CHAPTER FOUR
TO DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
he wine swirled dark and heady in my goblet, offering more comfort thanT any of the elaborate dishes arrayed before me.
I had been drinking steadily since the feast began, seeking to dull the edges of my thoughts as I watched King Valen from beneath lowered lashes.
The grand dining hall of Vareth Palace rose like a cathedral to excess.
Gothic spires climbed the walls, their shadows dancing with each flicker of flame. Ancient stained glass caught the light, casting pools of color across stone floors and white tablecloths. The hall breathed with Vareth’s history, every carved column and vaulted ceiling a testament to generations who had feasted here before me. Tonight, those same walls witnessed yet another
unholy bargain.
My father selling me to the Blood King.
I tipped my goblet back, draining the last of the sweet Varethian red. A servant materialized at my elbow, refilling it with practiced efficiency. I offered a faint nod, grateful for the refill, and the information I knew she brought me. This particular informant had proven useful in the past. Her plain face and quiet demeanor rendered her invisible to most nobles. They didn’t know she’d once served as a handmaiden to a Nocthari noblewoman before
fleeing to Vareth.
She was exactly who I wanted to see.
Nodding toward the far wall, I slipped away from my seat at the high table, glass in hand, drifting through the crowd with unassuming grace. The
gown I wore tonight was slate blue—not the defiant black from earlier, but still somber enough to make my feelings clear to any who cared to notice.
The heavy silk whispered against the stone floor as I walked, my posture perfect despite the wine warming my blood. Years of rigid instruction had at least given me the ability to appear composed, even when rage and fear warred within me.
I wove between clusters of courtiers, their laughter too bright, their voices too loud as they performed their rehearsed merriment. They parted before me like water around a stone. None met my gaze, yet all watched with hungry eyes. I was the spectacle tonight, the sacrificial bride, and they devoured every nuance of my bearing with the same appetite they brought to the feast.
The servant girl—Elara, I recalled—stood near one of the smaller doorways, her back pressed against the cold stone as if hoping to melt into it.
Even in Vareth’s livery, she carried herself differently. A certain rigidity to her that spoke of Nocthari upbringing. That peculiar blend of subservience and constant vigilance that marked those raised in the Blood Kingdom.
“My princess,” she murmured as I approached, barely lifting her gaze.
Her hands trembled around the silver pitcher, knuckles white with strain.
“Walk with me a moment,” I said, keeping my voice light enough that any onlookers would see only a noblewoman issuing instructions to a servant.
I gestured toward a shadowed alcove where we might speak more privately, though still within sight. To vanish entirely would invite speculation I could ill afford tonight.
“Tell me of your wedding customs,” I said, slipping a small pouch of silver into her palm. “Tell me what to expect.”
She blinked at the pouch, then closed her fingers around it. Her voice came halting, cautious.
“Yes, Princess. Nocthar weddings—they’re... different than yours. Meant to last. Even after—“ she hesitated, “—after death.”
“After death?” I asked, trying to keep the alarm from my voice.
She nodded, quick and jerky, before looking away. “You speak your vows and exchange blood. From the palm or finger, normally. Not much. Just enough to… to bind.” Her voice dropped lower, thick with warning. “It’s not all for show, Princess. Blood’s got... weight. Power. Once shared, it can’t be taken back.”
I suppressed a shudder, the wine suddenly bitter on my tongue. “And if I refuse this... blood exchange?”
Elara’s eyes snapped to mine, wide with fear. “You can’t, Princess. No one refuses the King. Not if they wish to stay breathing.” She risked a glance over my shoulder, and her face lost what little color it still had. “He’s watching you even now.”
I didn’t need to turn. I could feel Valen’s gaze burning into my back, a physical weight between my shoulder blades. The hair at my nape stood on end, my body recognizing the predator even as my mind fought to maintain composure.
“Thank you, Elara,” I said quietly, fingering the stem of my goblet.
“You’ve been most helpful.”
