I wedge myself through the masses, avoiding their catcalls and enticements. Melody after melody, I stalk flashes of blue hair and a pompous grin. He’s playing along, taunting me like the rest of these Fae who think I’m a goner.
Except our game feels intimate, secretive. He wants me to find him.
Throughout the masquerade, I grow bolder, more reckless. It could be the delirious music. It could be the wild pirouettes of avians putting on a flight show for the Faeries who bow and curtsy in return. Or it could be frustration, since I’ve never been one to restrain myself for long. Or it could be the occasional skepticism the Fae still direct toward me.
I’ve gotta make sure they stay convinced, which means I’ve gotta get drastic. I swish my skirt and tousle my hair, making sure the white stays nice and full. Then I steal a random crystal vessel from a random hand. I tip the drink back, chug a fruity nectar laced with some type of cherry blossom effervescence, and drop it onto a table.
Instantly, the bubbly effect swims to the crown of my head, tickling my scalp and flooding my noggin. My tongue tastes the essence of euphoria and a pinch of sensuality. I sigh aloud, amusing the spectators.
Another flash of snowy feathers. A hushed chuckle strokes the side of my ear.
A female Fae in a stringy ostrich gown clasps me in her arms, waltzing me within the flock of bodies. Tiers of plumage wind up one side of the dress, curve across the stomach to the other side, and ascend to the shoulder.
Without breaking her stride, she passes me to a male with sparrow feathers rooted along his arms. He’s got a serious type of beauty, with tanned skin, dark brows, and muscles so buff, you’d think he was sword-proof. He whirls me through torchlight and abruptly lets me go.
And someone else catches me. I wheel into the next Fae’s arms, his hands catching my hips and scooping me against him. He stands there as though he’s been waiting for me all along, a smile crooking his blue mouth.
I once loved that face. Loved it with my whole, ten-year-old beating and bleeding heart.
Years later, he’s taller, haughtier, loftier. And he’s no longer a boy. Not anywhere near a boy. Those eyes aren’t as shrouded and mysterious as I remember. They’re open wide, as though enraptured by the bright hue of my gown.
What does Cerulean see in me? A masked face and a pair of gray eyes that aged and lost their shine, polished down because they’ve been staring at too many rough things? Too many vicious things?
We stare at each other. Whatever my expression reveals, it wipes the wicked mirth from his face. Cerulean slides his arm around my waist, his gaze intent, transfixed, determined. And then we’re dancing.
The scenery disintegrates, the masked Fae shrinking, the instruments hushing. I curl against him, my arms slinging around his neck. His body presses flush into mine, the ridges solid and rocking against me, hot and bothered. So very bothered.
We circle and toss one another across the floor. His legs step between mine, and our hips gyrate together, the friction spiking my blood, plunging from my head to the flesh between my legs. And when he dips me so far back my hair mops the floor, a disorientating rush sears up my thighs, which spread to accommodate him. And when he drags me upright, our pelvises grind, and our clothes become too stifling, too constraining. If something or someone doesn’t interrupt this right now, I’m going to rabbit-hop on his fucking torso, strap my limbs around him, and drives us both mad.
I’m not the only one who’s sweltering. Cerulean’s eyes blaze and destroy everything in their path, raking from my breasts, to my clavicles, to my lips. He’s clasping me so hard, and I’m crushing him so tightly, one of us is going to split in half.
Damn him. How is it possible to feel pain, poignance, and arousal all at once?
This is how. This moment.
But then bafflement distorts Cerulean’s ravenous features, cleaving through our desire. He doesn’t know who I really am, but I know who he is. Actually, I know more than that, and I don’t want to know it all alone.
I want to tell him. I want him to realize it by himself.
Behind our masks, we gaze without flinching. I’m about to rip off these visors and scream at him, scream at everyone to get out and leave us be. Cerulean frowns. He senses the uprising in my chest and spins me faster, rotating us into the floor. We dance quicker, pivoting with confusion, wringing ourselves out.
Trying to get closer. So much closer.
I’ve missed this. I want this. I hate this.
I love this.
Please, love this back. Please, don’t let me go.
Please, remember me. Please, forget me.
My eyes flutter. Blurred figures begin to crystallize again, and a flute whispers through the haze. Somewhere, glass shatters.
Cerulean’s feet halt. His face spasms, thoughts scrunching up his features and crimping around his eyes, which travel across the feathers of my mask and land on a particular spot.
One of the quills hangs limp over my temple and brushes my skin. Dancing must have unhinged the stem, which now sags off the visor like a mistake, like a misplaced thing. Like the piece of an old, crudely assembled mask.
His eyes flash with a memory, then with sudden horror, then with recognition.
