Chapter 9 — Myra Mengusik
The orchestra shifted, violins gliding into a waltz that rolled across the ballroom like silk. Couples drifted to the center of the polished floor, gowns swirling, shoes tapping in perfect rhythm beneath the golden chandelier. The murmur of conversation softened, leaving only music and the occasional burst of laughter echoing off the mirrored walls.
Arkellin reentered the hall with Mira at his side. Their pace was calm, deliberate, but there was a gravity between them now—something quieter, unseen, born on the balcony. Mira carried it with her usual poise, her expression still unreadable, though her eyes held a trace of something the crowd couldn't place. Arkellin carried it differently: in the stillness of his gaze, in the weight of his silence.
But someone noticed.
From across the floor, Myra Aurelia Clock spotted them.
Her crimson gown caught the chandelier light in a cascade of fire, the slit in its fabric revealing a teasing flash of leg as she moved. While Mira had slipped back into the tide of conversation, Myra broke from it like a spark leaping from kindling. Her laughter was brighter, her steps lighter, every motion designed to pull attention and hold it hostage.
And when her eyes landed on Arkellin, they lit with something sharper.
She cut through the ballroom, a glass of champagne dangling carelessly between her fingers, her smile curling into mischief. Guests turned as she passed, their whispers trailing after her like the rustle of silk.
Myra stopped in front of Arkellin, tilting her head, her gaze sweeping him up and down with no attempt at subtlety. She let the silence hold just long enough for nearby guests to notice, then she extended her hand, palm up, red nails gleaming.
"You don't belong at the edge of the room," she said, voice smooth but edged with play. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
Mira's eyes flicked briefly toward her twin, then back to Arkellin. Her face betrayed nothing, but the faintest tension pressed at the corners of her mouth.
Arkellin studied Myra for a breath. His hand was still at his side, fingers relaxed, as if weighing whether to take hers. The room seemed to lean closer, curious, expectant. Even the orchestra's melody felt poised on the edge of his choice.
Finally, he set his glass down on a passing tray. His hand rose—not fast, not slow—closing around hers.
Warm. Deliberate.
Myra's smile widened, eyes glittering like twin blades. She pulled him onto the dance floor without hesitation, their movement slicing through the other couples as if the floor had been waiting for them alone.
The waltz wrapped around them.
Arkellin's grip was steady, his steps precise, though there was a rawness in his body—the faint wince hidden when her pull jarred his wounded side, the subtle strength in his frame that forced the dance to bend to him rather than the other way around.
Myra leaned closer, her perfume bold and sweet, filling the space between them. She lifted her chin, letting the red silk of her gown flare with the turn, her laughter spilling just loud enough to draw eyes.
"You lead well," she teased, her lips curving. "Better than most men in this room."
Arkellin's gaze met hers, cold, unreadable. "That's because I don't follow their steps."
Her laugh rang brighter, curling around his words like smoke around fire. She spun once in his hold, crimson fabric cutting through the golden light, then fell back into his arms, closer than the waltz demanded.
The crowd noticed.
Eyes turned. Conversations hushed. The spectacle of Mira's elegance had been replaced with Myra's fire, and in the center of it all, Arkellin's shadow stood unshaken.
And Myra smiled wider, as if this was exactly what she wanted.
The music rose, strings swelling, the ballroom spinning around them in a blur of satin and polished shoes. Arkellin and Myra turned in slow circles, his hand firm at her waist, her palm pressed lightly against his shoulder. To the watching crowd, they moved as if rehearsed—seamless, graceful. But up close, there was tension woven through every touch, every step.
Myra leaned in closer than the waltz demanded. Her lips hovered near his ear, her breath warm against his skin. "People are staring," she whispered, her tone playful, daring. "Should I give them something to gossip about?"
Arkellin's jaw tightened, but his voice was even, steady. "You already are."
