let his fingers glide gently through the strands as they fell, brushing against her neck and upper back.
"Trying to secure…" he said quietly, "everything."
Her heart thudded harder at the pause.
"So that nobody can see," he added, "the makeshift work on your dress."
When he finally let go, her hair fell almost completely down, dark waves spilling over her back and partly covering the open line of the gown. The curtain of hair hid the improvised pins and flower-bud hook, just as he'd intended.
Elissa had never felt like this before. Not this heat under her skin, not this strange weight in her chest, not this trembling awareness of every place he had touched—or almost touched. She couldn't even find a name for it.
He stepped back a little.
Slowly, she turned to face him.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, lips parted like she'd just run a long way. Embarrassment, relief, and something she refused to name swirled together in her expression.
"Now," he asked, his voice quieter, "is it good?"
She swallowed and nodded. "Yes," she said. "It feels… secure."
His face was calm, almost unreadable, but for a second she saw it again—that tiny spark of darkness in his eyes, something deeper, something he was holding tightly in check.
She blinked, and it was gone. His expression was smooth once more, distant and controlled, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.
Maybe I'm imagining it, she thought. Maybe I'm just nervous.
"Thank you," she whispered, bowing her head slightly. "If you hadn't come when you did…"
Her voice broke off.
The thought of what could have happened—stepping forward only for the gown to fall, standing exposed and helpless in front of the entire court—flashed hot and cruel in her mind. Her eyes burned, not with real tears, but with the sharp echo of that almost-humiliation.
Alistair's gaze softened just a fraction as he watched her.
"You're fine," he said quietly. "No one saw. No one will know."
He hesitated, then added, even softer, "I wouldn't have let that happen."
Elissa drew one last steadying breath.
"Come," Alistair said quietly.
They walked together down the short stretch of passage until they stood before the great inner doors. The music beyond was clear now, the swell of strings and the rhythm of dancing feet trembling through the floor.
He glanced sideways at her, studying her face for a heartbeat.
"Give me your hand," he said.
She blinked. "Wh–what?"
He offered his arm, composed and formal. "Hold on," he clarified. "If you go in alone after that little disaster, you'll think everyone is staring. This way, they'll be too busy wondering why we're together."
Her lips parted slightly. Somehow, that made it worse… and better.
Slowly, she slipped her hand through his arm. Her fingers curled lightly around his sleeve. The warmth of him under the fabric, the solidness, grounded her more than she wanted to admit.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she breathed.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "You'll do anyway."
The doors were opened.
They stepped into the great hall together.
Light burst around them—golden chandeliers, candles glowing in tiers, reflections dancing in polished metal and glass. Music filled the air, sweeping around the room like a tide. Guests turned, as guests always did, to see who had entered.
Kestrel's eyes found them first.
She had been scanning the crowd, clearly searching for Elissa. When she finally spotted her—on Alistair's arm, hair loose and falling in dark waves down her back instead of the careful bun she'd left her with—Kestrel's eyes narrowed.
Her gaze swept over Elissa's gown, the covered back, the flowers now mostly gone from her hair, then flicked to Alistair, then back again.
How did they end up together?
Why is her hair different?
What happened?
Questions crowded her mind, written clearly across her face.
But when Elissa's eyes met hers, Elissa gave her a small, tentative smile.
Kestrel's expression shifted in an instant. Suspicion faded to something softer. She smiled back—slower, more thoughtful, but genuine.
Across the hall, Vane and Dante were talking to a cluster of guests.
Vane spotted them first.
His brows shot up. "Huh."
Dante followed his gaze, and his eyes widened for a second at the sight of Elissa and Alistair entering together, side by side, her hand resting on his arm.
"Since when do those two arrive like that?" Vane muttered.
Dante didn't answer right away. He just watched, eyes a little sharper than before, as if trying to read some invisible script between them.
Lucius stood a little further in, speaking with a Duke family. His posture was relaxed, his princely smile easy, the perfect picture of charm and control.
Until his gaze drifted toward the doors.
He saw Alistair first.
Then he saw her.
Elissa. Beige gown glowing in the warm light, hair loosened into soft waves that spilled over her shoulders and back, hiding and revealing the open line of the dress by turns. Her cheeks still faintly flushed, her hand resting on Alistair's arm as if it belonged there.
Lucius's smile didn't vanish, but it froze.
His eyes narrowed just slightly, the smallest tightening at the corners. For a second, the polite mask slipped—just enough to show something sharp and unreadable flickering underneath.