With a curtsy, Elara melted back into the crowd, leaving me alone with knowledge that chilled me far more than the night air seeping through the stone walls.
A blood exchange. A bond meant to last beyond death.
I had never believed in life after death. Not really. The priests spoke of the eternal light of the Void, of peaceful reunions and golden fields, but their words always rang hollow. Too polished to be true. Pretty myths to comfort the dying. And I had never found comfort in lies.
The people of this kingdom seemed steeped in superstition, clinging to old magics and older fears. But fear has roots. It does not endure so long without cause.
I sipped my wine to hide the tremor in my hand.
Across the room, I felt Valen’s eyes again. He sat at my father’s right hand, the position of highest honor. The two kings could not have presented a more striking contrast. My father, aging and austere in traditional Varethian white and gold, and Valen, vibrant and deadly in the deep crimson of Nocthar. The Butcher leaned forward, saying something that made my father nod gravely.
Whatever bargain they had struck, it clearly pleased them both. My fate, sealed with handshakes and treaties while I stood by, powerless.
A flash of ceremonial gold caught my eye—Darius, moving through the crowd with military precision. His uniform gleamed in the candlelight, meticulously pressed and adorned with the captain’s insignia he had earned through years of loyal service. Service that would end with his death if Valen so chose. I wondered if the Blood King could detect a mere touch… or if Darius would have to commit something truly scandalous to be separated from his life.
I watched him approach, his steps slowing as he neared. His face revealed nothing—years of court training evident in his neutral expression—but I knew him well enough to see the concern in the slight furrow between his brows, the tension in his shoulders.
“Princess,” he said, bowing with formal precision. “I trust you are enjoying the festivities?”
I offered only a quick nod, my gaze deliberately lowered. “Captain,” I replied, loud enough for those nearby to hear. “The palace guard has outdone itself with security this evening.”
His eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, to the high table where Valen sat watching us. “It is our duty to ensure the safety of the royal family and our... distinguished guests.”
Then, so subtle it could’ve passed for a slip of balance, he stepped closer —just enough for me to catch the faint scent of steel and smoke on his collar.
His voice dipped low, meant only for me.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. What would I say? Keep your distance, for my soon-to-be husband will kill you?
“Meet me,” he continued softly. “After the feast. In our usual place.”
An ache bloomed in my chest. Not in pity for him, although I did feel saddened our final interactions required such distance.
No, it was because I no longer had the freedom to say yes. After so many years of fleeting—but freely chosen—intimacy, I could no longer allow him to touch me.
Because I knew, with certainty, Valen would make good on his threat if I did.
I stepped back, restoring the proper distance between us. Straightening my spine, I lifted my chin and focused on my new role—the Blood King’s future bride.
“Your diligence is noted, Captain,” I said. The words were colder than he deserved, but necessary. “I am certain my future husband appreciates your commitment to protocol.”
A pained glint flashed in Darius’s eyes, there and gone in an instant. He heard my meaning, the warning beneath my dismissal, but I knew he didn’t want to listen.
“Of course, Princess,” he said, bowing again. “I shall continue my rounds. Good evening.”
I forced myself not to watch him go. I couldn’t dwell on him any longer. I was not his, and I never would be. I needed to keep my focus on the most dangerous predator in the room.
I turned my attention deliberately to my fiancé, studying him with the detached curiosity I might give a venomous serpent behind glass.
He was, I had to admit, unbearably handsome. The stories of the Butcher had conjured images of a monster in human form, but Valen’s appearance offered no sign of the cruelty beneath. High cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips perpetually on the verge of a cold smile. He had a raw beauty that stunned even me.
But it was his eyes that betrayed him. Black as a moonless night and just as depthless. They revealed nothing while seeming to see everything.
I hated him. I hated his perfect face and the power he wielded so casually.
I hated how he had reduced me to a token in a political exchange.
And most of all, I hated the heat that flared in my stomach when he looked at me. The traitorous way my body responded to his presence.
“Admiring your future husband?”
