Ravus’s prosthetic hand rests at the small of your back as the two of you drift through a waltz as well rehearsed as your engagement. Your hand fits against his palm like it was meant to be there, your steps meeting his so naturally it startles him. The orchestra swells around you, but all Ravus can hear is the steady, maddening rhythm of your breath. His focus narrows to the subtle weight of your fingers in his, imperceptibly squeezing them in his grasp.

Your engagement was a sham, convenient for his goals and beneficial for you. Yet as you turn under his arm, the hem of your attire brushing his leg, something sharp and unbidden lodges itself deeper inside him. Love was not part of the arrangement, yet Ravus feels it like a blade slipping under armour.

“You’ve adapted to this charade quite naturally,” Ravus says lowly, a stiffness to his voice betraying the unease that creeps beneath his skin. He fixes his gaze somewhere just past you, refusing to meet your eyes, unwilling to let you see how close his defences have come to faltering.