Page 98 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
The castle ballroom had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Everything shimmered in shades of white, silver, and soft frost-blue. Grand, arched windows lined the walls, draped in sheer blue fabric that billowed gently in the draft. Outside, snow fell in slow, quiet spirals, blanketing the gardens in purity. Hundreds of candles lined the walls and chandeliers, casting soft golden light against the snowy backdrop, like stars caught in midair. Tables lined the sides of the ballroom, heavy with golden trays of roasted meats, sugared fruits, and sweet confections dusted with powdered snow. There were barrels of mead, pitchers of wine, and crystal decanters filled with amber whisky. Laughter rang out. Music played softly. Dancers already twirled across the ice-like marble floor, their white and blue garments catching the light like flakes in a storm.
But I… I stopped at the top of the stairs.
Because suddenly, the hush came.
And I felt their eyes.
Fintan stood near the dais, his goblet frozen halfway to his mouth. When he saw me—his gaze trailing from theblack dress, to my face—his expression shattered. Hurt. Regret. Longing. He said nothing, just stared like I was a ghost.
And King Aymon? He glared. That hatred burned through the distance between us like a blade pressed to my skin. He didn’t even try to hide it. His face twisted in disgust at the color I wore, at the statement I made. My scars weren’t welcome at this pristine celebration. I wasn’t welcome.
“Let them stare.”Zayn spoke into my head.
“How are you doing that?! I thought only Warlocks and Vampyrs could get past your shield?! And, my shield is up and locked!”I said back, not knowing where he was.
He didn’t answer me.
I looked for him. And suddenly, my world stopped.
Because I could only see him.
Zayn stepped out from the shadows near the far side of the ballroom, dressed in all black—a raven-dark coat lined in silver, a sword at his hip, hair falling loose around his chiseled face. His green eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, nothing else existed. Not the whispers I didn’t hear. Not the fear I didn’t feel. Not the crowd I didn’t see.
Only him.
I walked forward. Down the steps. Past the dancers. Past the wine and firelight and stunned, judging eyes. I passed Fintan without a word, and I didn’t look back.
“You’re doing great. Eyes on me.”
It felt like he wanted me to have this moment—wanted me to face them all, to show I wasn’t afraid of the King or the stares. Wanted me to walk to him through thatballroom alone, not because I didn’t belong… but because I only belonged tohim.
Zayn stepped toward me.
He held out his hand.
I took it.
His fingers wrapped around mine, and the touch sent a jolt of warmth and magic racing through my blood. “Everyone’s staring at my back,” I whispered.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. “No,” he murmured. “They’re staring at you. You are… breathtaking.”
My heart nearly broke open.
Zayn reached behind me at a nearby table and grabbed two glasses of wine and handed me a glass. I brought it to my lips and drank the entire glass in one gulp. He watched me with amused eyes and then drank his wine in one gulp, too.
“Let’s get drunk,” I whispered, placing my hand on Zayn’s hard chest, breathless and bold.
His hand slid to the small of my back, and a delicious shiver chased down my spine. Without a word, he guided me through the crowd like he owned the floor. On the way, he snatched a bottle of dark amber whisky straight off a table. A man nearby reached out, startled. “Hey!”
Zayn turned slowly, his expression darkening as he growled low in his throat.
The man froze. “I-It’s yours. Have it!”
I couldn’t help the smug smile tugging at my lips as we slipped away. Zayn led me to a tucked-away table in the far corner of the ballroom, nearly swallowed by heavy bluedrapes. With a flick of his fingers, he lifted one side like a curtain, and I ducked beneath it. Inside was a shadowy little alcove—just a small round table, two chairs, and the hum of voices and music outside the curtain. We sank into our seats, and Zayn uncorked the whisky with his teeth, pouring us both a heavy glass. The burn of the first sip was immediate, but welcome.
As we drank, we people-watched through the small opening of the curtain, like we weren’t part of their world—like we were above it, or maybe beneath it, tangled in something far deeper. I was well aware of how close Zayn sat next to me.
“I swear, if Makar spins Kalista one more time, her big ol’ boobies are gonna pop out of that dress,” I said, grinning as we watched them twirl and dance, again and again.