Ira’s voice sliced through my thoughts. I turned to find my stepmother watching me, her face a mask of composed disapproval. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate coil that emphasized the regal tilt of her head, and her gown, a deep emerald silk, sparkled with just enough jewels to remind everyone of her station without appearing gauche.
Gods, I hated her more than the man I was soon to marry.
“Contemplating my future,” I corrected, making no effort to hide my distaste. “There is a difference.”
Her lips thinned to a bloodless line. “You would do well to show more enthusiasm, Mireille. King Valen has honored our house with this alliance.”
“Has he?” I arched an eyebrow, emboldened by wine and resignation.
“How fortunate for our house. I shall try to remember that when I am dragged to his kingdom of perpetual twilight and bloodshed.”
“Mind your tongue,” she hissed, keeping her smile fixed for the watching courtiers. “This marriage will secure Vareth’s borders and bring prosperity to both kingdoms. My husband has worked tirelessly to arrange it.”
“How thoughtful of him, truly. A pity his daughter’s happiness never entered the calculation.”
She stepped closer, her perfume—too sweet, too heavy—enveloping me like a smothering cloud.
“Oh, but he did consider his daughter’s happiness.” A cold, familiar smile spread across her face. “Did you not know? King Valen first requested Cordelia, the true princess of Vareth. Your father negotiated for him to take you instead. How disappointing that must have been.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, the goblet nearly slipping from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
“I suggest you be on your best behavior for your husband-to-be,” she continued, her voice low. “We wouldn’t want the King of Nocthar more dissatisfied with this agreement than he already is.”
The truth that I had been a substitute for Cordelia, that I was ever the unwanted bride, had loosened something in me, some final tether of restraint.
I met her gaze and smiled, small and cruel. “I know how to satisfy a man, Ira,” I said, my voice syrup-sweet. “Unlike you.”
The color leeched from her face before flooding back in an angry flush.
Her hand twitched at her side, the same hand that had struck me countless times for lesser impertinence. But we both knew she wouldn’t dare mar my face the night before my betrothal ceremony. Valen might overlook many things, but damaged goods were not among them.
“Enjoy your final nights in Vareth, daughter,” she said, the word daughter twisted into something ugly on her tongue. “I have waited long to be rid of you.”
With that parting shot, she glided away, every inch the insulted queen.
I drained my wine and set the empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray, my mind reeling. Valen had wanted Cordelia—golden, legitimate Cordelia— and settled for me.
It should have been liberating. Proof that this match would always be merely political. But instead... it hollowed me.
Because, ever the discarded daughter, I would always be the one led to slaughter.
The musicians had shifted their melody, the lively conversation piece fading into something slower, more deliberate. Like a sigh through ancient stone, the notes seemed to transform the very air of the banquet hall.
Courtiers moved with practiced synchronicity, clearing a space between
carved pillars where shadows pooled deep against the walls. The dance floor —an unspoken tradition at such gatherings—felt more like the staging ground for an execution. Mine, perhaps.
I watched the transformation from my position. The wine had left me pleasantly numb, dulling my fear but sharpening my senses. An odd contradiction, making the scene before me appear both distant and unnervingly immediate.
Ladies in jewel-toned silks and lords in formal black stepped back to form a ring around the impromptu dance floor, their faces alight with anticipation. Few entertainments rivaled watching their king’s illegitimate daughter dance with the notorious Butcher.
I felt him approach before I saw him. Something in the air changed, grew heavier, as though his presence altered the very composition of the space around him. The courtiers nearest me stiffened slightly, their conversations faltering mid-word.
I did not turn. Not immediately. I allowed myself those final moments of
resistance, however petty.
“Princess.”
His voice echoed just as it had during our private audience—deep, with the faintest accent that rounded his vowels, sounding of distant shores and foreign tongues. A voice accustomed to command, to being obeyed.
I turned, my face a carefully composed mask. King Valen stood before me, one hand extended in unmistakable invitation.
“King Valen,” I greeted, my voice steady despite the sudden dryness in my throat. “You honor me with your attention.”
