Page 24 of Revert
“I would be more worried if you didn’t have the sense to be.”
He extended his hand again. Every instinct screamed that taking it was the opposite of what I should do, but perhaps deviation was exactly what I needed to change my fate. He wasinviting me to do the seemingly impossible and trust him—to look beyond the patterns I’d clung to and instead piece together the subtle clues he’d offered to make another choice.
With a wavering breath, I placed my hand in his.
A strange sense of déjà vu swept over me as his fingers enclosed around mine—a flicker of memory that wasn’t a memory at all of the first time our hands had touched—shy glances, secret smiles, the breathless thrill of his hand in mine…images that shimmered and faded as quickly as they came, slipping away like a misty dream, as if they belonged to another life.
It felt as though the next moments unfolded around another Bernice, while I stood apart, a silent onlooker watching as the prince led me onto the dance floor and drew me into a waltz with a grace I had only ever seen from him in swordsmanship practice…and yet there was an aching familiarity to it.
Shyly, I lifted my gaze and found him watching me intently, as though trying to read my thoughts. Flustered, I withdrew my hand, touching my hair in a flimsy pretense of checking it. But the moment I lowered it, he seized it once more, his grip firm yet gentle. Heat bloomed deeper in my cheeks, and I could only hope that my mask concealed at least part of the flush.
As we danced, I become acutely aware of his nearness within the quiet circle of his arms—the warmth of his hand at my waist, the careful pressure guiding me, the way his gaze lingered not just with calculation but with something quieter, almost protective.
For once, the air between us wasn’t charged with tension or terror, but with something softer—a tenderness I was afraid to name, let alone experience from him, leaving me dismayed at how far I had let things progress with my enemy…yet I made no move to stop it.
Unlike the lightly chatting couples around us, we danced in silence, though a strangely comfortable one, as though we didn’t need words in order to speak. I did my best to keep my eye on the stranger in the fox mask, but my gaze was repeatedly drawn back to my dance partner.
It took several orchestral measures and twirls across the marble floor before the prince finally cleared his throat. “You look…nice.” he offered, his voice far less certain than his usual cold confidence.
My eyes widened; in my astonishment I nearly missed a step. “I—thank you, Your Highness.”
“Your…” He hesitated, then nodded towards me, as though unsure how to finish the thought.
“Dress?” I supplied.
His face paled. “No! I mean…I was referring to your hair.”
I peered at him curiously, nearly missing the compliment in my confusion over his peculiar reaction over my attire. “Thank you. My maidservant, Liora, is a skilled hairdresser.” I cast about in my mind for a polite return, but wasn’t sure admiring his clothing was the appropriate response. “This is a lovely ball,” I finally managed. “The music is particularly nice.”
The prince nodded, his face unreadable behind its mask. “My father ensures that every detail is impeccable.”
I winced, realizing I’d complimented the wrong royal. I scrambled for anything complimentary I could say about my enemy. “You dance well. Do you practice often?”
Prince Castiel’s expression relaxed a bit. “Not lately, but as a young boy I quite enjoyed my dance lessons. They were rare moments that I wasn’t being drilled in diplomacy and governing. The moves remind me of swordsmanship, and came naturally to me.”
I found myself smiling as I listened to him. This was perhaps the first personal detail I’d learned about my fiancé, and it was both unexpected and strangely sweet.
“I can’t say that I was naturally graceful, but I used to dance with my brother while my sister played harpsichord.” My throat tightened at the memory of my siblings I hadn’t seen in far too long. I refused to allow myself to dwell on my ailing father, who had been too unwell to even write for the past several years. For their own sake, I wished my family to stay far from Thorndale. Yet a wave of homesickness passed over me as I recalled a more carefree time…before my betrothal had uprooted me.
To my surprise, I felt a small measure of compassion for Prince Castiel. While he held far more power than I did, he too was trapped in a dangerous game of performance and perfection. Neither of us could afford a misstep.
We fell silent again, lost in our individual thoughts. Without the distraction of conversation, time had never seemed to pass as slowly as it did in that moment in his arms, a torture that, rather than unbearable, was almostpleasant, causing me to react in ways I was certain had never transpired in any timeline.
I had hoped one dance would be all I would be forced to endure, enough to satisfy appearances so I could retreat and create the distance I desperately needed to regather my thoughts as scattered as the steps we’d performed across the polished floor.
But to my surprise and quiet horror—at least I tried to convince myself it was horror—he didn’t let me go, but pulled me into another dance the moment the next song began to play.
I forced myself to breathe, to glide through the dance, to match Prince Castiel’s measured steps as though I too were carved from the same ruthless elegance.
Through the next two dances, he kept me too close—his hand at my waist, the faint brush of his fingers at my back, thepull of his arm guiding me through each turn. Every movement should have been for the court’s eyes, a perfect display of unity. But I could feel the tension coiled beneath his calm, the slight tightening of his grip when I shifted, the faint tremor in his breath when I leaned in to speak.
Towards the end of the third dance, I caught a flash of orange slipping quietly along the edge of the crowd, moving toward the terrace doors—the figure in the fox mask, this time watching me in the prince’s arms with a scrutiny that cut straight through my carefully held poise.
Prince Castiel’s gaze followed mine and his hand tightened faintly on mine, as if he sensed my attention shift. “Eyes on me,” he murmured, low and soft, yet there was no threat in it.
“Your Highness. I need?—”
“I know.” His whisper brushed the air near my ear, his mouth barely moving.
