A Dance

I stepped into the center, every nerve alert, every sense stretched. The room smelled of blood, wine, and secrets. And desire.

The first to speak was a woman with midnight skin and a cascade of white locs adorned in gold rings. Her voice was velvet smoke, spoken through the recesses of my skull.

"She's smaller than I expected," she spoke into my thoughts, her mouth unmoving. Her eyes gleamed like moonlight on obsidian. "But I’ve always found sharp things come in small packages."

She descended the steps with the slow grace of someone used to being worshipped. “I am Saelene, Mistress of the Western Coven. I bleed liars dry and wear their truths as perfume.” The room moved with the bustle of debauchery, but my gaze stayed transfixed on her.

She stopped close enough that I could smell cloves and something darker. She lifted my chin with one nail—pointed and polished. "You may call me Sae."

Lucien tensed as he crossed the room toward me.

Gwynne snaked around me, a smirk carved permanently into his mouth. Auburn hair tousled like he’d run a hand through it moments ago, shirt open just enough to be intentional.

“Who are you wearing, darling?” he said with a wink at me. “So lovely to meet you, and so on and so on. Lucien’s favorite headache. Polyglot, polyamorist, and politely lethal.”

“Your shirt’s unbuttoned,” I muttered.

“Not a complaint, I hope?”

Lucien growled low under his breath. Gwynne just grinned wider.

A tall vampire with sun-pale hair and mismatched eyes—one green, one gold—stood next. His suit was pristine white, his presence eerily still, like a winter forest before a storm.

“I am Dorian,” he said, bowing slightly. “Keeper of the Old Tongue. Seer of Bound Blood. If you lie to me, I’ll taste it in the air.”

“Lovely,” I said. “So no pressure.”

A chuckle behind him drew my attention to the next vampire, who looked like a prince cut from ink and steel. His skin was dark, hair braided close to his scalp, and his sharp cheekbones were only outdone by the glittering piercings on both ears and the gleam in his eyes.

“Azren,” he said smoothly. “Warlord. Lucien’s left hand. You’ll find I’m much friendlier when I’m not covered in blood.”

“How fortunate I caught you on laundry day.”

He laughed, low and approving. “I like her.”

The final vampire was broad-shouldered, stoic, with hair like spilled ink and eyes that glowed faintly violet. He hadn’t moved since I entered, but now he rose slowly, deliberately.

“I am Malric,” he said. “I speak only when necessary.”

“Then you and I might get along.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room at that. Lucien stepped forward, his hand tightening ever so slightly at my back.

“She is under my protection,” he said, voice hard as stone. “And none of you will lay a finger on her without consequence.”

“Funny,” Saelene murmured, circling me. “She doesn’t look like she wants your protection.”

Lucien ignored her. I didn’t.

He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear.

“Stay close tonight,” he said quietly. “And don’t test me again.”

Too late.

I kept my posture relaxed, my smile faint. But my mind was already cataloging exits, pressure points, guard rotations. I’d marked Azren’s weapon—short-bladed and curved, sheathed at his hip. I noted the way Saelene favored her right side, how Gwynne toyed with his wine glass but never sipped. Even Lucien had tells—small, but I’d learn them.

Because I was going to kill him.

The moment the court music began—slow, haunting strings paired with an undercurrent of drums that pulsed like a heartbeat—the chamber transformed. Shadows seemed to melt into elegance. The vampires, still and watchful just moments ago, now moved like silk across the polished stone floor.

A grand ballroom unfolded before me, lit by chandeliers of glass and fire. No one had announced the dance, but suddenly, it was underway—partners gliding, skirts swirling, power vibrating in every movement. This was no mere ball.

This was theater. Politics. Seduction.

And I was the main attraction.

“Come, darling,” Gwynne said, appearing at my side like a cat with cream. His hand extended toward me, palm up, expectant. “Let’s give them something to watch.”

Before I could argue, I was pulled into the flow of dancers, his palm warm at my back, the other curled around my hand. He didn’t bother with formality—he spun me with flair, dipping me low enough that the slit in my dress revealed the dagger at my thigh.

His eyes flicked to it and he grinned.

“I see you dressed responsibly,” he whispered. “My kind of woman.”

“I’m not your kind,” I hissed, even as he twirled me again.

“Oh, Bella,” he sighed, “You’re exactly my kind. And everyone else’s.”

Before I could retort, he passed me off with a flourish—and I landed squarely in the arms of Saelene.

“Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” the vampiress murmured, one arm encircling my waist. She pulled me closer than necessary, the scent of spices and danger curling around me. “Tell me, little flame—how long will you keep pretending not to enjoy this?”

“I’m not pretending,” I said, voice tight.

Her eyes gleamed. “Then you’re lying. And I do so love a liar.”

The music shifted tempo, and with a smirk, she spun me away—right into Dorian Vael.

His grip was gentle, but there was nothing soft about his stare. One hand rested against my ribcage, the other holding mine at shoulder height.

“You’re plotting,” he said without preamble. “I can hear it.”

“Do I get points for subtlety?”

“No. You’re terrible at it.” He arched a brow. “But charmingly so.”

“I’m not trying to be charming.”

“And yet.”

We turned, steps precise and elegant. His voice dropped lower.

“You’ll need allies if you want to survive this place. If you ask, I might consider being one.”

“And the price?”

“Nothing you’re not already offering,” he said smoothly. “Danger. Defiance. A knife in the dark.”

Before I could ask what the hell that meant, the music swelled again and he relinquished me—with a respectful bow—to a waiting figure at the edge of the floor.

Azren.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just held out his gloved hand, eyes like dark fire.

I hesitated—this one was different. Cold steel. No flirtation. But I took his hand.

His movements were precise, military. His power hummed beneath the surface, restrained. Every step was a test. A message.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, voice deep and clipped.

“Not as dangerous as him,” I replied, nodding toward Lucien.

Azren’s gaze followed, unreadable. “No. But he’s already dead inside. You’re not. That makes you worse.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Or maybe it was.

And then, at last, the song crested into its final movement—and I found myself drawn away one final time.

Into Lucien’s arms.