Page 127 of A Dance of Lies

Once more, I am intoxicated. And more so, when he slides my sleeve down with his other hand, his lips kissing a path along my neck. I tangle my fingers into his hair.

The air changes, like an updraft in the summer, simmering with heat.

The lacing on the back of my dress is simple.

He looses the ribbons with ease.

Cool air grazes my shoulders, my back, and then I am in his arms.

He brings me to the bed, just like he said he would.

There, he eases us down until he’s sitting, his back against the headboard. His mouth never leaves mine as he gathers me up toward his chest, his arm underneath my knees. My skin is glossed with a light sheen of sweat. I could melt, here. I think I already am, and I am okay with that.

He pauses once more. Looks between my eyes, his breathing as ragged as my own.

I am frightened—but only of the way I feel.

With an arm keeping me tucked, he turns us, rolls us around until he settles me beneath him, his weight a pleasant thing. My eyes fall shut. I am nothing but sensation and coiled, frenzied nerves as he sets a palm underneath my knee, drags it up—

“Your Majesty,” comes a voice just outside.

We freeze, but neither of us speaks. My heart feels as if it might fly from my chest.

Whoever is outside the door knocks twice, then again . . .

Anton squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before dragging aquilt over, wrapping it around me so I am covered in full. “What is it, Basile?”

The door cracks open. “Your presence is requested in the studio, Sire.”

“I will be there shortly,” Anton says.

“I recommend now, Sire.”

“You have the absolute worst timing, Basile.”

“It is a new development, Sire, which you demanded I inform you of should it come to”—

Basile glances at me, unreadable—“fruition.”

Development?

A slight groan slips from Anton’s lips. Once more, he cups my face. “Vasalie, I—”

A very prominent clearing of the throat jolts us both, and Anton finally pulls away. “Basile, in this moment, I do not like you very much.”

“I know, Sire.”

Anton groans as Basile lopes off, leaving us alone.

“We will talk soon,” Anton says apologetically, after giving himself a moment. “I’ll send someone to deliver your gown within the hour.”

Dazed as I am, he leads me back to the workshop where Gustav and Laurent are. Gustav follows him away, the two of them shoving each other playfully before disappearing around the bend. Laurent, grinning knowingly, offers to escort me out.

But he pauses, sensing the tumult within me.

I almost lost myself, just now, with Anton. And it leaves me both exhilarated and terrified—of what the future looks like when I have to forget him, when I must move on from all that’s happened these past several weeks.

That assumes we make it out of this mess, what with my father, and Illian . . .