Straightening my shoulders, I step through the doorway and head to the center of the reception room. Maybe it’s me, but it seems like the hall suddenly turns super-silent. Each click-clack of my heels on the tiled floor sounds deafening. Although hundreds of eyes stare at me, I only focus on two: one slate-gray and the other wheat-brown.
Lincoln stands within the sea of faces, his body flanked by a group of beautiful young ladies. He’s wearing black leather pants, silver mail, and a black velvet over-tunic. A glimmering eagle is sewn onto his chest; a silver crown glistens atop his mop of brown hair. He stares at me with fire in his eyes, his full mouth slightly open.
A minute passes before I realize that I should do something other than stand in the reception hall looking like a dumbass. The guests pass anxious looks and giggles. I scan for Cissy and some direction on what to do next, but she’s already disappeared into the ballroom.
The herald blares his trumpet once again. “Miss Myla Lewis without escort.” My brain freezes. I have a feeling he’s hinting at something, but can’t guess what.
The giggles grow louder, the stares more disbelieving. I glance toward the front door, calculating how long it would take to sprint to my car.
Lincoln steps out from the crowd, offering me his arm. If I thought the giggles were loud, that’s nothing compared to the outright gasps that now echo through the room. Smiling, I grip his arm tightly, feeling the warmth and solid muscle under my palm. We step into the ballroom.
“I think we shocked your nobility.”
Lincoln grins. “They need to be shocked every so often; keeps them on their toes.” He nods toward the dance floor. “Speaking of which…”
I stare at the synchronized lines of dancers on the floor. While a violinist plays a jig, the thrax all jump about in a medieval hoe-down of complex movements.
“I don’t know that dance, Lincoln. I’ll sit this one out.”
“Let’s see what we can do about that.” Lincoln snaps his fingers at the violinist. The musician instantly looks our way. The Prince makes a slicing motion across his throat. The lively jig transforms into a sultry tune.
“Ah, a slow dance.” Lincoln leads me toward the floor. “Anyone can do that.”
I stifle a grin. “That’s a neat little trick.”
He arches his brows. “It’s good to be the Prince.” We reach the center of the dance floor. “Shall we?” Bit by bit, Lincoln pulls my hands up to his neck; I weave my fingers through his wavy brown hair. Sliding his fingertips down my back, his hands settle about my waist. I shiver, remembering his touch in the stables, his kiss in the botanical gardens. My skin flushes. Our bodies sway to the slow tune.
A new sea of faces stare at us, but I only see the Prince’s eyes and the play of light on his high cheekbones and strong jawline. The room feels empty, only us two. A smile tugs at Lincoln’s full mouth. “I have a secret for you, Myla.”
“Really? What is it?”
“I can’t whisper it when you’re all the way over there. Come closer.”
I move my body nearer to his; we’re almost touching. “How’s this?” I tilt my head so he can speak in my ear.
“Closer.”
Smiling softly, I press my body against his, sensing every firm contour of his chest and hips. We freeze. My breath catches. I scan Lincoln’s face, feeling the intensity of his stare. His palms stroke the small of my back and we sway to the music once again. It’s taking everything I have not to kiss him.
I tip my head to one side. “And now?”
Lincoln’s breath tickles the shell of my ear. “A girl like you…In a dress like that…Should always dance this close.”
I glimpse around the room, finding a lot of wide eyes, loud whispers, and not-so-polite pointing in my direction. The Earl of Acca looks red-faced and ready to burst with rage. Adair sits at a nearby table, her gaze locked on me and filled with loathing. “I’m not sure the thrax agree, Lincoln.”
The Prince slides his hand up my back. His fingertips brush the bare skin on my shoulders. I bite my lip, stifling the urge to make an ‘mmm’ noise. The Prince sets his lips by my ear. “Time to start causing trouble, don’t you–”
“Prince Lincoln!” It’s Gianna, rushing toward us in a purple gown. “It’s urgent! A demon patrol’s under ambush!” As soon as there’s an inch of room between us, Gianna inserts herself, grabbing Lincoln’s hand and trying to pull him from the dance floor.
A man with a purple-crested tunic steps up to our group. “If it pleases your Highness, I’ll keep the young lady company tonight.”
“Thank you, Aldo.” Lincoln turns to me. “If the patrol’s under attack, I’ll be unable to return.” His face turns stony and solemn. “Making the trip to Earth takes some time.”
“I understand.” My body and mind feel numb. “Protect your people, of course.” I watch him leave the room with Gianna, my forehead knit in confusion and not a little measure of shock. How did things change so quickly?