Page 23 of Revert
“I’ll accompany you,” Prince Castiel said smoothly.
Of all the times for him to be a gentleman. I bit back a curse and forced a smile. “I would hate to impose on His Highness and take you away from your guests.”
He watched me carefully, the corner of his mouth pulling down slightly.
“Have you already forgotten that I warned you about Lord Ravenhurst? If you hope to survive, you must be vigilant and remain aware of your surroundings.”
I discreetly glanced towards the man in question, the peacock plumage glistening almost sinisterly beneath the chandelier’s cold light as he watched us…the very man he’d cautioned me to avoid. Frustration surged. Though caution was imperative, my contact was slipping away…while Prince Castiel remained an immovable wall between us.
I made to move anyway, but the prince’s firm grip on my arm held me in place. “Not yet. Wait.” Before I could summon aprotest, he turned smoothly, drawing me deeper into the press of bodies.
His hand brushed against mine as we crossed the floor—a fleeting touch that should have meant nothing, yet it seared through my awareness, sharp as a warning…as if he somehow impossibly knew that tonight I wasn’t just his princess.
I was a spy. And the game I played might cost both of us everything.
CHAPTER 8
My throat tightened, a knot of fear and frustration. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist—whether in warning or reassurance, I couldn’t tell. I stiffened at the touch and my mind whirled, a storm of half-formed fears. Did he already know? Had he known all along?
He had obviously been aware of my treachery that night in the dungeon corridor that had ended in blood, but I had no way of knowing how far back his knowledge reached. If this second chance had dropped me into a moment where he already suspected me, then I had been doomed before I ever began.
For now, I had no choice but to follow his lead. As he guided me through the masquerade, I studied him from the corner of my eye—his too-composed posture, the movements that were too precise, the tension coiled beneath every measured breath, a warning I didn’t yet understand.
My tangled thoughts were in such disarray that it took me a moment to realize he was leading me onto the dance floor. A very different kind of panic rose, almost as acute as the fear that my espionage had already been uncovered.
My pulse stuttered. “What are we doing?”
“What we’re expected to do at a ball: dance.”
“Dance?” My heart gave a sharp jolt, whether from fear or another emotion, I couldn’t tell. For a fleeting, dangerous moment I let myself wonder why he would choose now, of all times, to offer me this unexpected romantic notice. But the thought had barely formed before cold realization cut through: this was no spontaneous gesture, but a calculated move—a deliberate ploy to keep me from slipping away. I would have to employ every skill at my disposal to win this game.
“Naturally. Isn’t this expected at a ball between two who are betrothed?” A hint of irony edged his voice as he kept a firm grip on my hand.
Perhaps for any other couple, but in five years of courtship, we had never fulfilled that particular duty. I hadn’t minded that breach of expectation before—though I’d occasionally found myself imagining what a dance with my fiancé would be like—but now I wanted nothing less than to find myself in the arms of the man who had ended my life.
Still, the subtle deviations were enough to tempt my heart away from sense—the subtle protections and warnings I would do anything to explain away as strategy or manipulation, excuses spun from fear. And yet…
“You’ve never wanted to dance with me before now,” I said softly.
“Just because something was one way in the past doesn’t mean the future can’t be different.”
My breath caught at the words, the steadiness of his gaze on mine. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could possibly know the reason I was afraid of him. But no, that was impossible.
He noticed my frown and his voice softened, though it still carried that ever-present undercurrent of warning. “You could at least pretend to be willing, for appearances’ sake. You know myfather is obsessed with appearances. I’d rather not give him any more reason to be displeased with you.”
The warning felt different from the one he’d subtly given after the tense confrontation with the king—less like a rebuke, more like an attempt to shield. “I can never tell whether you’re plotting with me or against me. You’re a man of riddles and contradictions.”
“And you, princess, are no different.” His eyes glinted faintly behind his mask. “But I’ve been in court long enough to know how to conceal what matters. You’re an expert in masks, traps, and puzzles. I trust you’re clever enough to navigate this labyrinth.” His voice lowered a shade further. “You’re currently calculating your movements under certain assumptions that make you reckless. Everything here is an illusion. You would do well to learn which are real…and which will break you.”
Everything? Did that includehimand whatever strange, fragile thread tethered me to him in a timeline where everything felt wrong, and yet somehow terrifyingly right?
He extended his hand in silent invitation—not just for this dance, but the strange one we’d been participating in since my return.
My heart thudded as I stared at his hand, trying to puzzle out his meaning. Another test…or a genuine gesture? I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his expectant look that offered an unspoken challenge.
His fingers wriggled, almost teasingly as he seemed to be amused at my confusion. “Sometimes an invitation is just that; not everything carries an ulterior motive.”
“Does my suspicion bother you?” I asked.
