Chapter 26

The music faded slowly, as if it, too, didn't want to interrupt their dance.

The final notes of the flutes hung in the air, and the hall was filled with bursts of applause. The guests, reserved but sincere, honored their King and Queen.

Theodore inclined his head slightly, not letting go of her hand. Beatrice instinctively dipped into a light curtsy, but her fingers still rested in his palm, and only when he gently, carefully, almost imperceptibly began to release her, did she suddenly realize how hard it was to let go. How the hand felt empty, how the warmth vanished, how her heart pounded with stupid, unnecessary speed. What is happening to me?

Beatrice quickly lowered her eyes to hide the betraying tremble in her lashes. And only when she slowly stepped half a pace back did she feel how sharply and suddenly she wanted to return everything to its place: his hand, his gaze, his invisible protection around her. Beatrice exhaled slowly, gathered the scattered feelings inside into a cold knot in her chest, and turned to the crowd of guests.

She walked along the hall slowly, as if on a stage, where every step was part of a prewritten play. Lords bowed their heads. Ladies smiled, hiding tension behind their fans.

She responded flawlessly: with words, curtsies, light polite smiles.

A couple of questions about the weather. Three phrases about the rich grape harvest in the valleys of Ravel. A subtle compliment to a young duchess on her choice of gown. Everything went as it should. Everything was perfect.

Slender wine glasses sparkled in the hands of the nobility. Servants moved between them like shadows, carrying dishes: roasted geese with herbs, quince pies, slices of juicy cheese. Music flowed softly over the hall, making the floor gently vibrate underfoot.

And yet somewhere under the skin, under the silk of her dress, under the tight smiles, burned a quiet, unbearable spark. Beatrice knew. Felt. Theodore was near. Not ahead. Not to the side. Somewhere in the crowd, in the soft hum of music, in the breath of candles. She felt him as clearly as if an invisible thread had stretched between them, trembling with her every step.

Sometimes she caught herself slowing down. Suddenly forgetting what the lord in the rich mantle was saying. Her heart skipped a beat. She would lift her gaze—and see him. Theodore stood a bit aside, tall, composed, talking to a group of senior lords, but his gaze was fixed on her.

And at that moment, Beatrice allowed herself a small luxury: to smile. Truly smile. For him. Only for him.

He hadn't expected it.

When her lips curved in a genuine smile, without duty, without court etiquette, Theodore stopped breathing for a moment.

As if something had struck him in the chest, fast and hard, breaking his armor of habit, fear, and detached caution. He remained among the lords, nodding at their words, but he no longer heard them. Theodore unconsciously gripped the glass in his hand tighter, so much so that the thin crystal let out a faint creak. He quickly lowered his gaze, seemingly returning to the conversation—but the smile still lived in his memory like a flame, lit inside a stone heart.

Beatrice lowered her eyes. But the spark had already ignited. Quietly. Deeply. With no way back. And all evening, through the conversations, the curtsies, the music, she felt that warmth, barely perceptible. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the cinnamon warming her. But it was more real than all the gold of the kingdom.

By midnight, the hall had filled with a special, slightly drowsy warmth.

The candles melted, leaving thin trails of wax on silver candelabras. The music grew slower, softer, couples whirled in dance a bit lazier, closer to each other, as if the very air had thickened with wine, gold, and indecent hopes.

Beatrice stood at the edge of the dancing circle. Her shoulders were tired of holding regal posture. The dress felt heavier than usual. Her fingers were warm from the wine. Her lips ached from forced smiles. And yet, she remained. Because she felt: the night wasn't over yet.

Then she caught his gaze. Theodore. He was standing, leaning against a column, and looking at her openly, without all the armor he usually wore. And in that gaze were more words than in a hundred speeches.

She stepped toward him. Uncertain, a bit slower than she would have liked. The heavy dress tangled at her heels. Theodore moved to meet her.

When the distance closed, he leaned in closer, and his voice was hoarse, low:

– If you keep looking at me like that… I'll forget which of us is king.

Beatrice, surprised at herself, smirked.

– Strange… – she answered quietly. – I thought tonight, all titles were washed away by wine.

He smirked in return, slowly, almost lazily.

His hand rose, as if by accident, as if unintentionally, and traced along her elbow, barely touching the fabric.

Theodore's body was motionless, like carved from stone.

