Page 17 of Frost and Death
Is he from a visiting kingdom? Maybe he is one of her subjects?
He remains still, not speaking a word since the princess spoke.
A devious smirk of what could be approval lines the queen’s features as she retreats from us, and I can’t hide the blush heating my cheeks.
The classical song ends, and when the dancing ceases, new couples take their places in the next dance.
My escort moves with a silent grace, drawing me close in our position and giving my hip a squeeze.
My pulse quickens.
We break into a lively waltz, my demeanor lifting when our chests press together, our gazes melting further into one another.
“That was kind of you to say to the princess,” my dance partner remarks.
I shrug as we pivot around other guests. “Everyone deserves to be called beautiful, no matter their age.”
“And what if someone were to call you beautiful?”
My heart swells at the question, possibly believing, for once, someone might see me as that.
His scar pinches from his closed smile, and I can’t help the ease of a joke and flirtation when I say back, “I am sure I would react the same as you would if someone said that to you.”
The man’s smile reaches his eyes, and we both chuckle.
I replay the steps needed for this song as we move effortlessly into the waltz.
The more we dance, the more my body unwinds. My heart calls to the natural harmonic strings, wishing I could have had its paired score to play on the piano.
But reality crashes in, darkening the joy I once had for music, my piano now frozen over and locked away in the coldest parts of my home.
I falter a step, grateful it goes unnoticed by my dance partner, who pushes us onward.
Dance, spin, repeat, Tove. Do not step on his toes.
I repeat the mantra in my mind as the room spins, everyone fading into the background.
The three-step circle leads us into a lift, and horror crawls up my throat at anyone picking me up. A wave of dizziness arrives as I brace for my dance partner to drop me, but when the air shifts out from under me, I barely have time to take in how he did it with such ease.
He spins me, but it is his smooth voice that pulls me back in. “Will you tell me if this spinning makes you dizzy? Or will you maintain appearances until after the song is over?”
My face falls at his forthright question. “That’s not something I am asked often.”
“Did I need to ask you a more formal question?”
I contemplate a response but find myself surprised by the brazen question and enjoying it. “No, it is refreshing, actually.”
“Talking with you is refreshing,” he gushes with a wink.
Sweet Makers, this fucking man.
He lifts me again, this time drawing a startled gasp from me when my feet meet the ground.
I find myself wanting to return his boldness and learn more about him. “Since we are not being formal in our questions, how did you get that scar?”
I flick my attention to it.
He tenses, and instinctively, I wish I could take it back, realizing I struck a nerve. “I’m sorry, I—” I am cut off by him gripping my hip.
