She was truly very different from the girl he had met. This Melody was the complete opposite of the rebellious gypsy he had seen in that cantina, or in the streets of Aldremir, running like a frightened deer fleeing from its hunter. Now, standing before him, was a young woman dressed in a silk gown that shimmered in the light of the two moons, her hands covered by long white gloves and jewelry that sparkled even in the dim garden light. Her black hair fell in delicate curls over her shoulders, framing a face that seemed carved from marble: light cinnamon skin, thin lips, and green eyes that still retained that defiant gleam that had so intrigued him that night.
But not everything was the same. The haughtiness he remembered was now mixed with an almost palpable caution, as if she were walking on hot coals. Melody seemed out of place in that world of opulence, as if she were wearing a mask that didn't quite fit her true essence. Even so, Damien could not take his eyes off her. There was something hypnotic about her presence, something that went beyond her current appearance. It was fascinating to see how that spark of rebellion was still alive beneath layers of silk and formality.
"What's the matter, Your Highness? Have the mice eaten your tongue?" Melody asked sarcastically, laughing on the outside but stunned on the inside. She couldn't believe that the same man she had slapped mercilessly was now standing in front of her, looking like a fairy-tale prince. The royal guard is going to hang me for slapping that royal pain in the neck, she thought bitterly. Although he deserved it, she was the one who stood to lose. Especially being a gypsy—the royal family hates gypsies. Gods, I can already feel the noose around my neck. Melody, you get yourself into one mess after another.
The prince raised an eyebrow, amused by her comment. It was clear she hadn't lost her sharp wit, even in a place like this. It was refreshing, especially compared to the refined women who usually surrounded him, always measuring their words and movements.
"Miss Melody, why so quiet? You look a little pale," Damien said sarcastically, assessing her with his gaze. He wanted to see if, now that she knew he was a prince, she would still be so haughty and unafraid.
"I'm fine," Melody replied haughtily, although her voice trembled for a moment. She looked down, avoiding those turquoise eyes that seemed to read her like an open book.
Little Odette, who had been watching the interaction with curiosity, decided to intervene before the tension increased.
"Damien, where are your manners? Invite Miss Melody to dance," the girl insisted, excited to see her new friend again.
The prince smiled ironically, bowing exaggeratedly as he extended his hand to Melody. He didn't quite understand her sudden change of mood, but he couldn't deny she was fascinating.
"Miss Melody, would you do me the honor of this dance?" Damien asked, without losing his superior smile. It was amusing to see the haughty gypsy behaving like a docile, affable young lady—though she was far more interesting when she was herself.
Melody accepted, but as soon as the young man tried to lead her to the ballroom, she remembered Eriol's warning not to go near that place. She abruptly let go of his hand and returned to the fountain.
He didn't understand. After agreeing to dance, she let go of his hand and walked away. He followed her, but Odette anticipated his questions.
"What's the matter, miss? Don't you want to dance with my brother anymore?" asked the little blonde, pouting adorably.
"No, no, princess. It's just that I don't know how to walk very well in these shoes and they bother me a little," replied Melody. And part of it was true—those things were torturing her feet.
"I'll bring you something to drink, miss. Damien, stay there, don't move. When I come back, I want you to tell me how you two met," Odette said, pointing to both before leaving.
"Of course, Your Highness, as you say," the prince laughed ironically, then turned to Melody. As soon as the girl left, Damien focused on her. He knew she was hiding something.
"All right, little liar, you're going to tell me: what are you doing here and why don't you want to go into the hall?" Damien asked bluntly.
Melody glanced sideways at him, those aquamarine eyes urging her not to look away. That prince is very nosy, she thought. Following her brother's advice, she decided to tell part of the truth.
"My lord sent me to this place and ordered me not to move," Melody said simply, hoping that would end the interrogation.
"Who is your lord?" asked the future king, putting a finger on his chin.
It was a mistake. That boy was persistent. Melody opted for a half-truth.
"Your Highness, my lord is the Duke of Azair. I am his servant," she replied, no longer able to hold his gaze. The idea of telling him everything was tempting—he was the prince, his power above Eriol's. But the duke's threats echoed in her mind.
To Damien, it was clear this young woman had been a victim of Eriol's madness. He hated that they were related by blood. That girl was still a child, and he knew Eriol preyed on the most defenseless. In Alkarya, gypsies were the most vulnerable.
"Miss, would you grant me this dance, right here?" asked Damien, extending his hand again.
Melody was surprised by his insistence. Hesitant, she accepted. She had never danced a waltz before. If my sister Melibea were watching me, she'd say this is so romantic, she thought. She felt her cheeks burning. What's wrong with me?
She was much shorter than him. Her movements were clumsy, and with each turn, her black curls danced to the beat. Her flushed cheeks were noticeable despite her cinnamon skin. But what captivated the prince were those green eyes framed by long, curled lashes.
"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to step on your foot, Your Highness," Melody apologized, mortified.
The red-haired prince laughed out loud. Damn, that girl never ceases to amaze me. From haughty and fierce to a submissive fawn. He liked her better when she was herself—volatile, unfiltered.
"Don't worry, I'm fine. Your palms on my cheeks hurt more and—"
"Melody! I ordered you to stay here and not talk to anyone!"
Melody broke free from the prince's grip, taking a few steps back. A chill ran through her body. She just hoped dancing with the prince wouldn't get her into trouble.
"Your Excellency, I didn't hear you come in. I'm sorry, it won't happen again," she said, lowering her gaze to avoid eye contact with Damien and Eriol.
"Even though she tried to hide it, her fear of the Duke of Azair was obvious," thought Damien as he watched her let go of him the moment Eriol appeared.
"I'm sorry, Your Excellency, it won't happen again," Melody repeated, stepping back.
"Eriol, first of all, I am not just anyone. It would be a mistake for this woman not to respond when I speak to her as the daughter of Alkarya. She must obey the Mountbatten royal family," said Damien—not to flaunt his title, but to shut that idiot up.
"Oh, dear prince, you are right. Well, if you'll excuse me, we must be going. Melody, let's go," Eriol said with false respect.
Damien didn't know how to explain it. Whether it was anger or the impulses of his demonic side, when that bastard took Melody's hand, Damien felt his blood boil. Something inside him roared, demanding he not let her be taken away. But for now, he could do nothing but watch them walk away—with the silent promise that it would not be the last time he saw her.