But in his eyes, in the slight movement of his lips, in every whisper, burned a living desire, almost tangible.

Beatrice took another step closer. The scent of warm cider, leather, and a hint of fine tobacco from his cloak hit harder than wine. She looked up. In that moment, she wanted him to not stop at this innocent closeness—madly, indecently, to the point her knees trembled.

The crowd around was warm, heavy, smelling of honey, wine, and silk. Beatrice felt the eyes on her. Could almost hear the whispers in the corners. And standing beside Theodore, feeling his closeness, the warmth of his shoulder, she suddenly realized that if she stayed here another minute—she would start to suffocate.

She turned to him, lifting her eyes.

– Your Grace, – she said evenly, almost formally, though her lips trembled with a hidden smile, – it's unbearably hot in this hall.

Theodore, who on any other day would be the embodiment of restraint, now, under the influence of cider, allowed himself the luxury of leaning in slightly and hoarsely remarking:

– You… heat the air, Beatrice.

Even he barely understood what he'd said. A faint flush touched his cheeks. Beatrice blinked and then, lightly, very lightly, as if it were the most ordinary request in the world, said:

– We need to go out. To the balcony. Clear our heads.

Theodore nodded, as if under a spell.

And a moment later, his hand was once again at her elbow, barely touching, leading her through the hall, past the dancing couples, past silver lanterns and shimmering garlands.

The balcony was empty. The night smelled of snow and smoke. A light frosty wind tugged at the curtains.

When Beatrice stepped outside, the fresh air struck her face.

Her head cleared slightly, but her heart was still racing.

She stopped at the stone balustrade, leaned her palms against the cold stone, gazing into the dark garden below.

Theodore stopped nearby. Not touching her. But his warmth was there, as always. They were silent.

Beatrice knew: if she turned around—everything would change. If she took just one step toward him, the bridge so long built between them would ignite. But for now, she simply stood. Pretending to enjoy the air.

Theodore stood beside her, tense as a string.

His eyes involuntarily followed the delicate line of Beatrice's back, the curve of her waist where the heavy silk of the dress hugged her figure, down to her hips, where the fabric flowed but didn't hide what had long drawn his gaze. He swallowed hard.

He hated himself for it. And at the same time, couldn't look away. His mind still clung to scraps of royal self-control, but his tongue, warmed by wine, betrayed him.

– Your… dress… – Theodore swallowed again. – It's driving me mad. And the cold has nothing to do with it.

She turned, slowly, like a cat, with a raised brow, with that dangerous grace that can't be learned—it's born somewhere deeper. Her eyes sparkled in the dark.

– Your Grace, – she said softly, with such dangerously polite tone that he wanted to curse right then and there, – did you say that out loud?

Theodore froze.

For a moment, a thousand feelings warred inside him. But the wine left him no chance. He spread his hands slightly, giving a guilty half-smile:

– I'm afraid so.

Beatrice slowly stepped closer.

Close enough for him to catch the scent of her skin, light, warm, almost floral. She tilted her head, as if studying him.

Theodore felt the world sway beneath his feet. But he didn't retreat.

He raised his hand and slowly touched her cheek. His fingertips barely brushed her skin—warm, fragile. Beatrice froze.

Then, as if trusting something ancient and strong, she gently nuzzled into his palm, like a cat seeking warmth. He felt her breath. The flutter of her lashes against his fingers.

And then he slowly leaned in and softly, almost shyly, kissed her cheek. A short, warm kiss. An inhale. Time stopped. Beatrice didn't pull away. On the contrary—she tilted her head slightly, baring the tender line of her neck, as if wordlessly inviting him.

Theodore didn't hesitate. He brushed his lips down to her neck, pressed them to the warm skin just below her ear, felt her pulse tremble beneath his breath. His lips found the gentle curve, leaving behind a barely-there trace of touch.

Beatrice's heart pounded so hard, it echoed in her ears. Theodore wrapped an arm around her waist, slowly, confidently, his fingers closing over the thin fabric of her dress as if sealing them into one world. She pressed closer. No words. No extra movements. Only their breathing, woven together in the cold silence of the balcony. And their bodies, no longer wanting to keep distance.

In that moment, Beatrice allowed herself to forget everything: the past, the fears, the shadows of executions and reincarnations.

There was only him. And the hot breath on her neck. And his hand on her back.