“We’re not them, Carex.” I try to pull out of his grasp, but he grips me tighter. I push against his chest, my eyes blazing with anger, and he releases me, but keeps my hands firmly grasped in his.

“Laurel,” he pleads. “Think about this night. This song.”

Now I’m fuming, and suspicion about the song causes me to rip my hands out of his. “Did you set the musicians up to this? Tell them to play this song?” He doesn’t answer, but his sheepish look and flushed cheeks are all the answer I need.

“We were so good together,” he whispers in a desperate attempt to keep me here.

“We actually weren’t, Carex. We didn’t end only because of me. And you’re still the same male you were then.” I will a small orb of water to collect near his face, not even honing it into a dagger, and Carex’s eyes widen in fear. “Exactly,” I say before turning from him.

He grabs my wrist again, this time tightly, forcing me to face him. “Please, help me understand—”

“I was hoping to have the pleasure of dancing with Her Majesty,” a familiar and comforting voice says behind me. Thorne angles his body between Carex and me, his scent washing over me and drowning out everything else.

“We’re still dancing,” Carex sneers with the sheerest mask of polite courtier.

“Doesn’t look like that to me,” Thorne hisses, taking my arm and removing Carex’s hand from my wrist before placing his hand on my shoulder. “Your Majesty, would you like to dance with me?”

“I would, thank you.” In an instant, Thorne has wrapped me in his arms and spun me away. As we turn, Carex returns to my line of sight. He looks furious, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense, hands balled.

“What happened to running him through the gut with a light spear, witchling?” Thorne growls. I laugh.

“I would have, but someone interrupted before I got the chance,” I tease. Thorne shrugs.

“I’m not sorry. I don’t take kindly to males touching females when they don’t consent. Daddy issues, remember?” he says with a wink. I want to press him, to ask about what his father did to his mother, but I drop it. Not here, where he’s the Shining Prince, with no worries or fears. I know better than anyone the need to separate the vulnerable person behind the mask from the public face we wear.

“Thank you,” I murmur. He only pulls me closer, the heat of his hand through the thin silk of my dress both deliciously warm and scalding hot. As we perform the movements of the dance, my body heats, and not from the activity.

“Let’s go outside,” I say, surprising myself. “I’m hot and want to cool off.”