“No.” The word was hardly more than a scoff. “Nicknames are just way too...familiar.”
“Well, they do say familiarity breeds contempt. So, seeing as how you’re so intent on hating me, perhaps you ought to let your guard down a little. It might help your cause.”
My head swam with the circularity of his argument. I had no idea how he came up with things like that on the fly. “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“It doesn’t. And you’re infuriating for even saying it.”
“You like that I infuriate you.”
“I don’t.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Perhaps you’ll even believe it, someday. Because I certainly don’t.” He grinned and popped an apple slice into his mouth. I hadn’t known a person could chewsmugly, but he managed.
Ugh.
“Hungry?” He offered a piece of fruit.
I set aside my mangled orange and snatched at the apple, if only to get Kyven to stop looking at me like that. Like he’d unearthed some private shard of me and tucked it into his pocket.
The fruit exploded between my teeth. As I chewed, a new sound joined the hubbub—the wheeze and whine of tuning instruments.
Thank goddess. A distraction. In the corner, a fiddler, a percussionist, and a banjo player were setting up.
“It’s about to get loud in here,” I said. “We should probably go.”
“Go?” Kyven downed his ale in one throat-bobbing swallow, then plunked down the empty mug. “Absolutely not. We’re just getting started, and I’m very much looking forward to this next part.”
My stomach did a slow capsize. I’d heard him say that before, hadn’t I? “Next part? What next part?”
Those blue eyes glinted with their own internal light. “The part where I convince you to dance with me.”
13.
Dancing.
Was that what we were doing? It felt more like having different parts of myself flung in different directions, moment by moment.
Kyven dipped and spun me, seemingly without effort. And I’d downed so much ale that I let him—a willing partner, pliant in his arms.
At least he made it easy, his instinct for the music impeccable. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn he actually knew this song, because he seemed to anticipate every twang of the banjo and rattle of the tambourine. But that was impossible. This song was pure Oceansgate—bayou music, fiddle-heavy and chaotic, not remotely suitable for the rarefied rooms of Hightower.
Which could only mean he was a natural. I briefly wondered if his innate sense of rhythm carried over into other...activities, then promptly stopped wondering, because what?
Fuck, I was drunk. I had no other excuse for the rogue thoughts tainting my mind. Or for the staticky thrill that shotthrough me every time Kyven steered me with a hand on my back or a nudge of his hips. Still, I didn’t stumble once, not until a stout patron with an inflamed nose bumped into us and sent me reeling.
Kyven caught me neatly and wheeled me back in, nestling me in the crook of his arm. “Excuse us.”
The man only glared, unplacated. “Hmph. If it isn’t the bog-witch and the prince. Descended from your towers to rub elbows with the likes of us, eh?”
My scalp tightened. The man lurched away, clearly deep in his cups.
I watched him fade into the crowd, surprised to realize our presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. At all. Half the women stole glances at Kyven, while the men put up a wall of flinty glares. In the corner, someone flashed crossed forefingers in my direction.
“They haven’t been doing this all night,” I said. “Have they?”
Kyven smirked. “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
