Page 88 of Heir of Illusion

“I saw a familiar face,” he admits, surprising me. “One I’m not fond of.”

I open my mouth to ask who, but he spins us again. Before I can speak, I spot the Heir of Life standing next to the dance floor, scowling at us as he snatches a goblet of wine from a passing tray.

I arch a brow. “You don’t get along with Foley?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” he says.

The man in question guzzles down his wine, sparing one more sneer in our direction before delving back into the crowd, probably in search of another drink. “Well, it appears the feeling is mutual.” My nose scrunches as I lift my shoulders sheepishly. “Although, it’s possible his withering glare was directed at me.”

Amusement flickers in Thorne’s eyes. “And why would that be?”

I shrug. “I may have implied he was a sniveling brat.”

He barks out a loud laugh, catching the attention of several people around us. He ignores them all, keeping his warm gaze on me. “How?”

My cheeks heat. Probably from the wine I had earlier. “By calling him a sniveling brat straight to his face.”

A true smile stretches wide across his face, leaving me strangely breathless. “I would have paid good money to see that.”

We continue dancing, our eyes never straying from each other’s faces. I don’t even realize the dance has ended until I hear the crowd clapping. Startled, I step back and put a few feet between us. Thornes grip on me falls away as something flashes in his eyes, there one second and gone the next. The desire to understand it is strong, but we’ve already drawn too much attention tonight. Lingering any longer would be unwise.

“Excuse me,” I say, turning to flee.

I only make it a few steps before someone blocks my path.

“I would have been a better partner,” Foley slurs. It’s clear he’s been enjoying the libations a bit too much. “At least I can touch you without killing you.”

His hand moves toward my face, but before it can connect with my skin, Thorne is standing between us.

“I don’t believe the lady invited your touch.” His voice is low and gravelly.

Foley’s expression sours. “I’m sure I could persuade her.”

“You can’t,” Thorne growls.

Watching the two of them, I get the sense I’m only catching a small glimpse of their history. There’s animosity here that stems from more than just me.

“And let you have all the fun?” Foley says. “I’ve never known you to take an interest in anyone before, Killian. I must say, I’m curious how you became so close with Baylor’s pet.” His eyes drift back to me, lazily trailing over my exposed skin. “I never considered an alliance with him before, but if this is the kind ofbenefitthat comes along with it, I might change my mind.”

Thorne closes the distance between him and Foley, staring down at him with barely restrained rage. For a moment, I’m truly concerned for the young Heir.

“You don’t have the authority to make an alliance,” Cassandra’s voice cuts in as she joins our group.

I glance around, noticing that we’re drawing a small crowd of spectators. Bridgid’s pretty features are pinched furiously as she watches us. She’s likely pissed that our little scene has stolen attention away from her big night. My gaze flicks to the dais where Baylor stands. He appears calm as he smiles at something Selim has said, but when his eyes briefly shifts to me, I can sense the anger simmering there.

“You are neither God nor king,” Cassandra continues, her purple gown trailing behind her as she moves to stand directly between the two men. “An Heir should remember their place.”

“I will be a God someday,” Foley grumbles petulantly.

“Are you sure about that, Son of Eyrkan?” Her golden eyes simmer and swirl, as if she’s seeing beyond this room. When she speaks again, her voice is eerily soft. “The future is rarely set in stone.”

“At least my father’s realm is peaceful,” the Heir snaps. “From what I hear, the Fifth Isle is a sea of unrest.” He steps around the Goddess to address Thorne. “Losing support in your own kingdom, Killian? That why you’re cozying up to Baylor’s little pet?”

Thorne’s fists clench at his sides as he takes a step toward the Heir, who visibly blanches at their new proximity. His gaze drops to Thornes gloved hands, as if he’s suddenly remembering what those hands can do.

“Call her ‘pet’ one more time, and it will be the last word you ever speak,” Thorne warns, his voice barely above a whisper.

A muscle twitches along Foley’s jaw. With one more seething glare in my direction, he storms away, stomping like a child. An unlucky waiter has the misfortune of crossing his path and ends up pushed aside. His tray crashes against the marble floor in a heap of broken glass and spilled wine. I can’t help but think it resembles blood. Unease skates over my skin. Someone as irresponsible as Foley shouldn’t be inheriting any throne. He already abuses what little authority he has. I can’t imagine what kind of atrocities he’d commit with actual power.

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