Han’s hands closed around Raisa’s waist, nearly meeting on either side, and he lifted her, turning, her skirts belling out, the campfire and assembled clanfolk reduced to a smear of color and muddled sound. His face was inches from hers, sweat beading on his upper lip, a faint reddish stubble on his cheeks and chin.

He’d been drinking—she could smell high country wine on his breath; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes overbright.

Still, he seemed to know the steps very well. He knew the script, too.

“I will carry you off to my enchanted bed, where I will have my way with you,” Han cried, his breath coming fast, blue eyes glittering. “I will build you a palace in the air—so bright the sun will refuse to rise.”

Raisa as Hanalea drooped back against him, temporarily overcome by his wizard charms. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel his hard outline through the fabric and leather between them. His lips brushed her neck—once, twice, three times, kindling little fires each time.

That was NOT in the script. Around them, the Demonai shifted and muttered.

“Han!” Raisa hissed, struggling to free herself; but his grip was like iron. “Be careful. The Demonai—”

“I’m not afraid of the Demonai,” Han growled so only she could hear. “I’m tired of sneaking around like an abbot on the strum.” Han looked over at Nightwalker and smiled. The warrior stood, arms folded, as if he were looking forward to killing the Demon King.

“I thought you didn’t want anyone to think there was anything between us,” Raisa persisted.

“Don’t worry. Nightwalker thinks I’m doing this to yank his sensitive Demonai tail.”

“Don’t you think there’s trouble enough between the two of you as it is? Do you really have to—”

“I don’t really care what Nightwalker thinks,” Han muttered. “So I’d hardly do this to annoy him.”

“Then why would you—?”

“Maybe I just like kissing you,” Han said into her ear.

The drums started up again, urgently, as if to break their forbidden embrace. Han turned Raisa to face him, and the dance continued, their bodies pressed tightly together, making it difficult for Raisa to remember her part.

When the drums stopped, Han took hold of her elbows, pushing her out to arm’s length. “Sweet Queen,” he said in a strange, thick voice. He reached up, tucked her hair behind her ears, cupped her face with his hands. “Raisa. I love you. Marry me. Please. I promise I will find a way to make you happy.” He was off script, but there was no trace of humor in his expression.

Raisa stared at him, speechless.

“Your line,” he said, dropping his hands to her bare shoulders.

Raisa opened her mouth, closed it, distracted by the tingle and burn of his touch.