His lips curved into what might have passed for a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “The honor is mine. I believe custom dictates that we dance together at least once before we are bound before the gods.”
Did this man ever ask for anything, or were all his words merely velvet- wrapped commands?
Before I could roll my eyes, I placed my hand in his.
His touch was a shock to my system, his skin unexpectedly warm. Given the coldness of his reputation, I had half expected a touch of ice. Instead, heat traveled up my arm from the point of contact, unsettling in its intensity.
He led me to the center of the floor with such fluid grace that I had no choice but to follow, my feet moving automatically. A new song began, some ancient Varethian melody that spoke of wars and weddings, blood and
beauty. All the things that had bound and broken my homeland for centuries.
Perhaps our union will be added to their repertoire next.
Valen drew me into the first position, his left hand at my waist, his right still holding mine aloft. My own left hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the fine fabric of his jacket smooth beneath my fingertips as we began to dance.
We were closer than propriety strictly demanded, his face mere inches from mine—close enough that I could see flecks of amber in his otherwise black eyes. Embers floating in a midnight pool.
“You dance well,” he observed, our bodies moving in unison to the three- beat rhythm. “Your tutors did not waste their efforts.”
“Varethian royalty are taught many skills,” I replied, matching his movements with the precision drilled into me since childhood. “Dancing is merely the most public of them.”
We turned together, our steps echoing against stone. Around us, the court watched with undisguised fascination, their faces flickering in and out of shadow. I fixed my gaze on a point just past Valen’s shoulder, unwilling to meet his eyes for fear of what he might read in mine.
“And what skills do you possess that are not for public display?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “I find myself curious about the private face of my future queen.”
The dance carried us in a wide arc across the floor, moving as one despite my internal resistance. His hand at my waist was firm, guiding me through the choreography with confident accuracy.
Each step was a silent negotiation of control—he led, I followed—but only because I allowed it, and because the dance demanded it.
“Perhaps my private skills should remain private,” I countered, my voice equally quiet, but far firmer. “Mystery has its own value, after all.”
His lips quirked. “There will be no mysteries between us, Princess. I intend to know every facet of you. To uncover every secret.”
The threat beneath his words stirred a familiar wave of contempt, even as the heat of his touch remained disturbingly pleasant.
He hadn’t wanted me, the bastard princess, and now he wanted to know every facet?
His hand shifted slightly at my waist, fingers splaying wider, as though staking claim to more of me. The unexpected intimacy of that small gesture, the proprietary nature of it, sparked something rebellious.
I pulled my hand from his grasp for a beat longer than the dance required,
creating a momentary but noticeable break in our rhythm before returning it with forced poise. A small defiance, witnessed by dozens of courtiers whose whispers immediately intensified.
Valen’s eyes narrowed, though his smile remained fixed in place.
“Careful, little sparrow,” he murmured as he pulled me closer, our bodies now nearly flush. “Your wings are soon to be bound. Do not make me clip them entirely.”
His breath was warm against my ear, carrying the scent of spices and wine. The music crescendoed around us, pulling us into a faster turn. My skirts swirled against his legs, the heavy silk catching between us like a secret.
“Oh, but sparrows sing so very loudly when caged,” I replied, my voice a silken thread of sweetness. “Perhaps you should consider what melodies you wish to hear before you tighten those bindings too severely.”
His hand at my waist twitched, fingers digging into the flesh beneath my gown. Almost enough to hurt. A reminder of the strength he contained, the power he wielded.
“I have heard many songs in my time,” he said, guiding me through a complex series of steps that brought my back against his chest, his breath ghosting across my neck. “From sweet nightingales to proud peacocks—and all of them, eventually, sang for me.”
We spun again, the music swelling around us. My heartbeat quickened, though whether from exertion, fear, or something else entirely, I couldn’t say.
The wine in my system made the room tilt slightly, or perhaps it was the dizzying effect of his body’s warmth. I couldn’t be certain.
