I ignored the weight of Rion's gaze on me and let Axe's tiny hands steer mine.
The boy was earnest and determined, carefully counting the steps under his breath as we spun into the tide of dancers.
Skirts brushed my legs, lanternlight skated over glittery masks, and the music stitched everything together with bright, relentless thread.
We turned, we swayed, we made up steps when Axe forgot them.
I glanced toward the sideline and found Rion exactly where I'd felt his gaze.
He had a drink balanced in one hand, the glass catching star-pricks of light as he lifted it. His posture was easy, almost lazy, but his attention was not. It held the same sharpness as the blade-curve of his mask.
He stared at us—atme—with an intensity that pressed heat under my skin.
Can he please stop staring? It's making me uneasy.
