Page 7 of Bound By Dance and Desire

Yes. My mother might be a problem. Unfortunately, she would probably be the least of them.

“You do know, my Lord, that when it becomes known you've begun a bond, the Court will challenge you.” Constin's quiet warning both chilled and inflamed the heat running through my blood. “They'll consider it a rite of passage, and your response either a demonstration of your fitness to remain Heir or a revelation of weakness. The humans have a word for it. Hazing.”

Which meant it was time to rally my forces both internal and external, and prepare for battle.

Be careful what you ask the Dark for.

It never responds the way you intend.

Chapter

Three

HASANNAH

Two Fae warriors were eye stalking me. One of the first warnings we'd been given in orientation was to never catch the eye of a warrior, especially not a Lord. A High Lord?

The city washed its hands of you.

Noone was willing to die trying to protect some stupid mortal from a High Lord.

I hadn't thought I'd have to worry about that. . .I kept my head down and focused on training while awaiting the start of the final audition. Why would a warrior, especially a Lord, ever be interested in a small-town human pushing thirty-one with a passion for dance, and more determination than sense? I'd assumed I'd be safe, even if my family assumed the exact opposite.

The Fae warriors stared.

Not both—and if the pointy ears and faintly glowing, uptilted eyes didn't give their immortality away, their postureand watchfulness would have. Humans couldn't achieve that motionlessness, not if they weren't trained in poise and control. I mean,Icould, but I was a ballerina.

My muscles tensed with energy that had nothing to do with dance and everything to do with discovering what it felt like to be stalked. Fear was a foreign emotion, but I understood it now.

The lean man in jade green leather armor glanced at me occasionally, but mostly his gaze focused on everything else. Piercing, restless, the posture of his tall, muscled body placing him in the supporting role to the man at his side.

The dark-haired one standing in shadows definitely being the principal of the pair, but unlike the blond next to him, all of his focus was on me.

Not. . .good.

The principal stood with trained poise and deceptive ease,hisposture saturated with enough authority he didn't have to flaunt it, and the offhand arrogance to match.

Principal dancers were usually a pain in the ass. Touchy, hyper-focused, standoffish and balancing on their own last nerve, all at the same time. If you were smart you observed from a distance.

Though of course with all that power came the downside. . .everyone from the corp to the first soloist would be plotting your downfall. Waiting for you to pull a hamstring or succumb to a stress fracture. Anything to take you out of the game.

The principal wore the Cassanian version of casual club wear; a fitted black sleeveless deep v tunic over fitted black pants and low heeled boots, a slight sheen to the fabrics. The tunic revealedthe sort of deceptively lean, natural musculature of dancers and athletes who conditioned their bodies without supplements. He wore a drape of silver chain at neck and wrists, and silver rings on one hand.

He stole my attention away from my dance, not that I was putting my all into it anyway. Street corner busking brought in extra coin and provided another opportunity to train while waiting for the showcase, but I conserved my energy.

He inhaled abruptly, eyes and nostrils widening, then moved towards me, his guard at his side.

Thatwasn't ideal. He strode with a gait I recognized, since one of the main jobs of any ballerina was to make our dancing look effortless while remaining flawless. The easier it looked, the longer and harder the training. He controlled his body, his pacing, used it as both a tool and weapon.

Like recognized like, after all.

I stilled when he stopped under the light of a street lamp that revealed black hair to be a deep emerald framing cool winter skin over sculpted bone structure.

Suppressing the urge to snatch up my bag and run, I glanced at the silvery fair blond at his side who met my gaze and grimaced, then continued ignoring me. No help would be coming from that quarter. Clearly, he’d understood my silent request.

“You dance like the wind,” the emerald haired man murmured, bright eyes intent.

A low, coaxing voice used on small children and feral kittens. A thread of unexpected warmth in it. . .but I couldn't tell if itwas the warmth of pleasure or the heat of anger. Maybe both. I wasn't a singer; I was a dancer.

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