She laughed, a low, delighted sound that carried just far enough for those nearby to hear. Her gown flared as she spun back, only to snap closer again, her body brushing against his in a rhythm that was less about dance and more about claiming space.
"You don't flinch," she said, eyes glittering. "Not when half this room wants to swallow you whole."
Arkellin's gaze bored into hers, unreadable, unshaken. "Flinching never saved anyone."
Myra tilted her head, amused, then shifted her weight deliberately. Her shoulder pressed against his chest—not softly, but with just enough force to jar his ribs. Pain lanced sharp beneath the hidden bandages.
His body betrayed him for a fraction of a second—his grip tightening, his breath catching in his throat. But his expression stayed stone, his eyes cold, refusing to yield.
Myra's smile widened. She had seen it.
"You're not as untouchable as you want them to think," she murmured, her tone both teasing and edged.
Arkellin didn't answer immediately. He guided her through another turn, his movements sharper now, controlling the flow of the dance until she had no choice but to follow. When he pulled her back, his mouth was close to her ear, his words a quiet blade.
"Untouchable doesn't mean painless. It means no one lives long enough to use it against me."
For a moment, Myra's playful mask cracked—just slightly. Then she laughed again, brighter, reckless, her eyes sparkling with something dangerously close to admiration.
The crowd continued to watch, whispers trailing like smoke. Mira stood near the edge of the floor, her gaze cool, her glass of champagne untouched. But Myra basked in the attention, tugging Arkellin deeper into the spotlight, as if the dance was no longer about the music, but about testing him—about daring him to break.
Arkellin held steady, each step precise, his face unreadable. But inside, the clash of fire and shadow coiled tighter. Myra's provocation wasn't an accident—it was a declaration.
And Arkellin, though silent, knew it.
The waltz reached its final swell, violins trembling in a golden crescendo beneath the chandelier. All around them, couples tightened their embrace, spinning to the music's last flourish. Arkellin and Myra moved in perfect counterpoint—his steps firm, hers teasing, every motion a push and pull that drew eyes like moths to flame.
As the song slowed, Myra stopped abruptly.
The suddenness stole the air. Her crimson gown froze mid-sway, clinging to her legs, satin catching the chandelier light like living fire. Arkellin's grip steadied her without effort, his hand at her waist firm enough to hold her still. The orchestra lingered on its last note, the silence that followed ringing sharper than the music itself.
The ballroom paused with them. Guests glanced over shoulders, conversations dipped, even Mira's glass hovered halfway to her lips. All eyes were on the pair standing motionless in the center of the floor.
Myra tilted her head back, a mischievous smile painted across her lips. She leaned in, her face so close her breath warmed the line of Arkellin's jaw. Her perfume—sweet, intoxicating—wrapped around him, thick enough to drown the salt of the balcony and the iron memory of blood.
She let the silence stretch, dragging the crowd's anticipation taut. Then, just as the violins finally stilled, she pressed her mouth close to his ear.
Her whisper cut through the ballroom like a secret meant to be overheard.
"I'll be your problem."
The words slid sharp and honey-sweet into his mind, heavier than any applause, louder than any violin.
Arkellin didn't move. His body stayed locked in its calm posture, but a flicker betrayed him—his pupils tightening, the faint grind of his jaw. His heart slammed once, hard against the pain in his ribs, but his face remained unreadable.
Myra leaned back just enough to let him see the glint in her eyes. Triumph. Challenge. A spark daring him to either extinguish her or burn with her.
Around them, the crowd broke into polite applause for the orchestra's close, mistaking the tension for performance. Laughter and chatter rose again, but it all blurred, muffled against the weight of her words still hanging in the air between them.
Arkellin released her hand at last, fingers uncoiling slowly. But Myra didn't step away. She lingered, her smile bright, sharp, dangerous.
For the first time in years, Arkellin felt the edges of a storm he couldn't simply cut down with fists or strategy.
This storm had a name.
And it had just whispered in his ear.
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