Chapter thirty six: Dance
The music swelled around them — strings rising like distant thunder, laced with something aching and ancient. A waltz, but slower than it should be, as if time itself bowed before the elegance of vampires.
Lucien's hand settled lightly against her waist, the other clasping hers with quiet possession. Not tight, not urgent. Just… there. Unshakable. Anchoring.
Elira barely breathed.
"I'll lead," he said again, softer now, almost an echo in the chamber of her ribs.
She gave a small nod. Her body was stiff at first, legs unsure beneath the weight of so many eyes. But Lucien moved like shadow and storm — fluid, controlled, inexorable — and she found herself falling into step. One heartbeat, then another.
His hand found the small of her back—gloved, but solid as command.
Another lifted her fingers with reverence, guiding her out into the space as if she were glass and shadow.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"I'm not used to being watched," she said, trying to hold her spine straight.
"You were watched the moment you entered this world." Now you are just aware they can see you.
They moved.
Not with elegance, not at first—but with something older. Slower. A silent language spoken through steps and breath and the tension coiled in every inch between them.
"Good," he murmured near her temple when she didn't stumble.
Her lashes lifted. "That wasn't difficult."
"No," he said, voice lower now. "You already move like someone who knows how to be followed."
One turn, and she felt the press of his hand through her bodice—too light to be improper, too firm to ignore.
Another step, and her chest brushed his.
The room kept spinning, gold and crimson and candlelight sweeping past them in ribbons—but it no longer mattered.
She looked up at him—and he was watching her.
Not with that cold detachment he wore like a second skin.
But watching, like he'd been waiting to see her in this light.
Like he didn't trust himself to speak.
"You are not dancing for them," she whispered.
"No," he said, not looking away.
They moved again. He turned her in a slow spiral, her gown trailing like liquid starlight over polished stone. Candles flickered above them in a hundred mirrored chandeliers, catching on her jeweled pins and the pale sweep of her shoulders. Her hair, twisted into a braided crown and threaded with silver, gleamed like dusk woven with moonlight.
Lucien's eyes never left hers.
She searched his face for mockery. For that detached cruelty he wore like armor.
But it wasn't there.
Not now.
"I don't know what you want from me," she whispered.
He leaned in, lips near her ear, but not touching. "Neither do I."
Her breath caught.
A pause in the rhythm. A beat of silence that said too much.
But the music didn't stop. Nor did his hands.
They moved through it — a gliding blur of shadow and silk. Vampires stepped aside, some watching with narrowed eyes, others with faint amusement. A few whispered. One or two smirked. But none dared approach.
Elira forgot them.
She forgot the coldness of the ballroom floor, the sting of earlier words, even the ache in her ribs from holding herself so still.
For a moment, it was just this: the silence between them filled with music neither of them understood.
Not a performance.
Not a punishment.
And not protection, either.
Just… Lucien. And her. Bound by something that didn't yet have a name.
Their steps slowed and the space between them vanished, and her pulse became the only rhythm she could hear.
"Do you always take what you want?" she asked, but her voice wasn't steady.
He leaned down, the ghost of his mouth near her ear. "Not always."
A pause. A silence so full it trembled.
"But when I do," he added, "I don't share."
The air between them went thin. Her heartbeat turned traitor beneath her ribs, loud enough she was sure he could hear it.
The music slowed, the strings drawing out the final aching notes of the waltz. And still, neither of them stepped back.
He stared at her like he was memorizing her face for the last time. Like he'd waited a century to stand in this one moment.
"Elira…" he said, low, reverent.
A breath. A question without form.
But then the music ended — and with it, the illusion shattered.
Applause rippled through the ballroom. Laughter returned. Voices climbed once more like ivy across the velvet night.
And yet, Lucien didn't let her go.
Not immediately.
He leaned in — his lips near her ear, his breath cold and trembling at the edge of something dangerous.
"Don't ever let another man hold you like this," he said, voice edged in a velvet threat meant for no one but her.
Her heart skipped a beat, thundering beneath the silken weight of her gown. The words shouldn't have made her heart twist.
But they did.
Elira realized her fingers were still curled around his.
He released her hand — slowly, deliberately — and offered a single, sharp nod.
Just enough for her to feel the absence when he did.