Mercer
It was not often that I found myself in a state of utter befuddlement–my lips parting, breath stuttering, nostrils flaring and blood pressure spiking unreasonably high.
Usually, control was easier.
But my senses took leave of me the moment Maisie Adams stepped into the hall.
The crowd parted for her instantly, making way for her. Her chin was tilted high, her spine straight, and her steps sure. Confidential. Like she knew she was the moment.
She was a monument.
I refused to accept that what I was seeing was reality and not a figment of my imagination, until every head in the room turned to acknowledge her. And so the question tumbled out of every mouth.
Who is that?
But I recognized her, even through the laced mask. Those full lips that never quite knew when to stay shut, coated in such sinful, deep red, I felt all the blood rush to my groin at once. Those eyes that pierced yours and expressed everything she felt. That slender neck I'd imagined wrapping my fingers around too many times.
To snap it. Or to mark it. I could no longer tell.
That damning body, voluptuous, and yet petite in a way that made a man hunger for things he should not. Dressed in clothes that wrapped around her body like liquid red, I felt the thing in my chest rattle viciously. My pulse pounded harshly.
And I could tell I wasn't the only one Ms. Adams' entrance had that effect on. The waltz had stopped to acknowledge her. The engagement was suddenly forgotten. Nothing else mattered, but the seductive sway of those hips.
Or that face. Those eyes. That mouth.
My skin flushed.
The feelings of my brothers rushed in through the bond we all shared, and one word went through the collective.
Fuck .
***
Soren
Walk to her. Take her hand. Dance with her , my Lycan told me.
I stepped away from the raven haired woman I was dancing with, with an absentminded apology tumbling off my lips. My legs moved of their own volition, a sudden desperation swelling in my chest to close the distance.
I didn't think I'd ever be sane again if I didn't dance with this woman. She had stolen my breath and thoughts, moving like something out of a dream. And when she reached the bottom of the stairs, I was there.
She gripped her dress, and in the high fashion of a Waltz, curtsied perfectly. "Your Highness."
My lips parted. "Adams?" I whispered, unsure I wasn't hallucinating.
"Yes?"
I jolted in place for the second time in five minutes. I frowned. Searched her face. There were no giveaways. No vulnerabilities. Even her voice had changed from what I had witnessed earlier in that receiving hall.
It lacked the usual hesitation. It sounded sultry. I felt my skin prickle. With need. With awe. With the need to possess.
I offered her my hand, with more flourish and reverence than I'd ever offered a woman a dance. "May I?"
Brilliant blue eyes lowered, staring at my fingers for a long moment.
Then her red lips curved. "I must decline your offer, Prince Soren."
Gasps echoed through the hall.
I blinked, unsure I had heard her right.
No one told me no. No one ever refused me. I rarely ever asked for dances. Such was the life of a prince. A woman batted her pretty lashes at you in a gathering, dropped a handkerchief or a fan, and you were obligated to take her to the dance floor, smile, deflect her advances, remain charming while they eye-fucked you, while others took liberties with how far they could feel you up.
You couldn't refuse. You couldn't snap at them. You couldn't act out of line. The crown was a private prison of its own.
But Maisie Adams was the first woman who made me abandon every thought of duty, of 'keeping appearances'.
I saw her and I forgot the crown on my brow. I forgot the engagement. I forgot Tessa. I forgot my aunt. The council pushing to strip me of my title.
I couldn't control myself. I didn't want to.
I wanted my hands around the curve of her waist. I wanted her chest pressed against mine as I led her in the Waltz. I wanted her starry eyes gazing up at me like I was the only man in the room. I wanted to taste her lips.
"Node?" I echoed, unable to wrap my mind around the concept of the word 'no' from a woman that wasn't my aunt.
"No," Maisie Adams repeated. "If you would excuse me."
She bowed again, respectfully, and turned on her heel, dismissing me completely. I stood there. Confused. Uncomprehending.
I watched her retreating back, feeling something hot spread in my chest, something I didn't quite have a name for. And it wasn't until she took the hand of some half-human, half-wolf mutt, that I recognized the terrible feeling.
Rejection.
And the gods did it sting.
***
Maisie
When Soren saw me, he was transformed.
I didn't think even after he had approached me, he let himself believe it was me until I spoke. "Yes?"
He jolted in place lightly. Then he frowned. Then he grew perfectly still and his lips parted. He stared at me in disbelief and I looked back at him.
In his black tux and the grown man resting on his brow, he was easily the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. The piercing on his left ear had a silver crescent hanging off it, and for one insane moment, I had the thought of catching his earlobe between my teeth and nipping on it.
No, Maisie. Focus. Yes, he looks like a snack. But you can't get lost in his beautiful, violet eyes...
He was looking at me. Really looking at me. Not as some inconvenience. Or a charity case. Or an insect that belonged under his shoes. Or furniture.
Soren was looking at me like I was a woman.
A warm flush started rising from a deep place inside me… higher, higher. Good thing I was wearing so much makeup that my blush was probably invisible.
He was so still, so motionless, and a triumphant little smile wanted to break free and settle on my lips.
But I schooled my expression into cold indifference.