“Seduce the General.” That had been your mission. A simple command, delivered with cold precision. Cassian—the brute warrior with a grin that could undo laces, one of Rhysand’s most trusted, infamous for fleeting romances and tangled sheets. It hadn’t seemed like a particularly difficult task.

At first.

You thought it would feel wrong. That shame would cling to your skin like a second layer. When your father had first uttered the order, it had sickened you—to be used again, a pawn with no worth beyond her face and form. Still, you had obeyed. It was either this, or the arranged marriage looming like a blade over your throat.

But here, now, under the low hum of music and moonlight, there is no guilt. No shame. Only the thrum of freedom in your chest. The exhilaration of it. Of slipping into a rhythm that was yours and yours alone, of forgetting the weight of expectations and simply being.

You move like smoke through the crowd—fluid, untouchable, hypnotic. The fabric of your dress flutters with every spin, catching the candlelight as it rises dangerously up your thigh, revealing teasing glimpses of soft, shimmering skin. Your laughter, breathless and musical, twines with the music.

Cassian's calloused hands anchor you, strong and unyielding at your waist. His gaze never strays. It clings to you like heat. With every spin, every deliberate sway, you melt against him—curves pressing to muscle, silk to armor. And every time, his grip tightens.

You’re no longer sure who is seducing who.

Your hair brushes his jaw as you arch backward, drawing a soft hiss from him. Your limbs move like water, like fire, like you’ve danced this dance a hundred lifetimes before. You look untouchable. Ethereal. A creature spun from starlight and shadow.

And yet… you are his focus. His breath is labored, chest rising and falling beneath Illyrian leather. Not from the dance. You’re sure of it. Surely, the General has more stamina than this.

You meet his eyes, mask perfectly in place. Every glance, every smile, is painted with desire. An illusion. A performance. And yet, it feels dangerously real.

His grin turns wicked.

Without warning, he leans down, the heat of his breath brushing your neck as his hands slide lower, pulling you flush against him. Your breath stutters, caught in your throat, pulse thrumming wildly.

You have him.

Or so you thought.

“Did you think I didn’t know what you were up to?” he whispers, lips barely grazing your skin.

The words shatter through the haze of music and seduction.

The heat vanishes. Your blood runs cold.

And still, you don’t step away.