Across the ballroom, Luc and Lydia walk out the open double doors, slipping into the gardens. How do I get him away from her?

I keep my eyes locked on them as they mingle with other important fae and reach under the counter for a bottle of spirits. I grab one indiscriminately while mentally going over my options. What can I say to him that won’t tip her off? My hand trembles as I begin to pour the blue liquid into the small glasses, and I spill drops onto the trey. “Shit.”

I squat behind the bar and reach for a rag on the bottom shelf, stopping as a man also reaches for it. “I knew if I came across you in public, I’d have to avoid you.” August’s hand lingers while his pinkie finger brushes mine. “However, I wasn’t prepared for how much it would sting if you were the one avoiding me.”

He’s so close, I’m nearly swept up in him. Forget the plan. He’s here. Let him take me home. Let him hold me. Touch me. I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering what Archie said, and bury the warm, bubbling feelings. I must get to Luc. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With rag in hand, he stands, inches closer and cleans up my spill. “Even if that mask covered your entire face, I’d recognize you.” He speaks low, leaning in closer to avoid eavesdroppers. “They could blindfold me and line you up with every server and dancer here tonight, and I would still crawl to you.” 

The warm caress of his whisper against my ear sends a chill up my spine, and I grip both sides of the trey with white knuckles. I must complete my mission. This is my only shot. And this asshole left me to fend on my own for months. He can wait. I glance out the doors into the night, scanning the fae walking through the glowing gardens. Which way did he go?

“I’m drawn to you, remember?” He shifts his shoulders toward me, and the mingling lords and the dancing ladies seem to disappear from the room. We’ve been apart too long for him to still be cursed. But I believe him because I feel it too. 

My nerves light up with the feather-light touch gliding against my thigh, sending a flurry of intimate images through my mind. His movements are subtle, hidden just below the bar, and as his finger loops under the strap of my bottoms, I grab his wrist. “We can’t.”

 

I repeat the words over and over in my head—the silent rule we must live by. But the rebellion of that single finger, not even an inch under my clothes, heats my veins more than anything I've experienced in weeks. I should be angry with him. I am. And yet my grip on his wrist loosens, and the beginning of a smirk tilts his lips.

"Is he pestering you, miss?" A lord I don’t recognize approaches the other side of the bar, and August's hand drops.

​

"No. What can I get for you?"

​

The lord places two empty glasses and requests refills for both. His eyes flit to August nervously several times as I pour ale into the mugs, but August doesn’t move. His gaze burns into me, each passing moment between us building toward another disaster. He’s flame, and I’m black powder. How easy it would be to burn with him—to lose myself to his touch. But we can’t. We mustn't.

I slide the lord his two drinks, and he shuffles off. “You still have your mask.” August reaches up and glides his thumb against my cheek, brushing the lace that hides my eyes. Does he usually flirt like this at the symposium? Someone’s bound to notice. “That means you have a private dance to give, if you wish? We could talk.” He glances around the room. “Away from prying eyes. It wouldn’t draw any suspicions.”

Oh, gods. That’s it. I study his face—the little freckle below his eye and the fresh scar through his eyebrow—and try to commit it to memory. This mask will grant me privacy with someone. But it won’t be him. “I’m sorry,” I say, and leave the bar with the trey of drinks.

He follows, grabbing my elbow and halting my progress toward the gardens. “Dammit, Bronwyn. Please. I just want to talk.”

“Then you should have come for me months ago.” I jerk my arm from his grip, and his jaw sets. The fire in his eyes catapults me to the delicate edge of fear and desire. 

“You’re the one who fucking left.” His nostrils flare, and several of the nearby lords and ladies turn their heads in our direction. My heart thunders in my chest under the heat of his glare. He’s pissed, but strangely that pull between us only tugs harder. The images that flash through my mind this time are much more vivid and graphic. The hold on my magic slips as I imagine what being with him while he’s this angry would be like. How rough would his kisses be? Could I bear his punishing rhythm? His eyes dip to my lips, and before he can say anything, before I relent and abandon my mission, I turn and exit into the gardens.