He’d been ordered to dance with her. Ordered.

The insult of it might have been easier to bear if she didn’t look the way she did tonight—flushed with defiance, mouth set in that stubborn little line that made him want to silence her with something far less courtly than words.

The first brush of her hand against his was a shock. Her skin was cold as the powdered snow outside to the touch, smooth even through the silk of her glove. He hated the way his pulse leapt at the contact, how his body reacted before his mind could put up its walls. She stood too close, deliberately so, daring him to flinch. The music began.

He moved automatically, his steps measured and precise, but his control was already slipping. Her body aligned with his as they turned—a perfect fit he wanted to ignore but couldn’t. Every sway of her hips, every subtle shift of her weight pressed against the hard lines of his body, and the heat of her seeped through the fine layers of fabric between them.

He tried to focus on the rhythm, on anything but the way her scent curled around him—vanilla, cinnamon, and faintly sugary. It filled his lungs, made it hard to breathe. His fingers tightened against her waist when she exhaled near his neck, her breath ghosting across his skin. The muscles in his jaw locked as he fought the rush of blood that answered her closeness.

Her voice slid through the space between them, low and mocking. “You’re tense, Your Highness. Is there something I can do to help?” She stood on his foot.

He swallowed hard. “You wish, my dearest lady in waiting.” Some daughter of a Lord, still, fallen amongst the ranks of lords and ladies in wait.

But it wasn’t true. The truth was far worse—his body was uncomfortable, tightening in ways he couldn’t disguise. Every movement of the dance rubbed her closer, and he could feel the evidence of it—the hot, traitorous response pressing against the inside of his tailored trousers. The realization sent a surge of anger through him—at her, at himself, at the damned music that refused to end.

She must have felt the tension, because her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. Not innocent. Not even cruel. Just aware. That tiny flicker of understanding in her eyes burned through what was left of his composure.

The song swelled, the final turn bringing her flush against his chest. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Her heartbeat raced beneath his palm; his own pulse thundered in reply. The air between them was charged, thick with everything they weren’t saying.

Then it ended.

He dropped his hands first. She stepped back, smoothing her dress, and tilted her chin up in that infuriating way that made him want to grab her all over again. “Thank you for the dance,” she almost clarified, her tone silk over steel.

He could only nod, because his voice would betray too much. His pulse still hadn’t slowed, and the memory of her body against his clung stubbornly to his skin.

She turned away, her hips swaying as she walked, and he exhaled through his teeth. He hated her—loathed her—but the ache tightening through him told a darker truth.

He wanted her. And that was a far more dangerous thing.