She reminded herself it was only a dance. Nothing more.
When the music shifted again, she was passed to another partner, this one older, with a waxed mustache barely hidden by a silver-trimmed mask. His steps were less aggressive but no gentler, and she struggled to follow his lead.
Her cheeks were hot. She kept glancing around, searching for Lioren in the whirl of color.
He'd promised he wouldn't let her be embarrassed—but here she was, being dragged from one stranger to the next, feeling like a child in borrowed finery.
Another switch.
Her third partner was short and stout, with rings glinting on every finger. He smelled of expensive spices, and though he didn't hold her too tightly, he moved in jerky little steps that threw her off balance.
Nysa's head was spinning. She prayed this would be the last change.
And then the final measure began.
The dancers slowed, the melody stretching into a haunting, beautiful line. One by one, partners rotated into the final pairing, gloved hands touching in graceful surrender.
And suddenly, she was facing him.
The man in the white mask.
Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.
He was taller up close—taller even than she'd thought when she watched him descend the staircase. His midnight hair gleamed under the chandeliers, the pale mask hiding everything but the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his mouth. His eyes, half-shrouded in darkness, regarded her without expression.
He didn't speak as he offered his hand.
Her heart stumbled.
She forced herself to take it.
His glove was smooth, cool against her palm. When he guided her closer, she thought she felt his gaze linger on her hair, her throat, her face. As though he were studying every detail to tuck away for later.
He placed his other hand lightly at her back, but there was nothing hesitant in the way he held her. He moved as if every step was already known to him, as if she were merely a piece to be arranged.
For a heartbeat, no one else in the ballroom seemed to exist.
Then he leaned close, his lips almost brushing the shell of her ear.
"I've seen clumsy dancers," he murmured, his voice velvet and low. "But you—"
Her pulse thumped wildly.
"—you're going to ruin my shoes."
Heat shot up her neck. Mortified, she tried to laugh. "Well—if I do, I'm sure you can afford another pair."
His mouth curved, though she couldn't tell if it was a smile or a smirk. "Clever."
She dared a glance up, meeting his gaze fully.
It was a mistake.
His eyes were the darkest she had ever seen—deep pools of midnight, framed by thick lashes. They looked at her as though he were trying to see through her skin, into the marrow of her bones. And for a terrible, exhilarating moment, she couldn't look away.
His gloved thumb moved in the smallest circle against her back.
"You have remarkable eyes," he said, so quietly she felt it more than heard it.
She swallowed, her throat gone dry. "So do you."
He chuckled, a sound low in his chest. "Is that the line you give to all your partners?"
"No," she breathed, feeling absurdly lightheaded. "Just the ones who insult my dancing."
His teeth flashed in something that might have been a smile.
They moved together, slowly, as the music curled around them. She knew she was supposed to be counting steps, watching her feet—but she couldn't stop meeting his eyes. Couldn't stop wondering who he was behind that mask. Some bored noble? A court prince? A man who could crush her life with a word?
And why—why—did she care?
He shifted a little closer, so that the fine embroidery on his coat brushed the lace at her shoulder. She smelled clean linen and something deeper—dark and sharp like night air after rain.
Her heartbeat pounded in her throat.
Their faces drew closer as the music swelled, the space between them dissolving into something electric.
She opened her mouth, though she didn't know what she meant to say.
But before she could speak, she felt a sudden tug—sharp and unmistakable—at the back of her gown.
For one horrible instant, nothing happened.
Then she heard it.
Rip.
Time seemed to freeze.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stood, her face inches from his, staring into those fathomless eyes.
Slowly, she became aware that the pressure of his hand at her back had eased. That he was watching her, head tilted as though he already knew what she'd find when she turned.
Her stomach twisted.
She pulled back just enough to glance over her shoulder—and saw the delicate seam along her spine gaping open, torn nearly halfway to her waist.
Air rushed into her lungs, cold and bright with horror.
Around them, the final chords of the dance were fading.
And Nysa wanted nothing more than to vanish into the polished marble floor.
...
Gasps erupted across the ballroom like startled birds taking flight.
Nysa felt them before she heard them—the sudden hush and the pricking heat of dozens of eyes on her back.
She didn't dare look around. She could feel the air licking against her exposed skin where the gown had split wide open. Mortification crawled up her throat in a strangled sound she barely swallowed.
"I—excuse me," she stammered, voice cracking. She took a step back, then another, willing her limbs to move even as her heartbeat thundered.
The white-masked man—still holding her hand—watched her with those dark, fathomless eyes. His face remained unreadable behind the fine ivory filigree.
"Running away?" he murmured, so low she almost thought she imagined it.
But she couldn't stay to decipher his tone. Couldn't stand there and feel her humiliation made public. She tore her hand from his and fled the dance floor, lifting her ruined skirts enough not to trip as she stumbled between the watching guests.
Whispers trailed after her.
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