Something lit in his face. Excitement. Determination. Both, maybe. He nodded quickly, too quickly, and drained the rest of his wine in one swallow. “Right,” he muttered, already half-rising from the bench. “I’ll go find her. Make sure she’s all right.”
“You know he is going to make sure she isall right,” Santi said with a wink, his grin lazy but knowing.
Before I could answer, the barmaid returned, hefting a vat nearly as tall as my arm. She smirked as she set it down betweenus, the froth catching lantern light. “The night is young,” she said, filling each of our cups to the brim.
Santiago muttered something about youth being wasted if you didn’t drink it. Malachi only huffed, half a laugh, half disapproval, before draining half his own mug in one swallow.
I drank too. It was sharp and sweet all at once, fire and fruit rolling down my throat. The edges of the room softened. The ache in my chest did too.
The drum shifted. Voices quieted. A stringed instrument took up the rhythm.
My thoughts went, as they always did, to Aeryn. To the nights I sat at his bedside, wiping sweat from his brow, coaxing him to drink water when he was too far gone inside himself. To the way every choice I made bent around him, as if my whole life had been narrowed into the shape of a guardian.
What would it be like to set that down? To care only for myself for once? To want something only because it was mine to want? The thought was impossible. Dangerous. But it lingered all the same. I felt selfish for it.
I remembered Malachi’s almost kiss—the weight of his hands framing my face, the raw honesty in it. A different kind of danger. One that called to me now.
When I turned, he was already watching me. He leaned closer, his voice low, gaze steady. “Dance with me.”
The words weren’t a question. But they weren’t a command either. His hand extended, palm open, waiting.
I hesitated. My pulse pounded. Then, before I could think better of it, I placed my hand in his.
He led me into the open space. His hand settled at my waist, the other folding mine into his. We moved slowly, the music dictating a rhythm of fluid movement.
I felt every point of contact. His hand steadyat the small of my back, large enough to span half of me. His chest brushed mine when the steps drew us close—solid, unyielding, reminding me just how much taller he was. He eclipsed me easily, and yet he bent to meet me, his body folding into the space I occupied as if it were the only place he was meant to be.
I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Gold eyes burned down at me, catching the low lantern light, watching every breath I took as if each belonged to him.
When he leaned nearer, his breath grazed my temple, warm and steady. The world around us blurred, reduced to drumbeats in the floorboards and the press of his palm against my spine.
He slowed us to a near-stop, his hand leaving mine only to rise and cup my face, fingers gentle against my jaw. The noise of the tavern dulled to nothing.
“I think I hated you when I met you,” he said, voice low, raw. Too lost in ale to lie.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I think I hated you too.”
His gaze deepened, searching mine.
“But you hated,” I whispered. “Past tense. So… do you still?”
Silence stretched. His thumb brushed once against my cheek, tender, hesitant. Then he spoke, softer than the music.
“Does the moon hate the sun?”
I frowned faintly, lips parting. “What?”
He exhaled, the sound heavy and steady all at once. “The moon does not hate the sun,” he said again. “It always comes back to the light.” His voice roughened, almost breaking. “They chase each other across the sky,” he murmured. “Always separate… but never free of the other.”
He spoke like we were written in the sky.
I had spent years pretending I didn’t want to be seen. But for a heartbeat… I wanted him to see me.
The music shifted, the rhythm quickening, drumbeats thrummingthrough the floorboards. Malachi’s hand tightened on mine before he spun me outward and back, a blur of skirts and lanternlight.
When I landed, my back was pressed flush against his chest. His breath feathered my temple, steady, as the new rhythm pulled us into its song. His body rolled with mine, guiding me into the beat.
One hand slid to the small of my back, coaxing me forward just enough that he could watch the sway of my hips against him. Then both hands were on me, broad palms circling and gripping.