Page 62 of To Dance with Death

I slip from his grasp, gripping the strand he’d stolen. “To what? Spend a night with you?”

I allow one of the gossamer cords to fall to the ground, its flames withering out. The other, I push up with no small amount of effort, the burning in my forearms making them quiver. My heart is drumming, near audible.

“A day, a night,” he says. His hand finds the small of my back, and then he’s dipping me to expose my throat. He tells me, warm breath grazing the column of my neck, “Whatever you wish. I want to spend time with you—on your terms, if I must. But there are no expectations.”

Exactly what I had wanted, and yet—“That is your intent in the end, though. To try me on as you might a glove?”

“Is life not full of exploration?” he asks as he brings me upright. My vision swims with stars. “We are all looking for a modicum of joy, and yet you are intent on denying yourself what might grant it.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t deny it,” I say huskily, unable to drag in enough air, “if I didn’t think I’d find you between the sheets with another right after.”

I would be forgotten faster than I could blink. Inconsequential. I’d have to watch him move on and on.

The last ribbon of gossamer flutters down between us, embers winking in its wake.

“I won’t chain myself to a single soul,” he says resolutely, bracketing my hips. “You shouldn’t, either.”

“Why?” The question spurts from my lips. His eyes slide to my throat, my chest—to the way it heaves far more than it should.

“Because a relationship hinges on trust,” he says, moving up to steady my waist. “No one is trustworthy, even when they want to be. I’ve learned that the hard way. Better to live a life free and honest rather than set false expectations and fail to meet them. You should appreciate such a stance.”

It feels like a pin prying its way into my breastbone. I can’t even blame him for it.

Hopelessly, I try to push the words out—that there are so many loyal to him, including me—but it’s as if I can’t even take a breath to spill the sentiment, let alone speak.

My throat clogs with frustration, but still he watches me, waiting for a response. He can see I want to give one.

And so I do.

I can’t be a warm body. A fleeting indulgence. My heart cannot take it.

I back away a step, our dance forgotten. “Your lips will not touch mine, Majesty,” I tell him with all the finality I can muster, “if they are to seek others, too.”

He watches me, watches even as my pulse pounds a vicious beat that whisks another flurry of stars into my line of sight. But his green eyes cut through it all.

And in this moment, I realize something.

The thought of using him like this—playing with him, teasing him just to get information, all the while knowing I’m going to reject his advances—I’m not certain I can do it. There are two hearts on the line here. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to add to his pain, because there’s no shortage of it. I see it on him like a sheen of sweat when you try to hide a wound. Betrayal stings, and he has been lonely for so long. He craves to be seen and loved, even if he’s too stubborn and wounded to admit it.

But though I’m not willing to seduce him, as Sundar so eloquently suggested, maybe I can trust what I know of him—what I am certain he is underneath all the frippery and self-indulgence. His mind and memories may have changed, but the heart of my king—myimmortalking—still beats.

“I will spend time with you, Anton,” I say. “But as a friend, not a lover.” The words barely escape my throat, pained as they are, because I feel so much for him. And that’s the problem. I feeltoomuch. “You will have to decide if that’s enough.”

With that, I draw away. Descend the platform, another spiral of lights twinkling across my vision, my headache worsening, my strength waning. I feel feverish again, palpitations throttling against my chest. He does not call after me, and that alone tells me all I need to know, even as the pang slides deeper into my heart.

Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Ruined our chance at prying what we need from him, because I thought I knew him, deep down.

I hear my name on Sundar’s lips. “Vasalie, wait…”

But I plunge through the crowd, fighting to keep my balance with every step. I can’t let them see how very sick I am, how fatigued. They would know I am mortal in a blink. But everything catches up to me with the force of a monsoon, and then I’m swaying, my knees wobbling—

It’s Sundar who catches me, righting me with a steadying arm. “Let’s get you back to our room.”

“Ourroom?”

Both Sundar and I tense. Freeze in place.

Then Sundar swings me around carefully to face Anton, who is, at the present, entirely unreadable.