Chapter 41

Forty-One

B y the time Quinn rolled out of bed, Emrys was sitting in the armchair and dressed in a different suit, with a mustard vest and purple cravat. He always wore purple in some form. But usually, he preferred it in his vest.

"Good, you're up. You need to get dressed." Emrys pointed at the pile of clothing he'd picked out for her.

It was a ballet leotard and a simple skirt. Quinn stared at him, confusion pooling in her stomach. "We have to figure out where the mirror is and find a way to stop Seren. The ball is tonight. The threat. There is no time for—" Ballet auditions.

She swallowed the last words, unable to get them out. They hurt too much. But she was willing to give up her dreams if it meant saving her friends and all of the innocent people who might get caught in the crossfire.

"We have to go back to the Mirror of Midnight and bargain for the Blood Mirror's location," Quinn said, no longer caring about what the cost might be. If it would protect her friends, she'd be willing to pay the cost.

They'd discussed searching for the second mirror by strategically walking through the city and seeing if the blood necklace reacted, but that could take forever, so the mirror was the only way.

"We have time, Quinnevere. You don't have to give up your dreams to save your friends," Emrys said. "You can have both."

"Your lack of urgency is unsettling—"

"We have a plan, and we will find the mirror." He stood up, and in three strides, he cupped her cheeks tenderly. "You don't have to give up what you want for anyone." Her heart beat wildly. "Put your clothing on, go to auditions, and then we can get our answers."

She nodded, unable to say anything. The man was too confusing. One moment, she hated him, and then he did things like this. Things that made her believe he might actually care about her.

His fingers gently caressed her cheeks as they moved away. Then he excused himself, saying that he would be waiting in the hall. She quickly pulled on the ballet leotard and the skirt. The pas de deux she was to perform did not require a tutu. Lover's Lost was a ballet developed from ancient myths, and therefore, the ballet had more flowing costumes than the typically stiff and structured tutu.

Swinging open the door, she met Emrys in the hallway. He escorted her from the floating gondolas to the Gold Quarter.

For what felt like the first time, Quinn arrived at auditions on time. Emrys strolled behind her and let the Royalle Ballet director know that he was going to watch auditions again.

But when it was time to perform her pas de deux, her partner was missing. Apparently, he broke his foot during the Illusion Ceremony. Quinn walked to the center of the room, at a loss for what to do. She couldn't dance without a partner. But just as she was about to give up and ask the pianist to play the music for her solo variation, Emrys stood, walked to the center, and held out his hand. "Miss Ashelle, would you honor me with a dance?"

Through her teeth, she asked, "Do you know it?"

"Of course I do." He smiled, his hand lingering in the air between them. "Are you ready? "

No.

But she slid her fingers into his, anyway. Music played a three-four-time signature.

"Try to keep up. This dance is complicated." He pulled her sharply into a hold.

She scoffed. "I hope you're kidding."

At first, she was stiff and unfeeling—afraid—moving as if she had cinderblocks connected to her feet.

Emrys whispered, "It's okay, Quinnevere. Let go. I'll catch you."

The veins in her neck budged, and her shoulders were tight and unyielding. She didn't know how to let go, how to let someone catch her. Let someone else take control. But she wanted to try.

The piano sang a somber and hollow melody as their bodies slipped into a rhythm. Her heart hammered, so scared, so resistant, in her chest, but she ignored it and plunged in the dance with the prince.

With her prince.

But it was different than any other dance. It was intimate, connected, and emotional. Quinn enjoyed the feel of his fingers resting on the small of her back and their interlaced hands. The simple way he guided her body.

Untamed emotions flowed through her, along with the music and dance. Butterfly wings flapped and caressed her heart with every beat. Nerves jittered through her bones. Not the normal jittery nerves she'd get before a show. No, these were the nerves that made her fear messing up, the nerves of getting too close—the nerves of losing the things she loved.

And she did not want to mess up, not with Emrys.

He twisted her around and pulled her into a tight hold.

It was a dance for enemies and lovers. It started with an intense hatred for each other with quick and sharp tango positions. But at the halfway point, the story changed and softened. And turned intimate and close.

"So, you can follow," he breathed into her hair.

"Of course I can."

"You're normally so controlled. I wasn't sure you would let me lead for once."

Emrys whipped her out like a lasso before slowly, sensually reeling her back until the sides of their noses touched. His scent made her insides quiver. And she wanted nothing more than for him to tilt his head slightly and brush their lips together.

She was hungry in a way she never knew she could feel.

Tango was defined by its sharp and precise feet movements. Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow. Passion. Hatred. Heat. Lust.

Their tension was a tightrope. Electricity sparked between them. He slid his hand up her thigh, and she shivered. Her whole body felt alight with fireflies, buzzing and warming her soul. She told a story with her feet. A play of seduction and yarning. She tracked her fingers along his chest, curling into his chiseled pectorals as she twirled around him.

The movements became quick and heated. Angry and burned. Fast. Whip. Fast. Whip. A play of interlocking feet. Synchronized enemies and warring nations. Fire split the air between them, consuming their motion.

Pain rippled through Quinn's feet. The lack of calluses made the dance incredibly painful. It was like running a marathon in slippers.

He pulled her into a twirling lift. Holding. Supporting. Controlling. A move that required total trust. Total release. It ended in a fish dive, and if they messed up, she would fall on her face. But he held her tight—safe.

Passion surged between them.

As the dance progressed, the movements grew slower and slower. In their final step, he dipped her before drawing her by the nape of her neck. Their eyes met, their lips hovering, nearly touching each other.

A spark burst between them .

She wanted more than anything for him to lean in and kiss her. But instead, he said, "I don't think anyone could say your dancing isn't passionate now."

"I think you're a little like poison." She panted, her chest rising frantically with every gasp. "You wreak so much havoc in my heart."

"Funny because I was thinking the same thing." His fingers laced into the hair behind her ears, and she shivered beneath his touch. "You make me want to give you want you want." He paused, his lips gliding along her jaw. "You make me desire nothing else."

She couldn't take it anymore. She wanted him. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Desperate and hungry. But he didn't move to kiss her.

"You destroy me." His lips stroked her ear, and her whole body quivered.

"It seems mutual." Her breath hitched.

"Yes." He cupped her face and moved in to kiss her, their lips barely touching—

Shocked gasps forced them apart, ruining the moment. Still panting, a twinge of frustration stroked through her bones. The passion inside Quinn wilted like a dying rose, and she jolted back and stepped away from Emrys as she noticed their audience.

"Wonderful job, dancers," the Royalle Ballet director said, trying to break the tension and shock cascading through the room. "We will announce our new apprentices in tomorrow's newspaper."