Page 55 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows
Everything is decadent, from the decor to the ornate gowns that whisper across the parquet floor. A string quartet weaves its spell of elegance through the hall. The class between this recently renovated Art déco wing and tonight’s Regency theme lends a special flair. It’s enhanced by the variety of music, from an orchestral piece to a fast-paced modern tune.
We pass by a stand where guests hunch over beads and feathers, piecing together their own masks. A woman in a pearl-studded gown blows across a golden design to dry the paint.
With half his striking face concealed by a Venetian mask, Zagreus smirks. “Wouldn’t you have preferred to craft our own?” His voice rings with a playful lilt.
I scoff, nodding. “Not funny, Z. And you kept the gold and deep red for yourself and gave me the silver and lavender one because?” I counter, stepping closer as another wave of guests filters in behind us.
“Well, my wardrobe does demand a certain level of grandeur.”
Behind my own Venetian mask, my eyes roll so far back in my head that I tell him, “I can see my brain.”
That earns me a chuckle. I shift the mask into place, the cool edges firm against my skin, and glance sideways at Zagreus. How he unearthed our strictly ballroom outfit is beyond me.
This man never ceases to amaze me. Draped in an emerald green tailcoat with intricate embroidery, his curly dark hair tamed and styled to perfection. The once clean-shavenMiami Viceaficionado looks born into this setting.
“I love that you introduce me to new TV shows that broaden my fashion horizons,” he whispers into my ear as he leads me closer to the dance floor, squeezing my fingers tighter.
I don’t budge, pretending to admire my surroundings while I dodge any dancing plans he might spring on me. Trepidation creeps in, and my shoulders stiffen.
He clears his throat and drags my attention back to him. My eyes roam over his masquerade getups, and my mouth waters at the ridges of his muscles on display when his usual attire favors a looser fit. Will that inspire him to reconsider some of his wardrobe choices from here on? Whatever style he chooses, I’ll adapt.
At this very moment, Zagreus exudes the commanding presence of an actual Greek god, while I stand adrift, out of place in comparison.
As if sensing my uneasiness, he reassures me, “With or without your favorite Victorian goth threads, and even with your mask on, you’ll remain the most devastatingly handsome one here, you know.”
Before I can retort, all eyes turn to the stage where Layla stands in a beautiful sapphire dress, which is a tad more feminine than her usual garb. She delivers a toast about generosity and the importance of the night’s charity, and Zagreus nudges me toward the donation table. The pride in his eyes when I slip away to leave my hefty contribution will forever be etched in mymemory. When I return, he waits, fingers ghosting over the lapel of my coat.
“Théodore,” he murmurs. One word, and my breath catches. His hand tightens around mine, a silent thank you for my choice. The right choice. A choice that redeems a fragment of my soul.
“You were right all along. The money was soiled. Tonight’s cause is important. Being here was important to you. You’re important to me. Cutting our time together short because of my recklessness would be foolish. I’ll keep making amends… or go to any stupid ball you want.”
The music swells, but I skip the dance floor. Instead, we observe others moving in sync while munching on finger foods. Soon, the night blurs in a haze of spinning figures and laughter muffled by masks.
Startling me, Zagreus eventually breathes into my ear, “I love you.”
The words settle deep inside me, warm and undeniable. I press a kiss to his palm, my own admission falling from my lips. “I love you, too… so soon… so much… so right!”
For years, I could count on no one but myself to get through each day. Then Zagreus came along and turned my world upside down. Literally. He made me believe in ancient gods. He made me believe that I could be a better person. He made me believe that we fit together.
And we do, so fucking much. As crazy as it sounds, I am grounded. Wherever we go next, we go together.
It must be why I tilt my head towards the dance floor. The world narrows to his touch, his presence, and his love. “Let’s give themsomething to stare at. Now, come on…” I pause for effect before adding something in a seductive voice… something that I bet the Prince of Hidden Shadows has never been called, and yet he truly is.
“Prince Charming.”
Chapter Twenty-One
DIE A HAPPY MAN
Zagreus
About 3 months later
The late autumn air in Paris is sharp and fresh, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts and warm bread as we weave through the crowd atLe Marché des Enfants Rouges. The oldest covered market in Paris is a mere twenty-minute walk from Théo’s one-bedroom apartment, located in Le Marais, the gayest area in the city of love.
Stalls are brimming with fresh produce. Since it’s almost closing time, vendors call out their last-minute specials in sing-song voices. Tomorrow is a bank holiday—one of many in France—so most people are off today. That’s why we found ourselves here on this sunny Thursday morning.
The icy cold wind cuts through me, and I shiver while my man strides ahead, hands tucked into the pockets of his long dark wool coat. My chest swells at how dashing he looks in his signature Victorian gothic look. White. Burgundy. Black. These days, his chosen palette includes a splash of ink blue or bloodred. The novelty I get a kick out of is when corsets replace his usual vests. My fingers tremble against the stubborn laces, never loosening them fast enough, but my dick approves. Each tug, a foreplay stretched thin, a promise bound tighter than silk. Who knew a corset could turn desire into such exquisite tension? I ought to thank Paris for its odd little boutiques, where Théo has unearthed hidden treasures since we moved here.
