“I trust your work at the tea house progresses well?” he asked, directing his gaze slightly over her right shoulder.
“Yes, quite well,” she replied with equal detachment. “The preparations for Lady Rivenna’s Annual Tea Leaf Reading tomorrow evening are nearly complete.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
The conversation came to a halt as they turned together, her gown brushing against his legs. Even through layers of fabric, the contact sent an electric awareness coursing through him. He inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of orange blossom and spiced tea that he had come to associate uniquely with her.
It had been little more than a week since he had held her hand at the Night Market, had felt the overwhelming rightness of being close to her. But it felt like an eternity. The ache of her absence had not diminished as he had hoped it would. Instead, it had expanded, hollowing him out from within until every mundane task seemed to require twice the effort.
“And how are things at the mines?” she asked, breaking the silence, her voice so perfectly pleasant it bordered on frigid.
“Repairs continue,” he replied, equally distant. “The damaged supports have been replaced, and we’ve reinforced the affected tunnels.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Her hand fit so perfectly into his. Had he been a fool to throw this away? To push her from his life in the name of duty? But then he remembered the terror that had gripped him at the market, the desperate race to The Confluence, the knowledge that his distraction—his happiness—had nearly caused another disaster.
The music swelled as they circled the floor. Iris was light in his arms, her movements perfectly in time with his. He longed to draw her closer, to feel her warmth against him once more. He imagined leaning down to whisper in her ear the truth that burned inside him:I miss you. I want you. I am only half alive without you near.
“The orchestra plays beautifully this evening, do they not?” Iris remarked.
“Yes,” Jasvian managed, the word catching slightly on an unsteady breath. “Quite skilled.”
The banal politeness of their exchange stood in stark contrast to the riot of emotion within him. As they turned again, he allowed himself one brief, unguarded moment to truly look at her—the elegant line of her neck, the subtle hollow at the base of her throat, the stubborn set of her chin as she maintained her distance. She was exquisite, and oh how he longed to lower his mouth to her skin, to press his lips to the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
The music drew toward its conclusion, and Jasvian felt a rising panic at the thought of releasing her. Once the dance ended, propriety would demand they part ways. He would have no further excuse to remain in her presence, to feel the warmth of her hand in his, to breathe in the scent that had haunted his dreams.
But the final notes sounded, and Iris stepped back from him immediately, offering a perfect curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, my lord.”
“The pleasure was mine, Lady Iris,” he replied, bowing in return.
She turned and walked away without another glance, her back straight, her steps measured. He watched her join her grandparents, who were engaged in a lively discussion with Hadrian’s mother.
The ache in Jasvian’s chest threatened to overwhelm him. He could not remain here, breathing the same air as Iris while maintaining this cruel distance between them. Without acknowledging anyone, he turned and strode from the ballroom, his long legs carrying him swiftly through the grand reception hall toward the main entrance.
“Jasvian!” His grandmother’s voice rang out behind him.
In the relative quiet of the entrance hall, away from the music and chatter of the ballroom, he stopped and turned to face her.
“That was a deliberate manipulation,” he accused, his voice low and taut with anger. “You knew she would be here. That dance—it should not have happened. You are only making this more difficult, Grandmother.”
“Youare the one making things difficult, Jasvian!” Rivenna countered, her eyes flashing. “Someone needed to take action before your stubborn pride destroyed?—”
“This is not about pride. This is about duty. About responsibility.”
“It is about fear,” she retorted sharply. “Fear dressed in fine clothes and calling itself duty.”
“You have no right to?—”
“I have every right. I watched your father make the same mistake, and I will not stand by while you repeat it.”
Jasvian stiffened. “My father dedicated himself to our family’s legacy. To ensuring the prosperity of our bloodline and the safety of the mines.”
“Your father dedicated himself to work at the expense of those who loved him,” Rivenna said, her voice softening slightly. “He missed so much of what truly mattered.”
“The mines required his constant attention,” Jasvian defended. “He didn’t have my ability to sense the tempests before they formed. It was all the more important that he remain vigilant.”
“Hechosethat level of vigilance,” Rivenna countered. “He could have delegated more. Could have trained others. Could have developed systems instead of shouldering everything himself. But he didn’t, and he came to regret it.”
