Chapter 4 Elena Heart – POV
Dark golden suit. Tailored to perfection, the fabric catching the light like molten metal. His mask was ordinary, plain black, covering only his eyes, the kind anyone could buy from any street vendor. But the face beneath it was not ordinary.
His hair was dark. Almost black, falling in careless waves across his forehead. His jaw was sharp, clean-shaven, the kind of jaw that belonged on a warrior or a statue. And his eyes...
His eyes were blue. Not the pale, icy blue of the northern lords. Not the soft, watery blue of the southern poets. These were deep. Storm-dark. The blue of a winter sea right before a ship wrecks.
He was smiling at me.
A slow, easy smile. Wolfgrin. The kind of smile that said I already know your secrets, but I want to hear you lie to me anyway.
My heart stuttered. I hated that it stuttered.
He stopped before me. Close. Too close. I could smell his cologne, something woodsy and sharp, like pine and smoke and old leather.
"Lady," he said, his voice low and warm. He bowed, not deeply, just enough to be polite. "I don't believe we've met. I would have remembered."
I raised an eyebrow behind my red mask. "Would you?"
"Oh yes." His blue eyes traced my face, my bare shoulders, the curve of my red lips. "Red is my favorite color."
Red like blood, I thought. Red like hearts. Red like the gown I'm wearing to ruin the king.
But I didn't know him.
He wasn't the king, the king was late, the king was cruel, the king had dark hair and blue eyes but so did half the men in this hall. This man was just a stranger. A handsome stranger with a wolfgrin and a golden suit.
And I needed intel.
The king hadn't arrived yet. Why not gather information from someone who seemed so trustworthy? So easy-going? So clearly eager to talk?
"Elena," I said, giving him my false name. "Elena Vance."
"Vance," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Southern vineyards?"
"Among other things."
He smiled again. That wolfgrin. It might have made me swoon if I were a different girl, a softer girl, a girl who hadn't been trained to feel nothing but the mission.
I was not that girl.
"Call me Dark," he said.
I laughed. Actually laughed. "Dark? That's the best you can do?"
"It's honest." He offered his arm. "Everyone wears masks tonight, Lady Vance. At least mine admits it's a mask. Walk with me?"
I hesitated. One second. Two.
Then I placed my hand on his arm. His bicep was hard beneath the golden silk. A warrior's arm. A killer's arm.
Interesting.
He led me toward a side table where a servant in white gloves poured glasses of deep ruby wine.
"Red for the lady in red," Dark said, taking two glasses. He handed one to me. His fingers brushed mine. Warm. Deliberate.
I took the glass but did not drink.
"Not thirsty?" he asked, watching me.
"Cautious," I corrected. "A woman alone at a masquerade must be careful."
His blue eyes glittered behind his black mask. "Are you alone, Lady Vance?"
"Tonight? Yes." I turned the glass in my hand, watching the wine catch the light. "Tomorrow? Who knows."
He laughed. A real laugh, low and rough. "I like you."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough." He stepped closer. Not touching, but near. Near enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. "You're not like the others. They're all pretending to be something they're not. But you?" His gaze dropped to my red lips. "You know exactly what you are."
And what am I? I almost asked. But I didn't. Because I knew the answer. A weapon. A liar. A knife wrapped in silk.
Instead, I smiled. "Perhaps I'm pretending to know."
"Perhaps." He raised his glass. "To pretending, then."
I clinked my glass against his. And still did not drink.
The hall was growing crowded. The music had shifted to something faster, more frantic. Couples spun across the dance floor, their masks slipping, their laughter sharp and desperate.
"It's too warm in here," Dark said, leaning close so I could hear him over the music. "Walk with me to the balcony. Fresh air."
It was a line. An old one. The kind of line men used to get women alone in the shadows.
I knew it. He knew I knew it.
He smiled anyway. Why not? I thought. The king isn't here yet. And this man, this "Dark"—might know something useful. Courtiers talk when they think a pretty girl is listening.
"Lead the way," I said.
He offered his arm again. I took it. We walked through the crowd, past the laughing lords and gossiping ladies, past the sweating servants and the sweating dancers. No one stopped us. No one even looked.
But someone was watching. I felt it. A prickle at the back of my neck. A weight between my shoulder blades. I glanced back over my shoulder. The throne was still empty.
But the shadows behind it seemed darker than before.
The balcony was a wide terrace overlooking the palace gardens. Below, fountains glittered in the moonlight. Topiary animals, wolves, dragons, eagles, stood frozen in the hedges. The air was cool and sweet, smelling of night-blooming jasmine and rain-soaked earth.
Dark released my arm and leaned against the stone railing, his back to the gardens, his blue eyes fixed on me.
"You're very beautiful," he said. Not like a compliment. Like a fact.
"Thank you," I said. "You're very forward."
"Life is short. Kings are cruel. Why waste time on manners?"
I laughed again. I was laughing too much. I needed to stop. Focus, I told myself. Mission. Vengeance. The king.
"The king," I said, as if the thought had just occurred to me. "Where is he? I hoped to see him tonight."
Dark's smile didn't change. But something in his eyes shifted. Darkened. "He'll come," he said. "He always comes. But tell me, Lady Vance—" He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he was eager to solve. "Why does a southern vineyard heiress care about seeing the king?"
Because I'm going to destroy him, I thought. But I smiled, soft and mysterious, and said: "Curiosity. They say he's a monster."
"They say many things."
"Are they true?"
Dark was quiet for a long moment. The music drifted from the hall, muffled now, like a heartbeat heard through a wall.
Then he said, "He's not a monster. He's a man who was taught that love is a lie and mercy is a weakness. And he learned the lesson too well."
Something in my chest tightened. I ignored it. "You speak as if you know him," I said carefully.
Dark shrugged. "Everyone in Drakmor knows him. Or thinks they do." He pushed off the railing, stepping closer to me. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.
"What do you want, Elena Vance? Really?"
His head on a spike, I thought.
But his eyes were so blue.
And his voice was so warm. And for one terrible, traitorous second, I almost told him the truth. Then I remembered the cottage. My father's scarred hands. My mother's sleepless nights. The mansion in ruins on the hill.
I remembered who I was.
"A dance," I said instead, stepping back. "I came for a dance. And perhaps—" I let my smile turn coy. "Perhaps a bit of danger."
Dark's wolfgrin returned. "Danger," he repeated. "You're standing on a balcony with a stranger who calls himself Dark. At a masquerade hosted by a tyrant. My lady, you are drowning in danger."
"Good," I said. "I swim well."
He laughed. Threw his head back and laughed, and the sound was so genuine, so unguarded, that I almost forgot to hate him.
Almost.
"The king," he said suddenly, his laughter fading. "You asked where he is."
I nodded.
Dark looked past me, through the glass doors, toward the empty throne in the hall.
"He's watching," he said softly. "He's always watching. The question is—" His blue eyes met mine again. Piercing. Knowing. "What does he see when he looks at you?"
The hairs rose on the back of my neck. Before I could answer the music swelled through the open doors behind us, a waltz I barely recognized through the blood rushing in my ears.
Dark stood motionless, waiting for an answer I didn't have. What did the king see when he looked at me?
The question hung between us like smoke, thick and impossible to breathe. I turned from the balcony railing, meaning to step back inside, to find safety in the crowd and candlelight.
Dark moved faster. His hand caught my wrist, not roughly, but with the absolute certainty of someone who had never been refused.
The stone pillar pressed cold against my spine as he crowded me against it, his body blocking the ballroom, the moonlight, every possible escape.
"You're not running." His thumb traced the inside of my wrist, feeling my pulse hammer there. "Not yet."