Chapter 97 “…like a sin dressed for confession.”
Amarien's POV
I heard the music swell in the distance as I was escorted to Theron's party. It was nothing like the music of the palace. This music blazed in the air with excess and exuberance. I could only imagine what went on behind closed doors.
And when I stoked in. It was everything and more than I could imagine.
The doors open, and the noise hits me like a physical blow.
Music crashes into my chest first, loud and indulgent, a chaotic tangle of drums and strings and frantic rhythm that makes my temples throb. It is anxious music, fevered and reckless, the kind meant to drown thought and summon excess. Laughter rises above it, sharp and careless, soaked in wine and pleasure.
The air is thick.
Incense, sweat, roasted meat, spilt alcohol, too many scents layered together until I feel dizzy. Torches blaze along the walls, their flames licking gold and red across bodies in motion.
Bodies.
Women dance without shame or restraint, silk and skin flashing as they move. Some are bare to the waist, others wrapped in little more than chains and gauze. Men cling to them openly, hands roaming, mouths pressed to necks and shoulders. Wine sloshes freely, goblets passed and refilled without pause. Plates overflow with food, untouched, discarded, half-eaten, in favour of an indulgence more immediate.
I stand frozen at the threshold.
This is the world Theron rules.
And it sickens me.
My silk gown whispers softly as I step forward, the sound almost obscene against the riot around me. I feel painfully out of place, clean, polished, hollow, like a ghost dressed for a life it no longer belongs to.
Then I see him.
He sits at the centre of it all, elevated on a dark throne carved from obsidian and bone. His leather jacket is open at the collar, black and worn, hugging his broad shoulders like a second skin. One arm rests casually along the armrest, fingers relaxed, as though this chaos is nothing more than background noise to him.
Theron.
His icy blue eyes lock onto mine instantly.
Everything else fades.
The smirk curves slowly onto his lips, knowing, amused, dangerous, as if he expected me. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment.
My stomach twists.
When my presence fully registers, the change is immediate.
The music stutters.
Then stops.
One sharp cut of silence slices through the hall, and every dancer freezes mid-motion. Hands still. Laughter dies abruptly in throats. Dozens, no, hundreds, of eyes turn toward me.
I feel them rake over me.
Judging. Wanting. Curious.
Exposed.
Theron rises.
The movement is unhurried, deliberate. He descends the steps of his throne with predatory grace, boots echoing softly against stone. The crowd parts instinctively for him, bodies drawing back as though pulled by an invisible force.
He stops in front of me.
Up close, he is overwhelming. The heat of him. The sharp scent of leather and smoke. His eyes are glacial, unreadable, yet alive with something sharp and amused.
"Well," he says lightly, his voice smooth as aged wine. "If I'd known grief could make a woman this devastating, I might have thrown this banquet sooner."
A ripple of nervous laughter passes through the crowd.
I don't smile.
"You look…" his gaze drags slowly over me, unapologetic, "…like a sin dressed for confession."
My fingers curl at my side.
He extends his hand.
"Dance with me."
It isn't a request.
The musicians hesitate, then, at a sharp tilt of his head, they begin again. But this time, the music is different. Slow. Soft. Strings humming low and intimate, like a heartbeat settling.
I stare at his hand.
This hand has killed. Has commanded. Has taken.
It is steady.
I place my hand in his.
Warmth floods me instantly, shocking in its intensity. His grip is firm but not rough, fingers closing around mine with possessive ease. He draws me closer, one hand settling at my waist as if it belongs there.
We begin to move.
The world shifts.
The crowd circles us, giving space, their murmurs blending into a low hum. Torchlight flickers over Theron's sharp features, catching the faint scar at his jaw, the silver glint in his eyes.
In his arms, something traitorous stirs.
A warmth spreads through me, not comfort, not safety, but awareness. He is solid. Real. Present in a way grief has stolen from everything else.
"You dance like the river goddess," he murmurs, lips near my ear.
My breath catches.
"Lovely. Careful," he adds, almost teasing. "Charming, but predictable."
I say nothing to his cold sarcasm. It felt like he was ragebaiting me to carry on with what I was here for.
I promise I won't hesitate when I have the chance.
His eyes search my face, intense, piercing. I have the strange, unnerving sense that he sees everything, the sleepless nights, the screaming, the empty ache carved into my bones.
"I know what they took from you," he says softly. "And I know what it cost."
My chest tightens.
For a moment, just a moment, I want to believe him.
Then my fingers brush the hidden weight at my side.
The knife.
Cold. Reassuring.
The music swells, then slowly fades, the final note trembling into silence. Applause breaks out, hesitant but eager. Theron releases me, though his gaze never leaves mine.
"Shall we take a walk?" he asks lightly. "This place can be… loud."
My pulse hammers.
Outside. Fewer eyes. Fewer witnesses.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me.
He smiles again, sharp, satisfied, and offers his arm.
I take it.
Together, we walk toward the doors, past revellers already returning to their excess, past wine and flesh and noise. The night air waits beyond, cool and dark.
And as we step out toward the lake, the knife presses gently against my side.
I won't hesitate to use it when we are finally alone.