He tilted his head and considered her advice.
At the same time, he saw Zolan at the side of the dance floor, glaring at him with all the hatred he could muster in his eyes.
He twisted his mouth, conceding she was right. ‘Wise and prescient words, wife.’
‘At least I’m good for something,’ she whispered with a slight turn to her lips.
They exchanged amused glances for a second until he remembered he was meant to be angry at her.
A surge of unidentifiable but undeniable sensation coursed through him, a current of need that defied all logic and reason.
He gazed down at her in disbelief at the emotion she elicited from him.
In Saba’s eyes, he caught a reflection of his longing and vulnerability, a silent plea for understanding and acceptance, which shook him to the core.
He forced himself to remember what she’d done, the secrecy and betrayal.
His stomach twisted as he extended his hand to her, enveloping the coolness of her fingers as she placed hers in his. She smiled, all grace and poise, playing the part of the perfect bride.
Still, she was tense and stiff, and gripping his hand just a bit too tightly.
Despite the knot of resentment tightening in his chest, he couldn’t stop noticing how her body moved against him, the subtle curve of her hips beneath that damned dress.
She was beautiful in her unique way.
There was no denying that.
Her skin glowed in the dim light, the scent of her perfume delicate and intoxicating.
She lifted her gaze, those dark, unreadable eyes meeting his for a moment, and he experienced a flicker of emotion he couldn’t place.
Was it curiosity? Desire? Anger? Maybe all of it.
She was just as trapped as he was, yet she bore it with an elegance that belied their circumstances. It made him want her more, and he loathed himself for it.
‘You’re tense,’ she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek.
He forced a smirk, though it appeared more like a grimace. ‘So are you.’
She raised an eyebrow as if amused; however, her expression held no real humor. ‘It’s a wedding, not a death march.’
He wanted to laugh at that, if only she grasped how close it seemed to one, at least for him.
Instead, he spun her, her gown fanning out in a graceful arc, and as she returned to him, he pulled her tight to him with more force than necessary.
She didn’t protest, didn’t pull away. Her hand slid up to his shoulder, her touch light, teasing, and it only irritated him more.
The song dragged on, the weight of tradition and expectation pressing down on him. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, but he couldn’t stop.
He had to maintain appearances and keep up the facade. But inside, he was burning with resentment at the situation, at the clueless guests smiling as if this were all some fairy tale.
Worse, he was blazing with desire for the woman in his arms, even though he hated that he wanted her.
Finally, the set drew to a close, and as they caught their breath, the wedding attendees erupted into applause.
They stared into each other’s eyes, still ensnared in the maelstrom of emotion.
‘Sante,’ she whispered.
