Page 128 of Elemental Becoming

Garrick laughs, leading her toward the dance floor, and I swear I hear him mutter something about what he’s gotten himself into.

I watch them disappear into the crowd, shaking my head.

Lyra moves like she owns the entire ballroom, the deep emerald silk of her gown sweeping behind her like dark water. Gold embroidery coils over the bodice—delicate and intricate, but somehow still bold, like her. The slit along her leg is high enough to be scandalous, which means it was almost certainly intentional.

She looks made for this world. Daring. Effortless. Entirely in control.

I don’t notice it at first—the subtle tightening of Thane’s handat my waist, the absent circles his thumb traces against my lower back. Not until he leans closer.

“I just can’t seem to keep my hands off you,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “It’s becoming a problem.”

A slinking, simmering heat spreads through me.

I lift my gaze to him through my lashes. “So what are you going to do about it, oh powerful Warlord?”

The corner of his mouth curves slightly.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice threaded with restraint, “I can still feel you—your leg hooked around me, the way you pressed into me, the way your slickness felt on my . . . ”

He trails off, the hunger in his expression impossible to miss as his gaze drops briefly to my lips.

Warmth rushes through me instantly, memories of the alcove flashing through my mind—his hands gripping my thighs, my lips against his neck, the hard press of his body against mine.

“Stop talking,” I hiss, my face burning, because if he finishes that sentence, I will actually combust.

“Why?” he asks, entirely too composed. Too controlled.

I turn sharply, glaring at him, but his expression remains infuriatingly unreadable—except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Gods, he’s enjoying this.

“Because if you keep talking like that,” I mutter, fighting to sound remotely composed, “I might have to drag you back to that alcove. And we are in the middle of a ball. ForThe Spiritborn,” I add, flailing for any shred of dignity.

Thane doesn’t move away, his fingers now tracing the lines of my lowest tattoo, Earth.

“And?” he asks softly.

I inhale sharply, gathering every ounce of self-control I possess.

“And people are watching.”

“Let them,” he says, his eyes burning into mine, leaving no room for argument.

Before I can even think of a response, someone clears their throat nearby. I jolt slightly, stepping back just as Thane straightens, turning toward the interruption.

A nobleman, dressed in deep emerald silks, bows slightly before us, his expression carefully measured.

“Warlord Caelum. Lady Amara.”

I barely suppress a groan. Because of course the moment Thane gets me completely unraveled, duty comes calling again.

Thane’s hand lingers on my back for just a second longer before he turns fully to address the man. I force my mind back to reality, back to the ball, back to why we are here.

As Thane is drawn into yet another political discussion with a cluster of nobles and council members, I watch him over the rim of my wine glass. He moves through the conversation with practiced ease, expression unreadable, posture perfectly controlled.

It’s strange.

Just moments ago, he had been soft with me in a way no one else really sees—whispering things meant only for me, holding me like I mattered more than the rest of the world.