Page 4 of The Stars are Dying

One night. How often had I dreamed of having one night to release that kind of expression?

I thought his eyes were upon me with the vibrating awareness. I wondered what color they were. It shouldn’t matter, but I skipped through green, blue, brown… None felt right for the shallow fire that rippled over me.

The song became elevated, an acoustic rhythm running straight through me. The pitch changed direction as if I were standing in the middle of an orchestra with instruments taking their turn around me. My feet glided toward the center of the room, only responding as the music coaxed.

I had nothing to lose and a moment of carefree performance to gain. Not only for him, but myself.

So I danced.

My movements push and pulled, with gravity flowing the light materials of my skirts and what was draped around my shoulders, attached to my wrists. The air cooled my skin, wrapping around the few inches of bare midriff that heated when I stepped light and twirled slow. I felt myself dancing through the darkness between stars. Each time they touched me I erupted with exhilaration, not ever wanting to stop.

I looked up and found the starry sky blinking back at me through the glass roof. Something about the night always awakened me more than the daytime.

When my gaze fell back down, I remembered the stars weren’t my only spectators.

His fingers stopped circling his wine, and though I still couldn’t see his face, the music gave me a surge of confidence to edge closer to him. Until I forgot his presence once more.

My leg eased up sideways, my body curved, and my hand curled around my ankle, testing my flexibility, as the song grew to a climax. Then the notes flared, coming down like a flurry, and I let go, my leg hooking to spin my body in time.

I felt alive. Free. This kind of exhilaration topped my untold proclivity for fighting, though both gave similar thrills.

I didn’t know when I’d come closer to the stranger, but in my high of adrenaline intrigue seized me, and before I knew it, I was right before him. But he didn’t look up.

My hand reached for his chin…

So fast I couldn’t make a sound, a grip lashed around my wrist, disorienting me for a second before I blinked back to clarity as I was spun around. The new impression against my back snapped my awareness to my newly compromised position.

His hold pinning my wrist to my shoulder loosened.

My heart thrummed wildly, unknowing of what to do. To my error I’d overstepped. I couldn’t call out like any of the other women in danger—if Hektor were to find me here…

“You are not what I expected.”

I took a moment to breathe against the silvery gravel of his voice. His fingers shot sparks across my skin as they trailed down the length of my arm, occasionally slowing as though he were taking in every one of my silver markings.

“Oh?” It was all I could muster as fear of an oddly spirited kind tightened my throat.

“You move as if you make the music that calls to you.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, nor why I didn’t expect the commentary on my performance, but it heated my cheeks. “I hope it was to your satisfaction.”

My breath stuttered when his fingers combed through my hair, tipping the wavy silk tresses to expose my shoulder.

“Very much so,” he said, and I shivered with the brush of his fingers that began on my scar. Like a phantom touch. “But more importantly, I hope it was to yours. It seems freedom becomes you when you dance, and I have to wonder what it is that makes you feel caged.”

I couldn’t understand his words though they stroked something within me. I stiffened at where his attention was fixed—on the long, unruly imperfection Hektor claimed ruined me. He said he loved me with it though most would not.

“Who did this to you?” His tone grated with bitter-cold notes.

I thought I saw tendrils of black smoke snaking around the edges of my vision, but I couldn’t move, unsure of where the anger rippling through me had come from. “I don’t know.” My reply snapped me back to our situation. Sense had become blanketed by the enchantment of his skin on mine, but reservation prevailed. He had no right—should have no care—to know any of my history.

His other hand found the cut of my skirt, and while it tingled, his roaming faltered. By the time he found the small sheath empty I whirled.

He was too fast. Once again, my action was trapped by his quick intervention. He fixed his eyes on the lethal point he’d intercepted from being lodged through his ribs and then trailed down the wavy purple length, over the cross guard crafted into beautiful black wings.

Only when his eyes lifted to mine did my firm stance slacken. I stared into irises alive like molten ore, glittering a golden amber that reminded me new dawns were a beautiful thing. Everything I’d seen, from coin to jewels, was now an impersonation of what treasure should look like, and more importantly, the value it held.

“A stormstone dagger,” he observed with approval.

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