I didn’t want to think about being caged, about losing every scrap of freedom I had left. It wasn’t fair that my life could be torn apart by a single vow spoken at an altar.
I was tired of the charade. Tired of playing the well-mannered offering to a man who hadn’t even wanted me.
Gathering courage from the wine and my growing indignation, I leaned slightly closer to him, my lips nearly brushing the edge of his ear.
“Tell me, Butcher,” I whispered, “does it wound your pride to settle for the bastard when you sought the legitimate princess? Does it irk you to dance with the unwanted daughter of Vareth?”
A dangerous stillness overtook him, though our bodies continued the
steps without faltering. I looked up, meeting his gaze directly for the first time since the dance began.
His eyes darkened infinitesimally. Something flickered there—something that might’ve made me step back, if he weren’t holding me so securely.
“Does that trouble you?” he asked, voice a smooth caress. “You believe yourself a poor substitute for your legitimate sister?”
“I merely wonder if you feel cheated in your bargain,” I pressed, emboldened by bitterness. “If perhaps you might prefer to renegotiate with my father for the golden princess instead of settling for his shameful secret.”
His grip on my waist tightened further, a coldness entering his eyes that made my skin prickle with warning.
“Make no mistake, Princess Mireille,” he said, each word precise. “After meeting you, your sister holds no interest for me.”
I pulled back slightly, searching his face for deception, for some hint that he was merely placating the bride he’d been forced to accept. But his expression held steady, those black eyes still revealing nothing.
“Although you do surprise me, Princess,” he continued, his lips curling in
an infuriating smirk.
I tipped my chin, defiant. “How so?”
His smile was a blade, sharp and gleaming. “I expected you to be far more... amenable. Desperate to please. I did not anticipate bite from someone so unwanted.”
“And I expected the Butcher to look far more beastly,” I replied, each word honed to cut. “But I suppose even monsters can wear a crown.”
He laughed, a rich sound that sent a ripple through my chest. The music began to quiet, almost languid in its rhythm, our steps slowing with the tempo.
“What a fascinating little sparrow you are. I look forward to hearing what tune you sing for me,” he murmured, the words barely audible, sending a beat of ice through me. Then louder, for the benefit of our audience, “You honor me with your grace, Princess. I look forward to many more such dances in our future.”
He stepped back, releasing me with deliberate gentleness to offer a formal bow. I’m sure the watching courtiers would interpret the gesture as respect, but I saw the hunger that lingered in his gaze, the calculated assessment that made me feel like a chess piece being evaluated for strategic value.
I curtseyed in return, low and composed, holding the position longer than
necessary. When he extended his hand to help me rise, I accepted it with a
smile as mirthless as his.
“You are too kind, Your Majesty.”
Polite applause rippled through the room, faces betraying a mix of fear, pity, and morbid fascination.
As I straightened, I caught Isolde’s eye across the hall. My faithful companion stood near a side entrance, her ash-blonde hair catching the torchlight. A slight tension in her posture, the angle of her chin—subtle signs
only I would notice.
A message. An opportunity.
An escape, however brief.
I turned back to Valen, offering a smile that never reached my eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me, King Valen. The excitement of the evening has left me somewhat fatigued. I fear if I do not retire,” I paused, letting my gaze heat in a way that had brought lesser men to their knees, “I will not be at my best for you tomorrow.”
An answering flicker kindled in his eyes, clearly catching my meaning, before darkening into something colder. I would have stepped back had his hand not tightened around mine.
He must have noticed the shift in my demeanor, the hint of uncertainty with his obvious displeasure, for his expression quickly shuttered, features sliding back into that impeccable mask of composure.
“Of course,” he said softly. “We have many days ahead of us, after all.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my fingertips.
It was chaste. Expected.
And yet, a jolt of something sharp and electric traveled through me at the contact, sinking low in my spine.
“Dream sweetly, sparrow,” he murmured, his lips tipping in a knowing smirk. “For this time tomorrow, your wings will no longer carry you beyond my reach.”
