Page 56 of A Dance of Water

Tharen waved the smoke away. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were practiced in blowing…" Bastian reached across Luella and slapped the mage’s shoulder. "Smoke," Tharen added languidly. "Practiced in blowing smoke."

Her brows furrowed. She knew there was something lecherous in his words, but she was not versed in the art of bedroom activities to know his true meaning.

The smoke lingered on her lips and filled her mouth with a tartness, mingling with the wine, making her head fuzzy.

Rich berries, tangy and ripe… "Rys?"

Tharen inclined his head, wrapping his lips around the end of the cigar. She tried not to notice how she had just had that in her mouth. A stolen joining of their lips.

"Like I would smoke anything less," Tharen commented.

Her head felt heavy all of a sudden. "I didn’t want to smoke."

"But you did. What’s this, thinking you had a choice?" Tharen rested his arms behind his head, eyes falling closed as he spoke. "I thought you knew you weren’t allowed choices anymore."

A shadow fell over her thighs, and she craned her head, seeing a cloaked male standing before her, and even further behind him, the King stared her down from his perch on his throne. She could never ignore the dragon shifter; his presence followed her everywhere.

"Princess Luella," said Graves, holding out a gloved palm, urging her to stand.

She extricated her body from where it was nestled between Bastian and Tharen, the overheated feeling not leaving her, even without their bodies stifling hers.

She huffed, twitching slightly. The raven shifter’s gloved palm encased hers, and he took her in—the flush to her pale skin, the way her hands shook slightly, finally settling on her blown pupils.

"You let her smoke?" Graves directed the question to Tharen, ignoring Bastian.

Tharen scoffed. "Like it’s immediately my fault?"

Bastian took a deep swallow of his wine. As he sipped, he spokein her mind.Go with Graves, pet. He’ll let you escape for the rest of the evening in privacy.

The raven shifter’s hand tightened around hers. "Come, Luella," he urged before pulling her into the throng of revelers.

As they passed by the throne, she felt Vale’s green eyes boring hotly into her flesh; it was as though the thick material of her gown was not even there for the way his eyes consumed her. She shivered, feeling the threads inside her tug andtug.

Graves navigated through the mass of dancing bodies until he came to a stop at a small alcove cut into one of the far walls.

Private.

Her shoulders fell.

Thank the gods.

She couldbreathe.

There was a curtain made of blue silk. Graves pulled it shut, trapping her and him in a swath of icy secrecy.

Suddenly, she found it harder to breathe.

"We’re alone," Graves announced. "You don’t have to play their games any longer."

She did not turn to look at him. "No. Just yours."

A rustle of fabric, and then he swept closely by her side, coming to sit on one of the cozy cushions. A small, circular table stood before it, holding a few empty glasses and a singular flame that flickered weakly. Her mouth was parched. She needed something to wash away the sweetness sticking to her tongue and lips. She could taste the wine and Rys on herself.

Luella met Graves’s eyes. Still like lapis lazuli—he looked the same as the male who had first swept her away in the night on his valiant steed. It wasshewho had changed.

She perched on the edge of the cushion. "Why did you bring me here?"

Graves removed a glove, laying the leather on top of his lap. With his bare hand, he pushed his cowl under his chin. The scar along the side of his face seemed harsher in the dim light. His skin was tanned, and the back of his hand was littered with tiny, pale scars. He was a map of violence. She wanted to trace the lines on his skin and discover his secrets.

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