Chapter Twenty-Six:Hatred and Confession
The Corner
She was not surprised when Edwin cornered her.
The dancing had begun—couples spinning across the marble floor in a whirl of silk and satin, the music swelling to fill the hall. Ariyana had retreated to a shadowed alcove near the back, half-hidden by a tapestry, where she hoped to escape the attention of princes and lords and curious courtiers.
She should have known he would find her.
"You are hiding."
His voice came from behind her, low and rough. She did not turn.
"I am observing."
"You are hiding." He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath against her hair. "Everyone is looking at you. Everyone is talking about you. And you are standing in a corner, pretending to be invisible."
"I am not pretending to be anything. I am simply existing."
"You are beautiful."
The words fell between them like stones.
Ariyana's hands curled into fists at her sides. "Do not."
"It is not a compliment. It is an observation." He stepped around her, blocking her view of the dancers, forcing her to look at him. His eyes—those glacial eyes that had once been so cold—were burning.
"The dress is sky-blue. Your hair is like midnight. Your cheeks are flushed, and your lips are pink, and every man in this hall wants to know your name." He reached out, his fingers brushing a tendril of hair from her forehead. "I hate it."
"You hate everything."
"I hate them looking at you." His voice dropped, rough and possessive. "I hate Marius with his easy smile and Stefan with his kind eyes and Kael with his—"
"Kael is dangerous."
"Kael is a predator." Edwin's jaw tightened. "And you are prey."
"I am not prey." Ariyana's hand moved to her thigh, her fingers closing around the hilt of her dagger. "I have never been prey. And I will never be anyone's—"
"Then prove it."
He stepped closer—close enough that their bodies almost touched, close enough that she could see the pulse beating in his throat. His hand caught her wrist—not hard, not painful, but firm. Unyielding.
"Dance with me."
"No."
"Not here. Not now. But someday." His thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist. "Dance with me, Ariyana. Let them see. Let them know."
"Know what?"
"That you are mine."
---
The Dagger
She pulled the dagger before she could think.
The blade pressed against his chest—not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough for him to feel the point through his coat. The steel gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and steady.
Edwin looked down at the blade. Then at her face.
"You would stab me," he said. Not a question.
"If I had to."
"You will not have to." He did not move. Did not flinch. Did not step back. "I am not your enemy, Ariyana."
"You are not my friend."
"No." His hand released her wrist, moving slowly, carefully, to cover hers where she held the dagger. His fingers wrapped around her clenched fist, warm and steady. "I am something else. Something I do not have a name for."
"Let go of my hand."
"Stab me if you can." His eyes held hers, dark and fierce. "But be mine."
The words hung in the air between them—impossible, infuriating, absurd.
"Be yours?" she repeated. "After everything? After the assassins and the cruelty and the words you said in the corridor? After you told me I was not worthy of you?"
"I lied."
"You lie about everything."
"I lied about that." He stepped closer, the blade pressing against his chest, the point dimpling the fabric of his coat. "I lied because I was afraid. Afraid of what I was feeling. Afraid of what you were making me become. Afraid of losing control."
"You are a coward."
"Yes." His voice was raw, stripped of every pretense. "I am a coward. I am cold and cruel and terrible at feelings. I hurt you when I should have held you. I pushed you away when I should have pulled you close. I told you I would never love you—"
"You will not."
"Because I have loved you since the day you stood in the Sunroom, eight years old, with your chin lifted and your eyes dry, and told me you would not cry." His voice cracked. "I have loved you since you were a child in a black dress, and I have spent fourteen years pretending otherwise. Fourteen years of coldness and cruelty and walls so high I could not see over them."
"Stop."
"I cannot." He shook his head, his eyes bright. "I tried. I tried to hate you, to forget you, to convince myself that you were nothing. But you are not nothing. You have never been nothing. You are everything, Ariyana. Everything I did not know I wanted. Everything I do not deserve."
He released her hand, stepping back. The blade fell to her side.
"Stab me," he said quietly. "If that is what you need. If that is the only way you can believe that I am telling the truth." He spread his arms, his chest exposed, his eyes on hers. "Stab me. And I will still love you."
Ariyana stared at him—at the man who had broken her heart, who had driven her into the forest, who had stood by while Clara poisoned every corner of her life.
The dagger trembled in her hand.
She did not stab him.
She could not.
Not because she believed him. Not because she forgave him. But because she was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of bleeding. Tired of carrying a weight that was never meant to be hers.
"You are impossible," she whispered.
"So are you." His lips curved—not a smirk, but something softer. Something almost hopeful. "Perhaps that is why we deserve each other."
"We do not deserve each other."
"Perhaps not." He stepped closer, his hand reaching for hers—not to take it, not to claim it, but to hover, waiting. "But we are all we have."
Ariyana looked at his hand—at the long fingers, the callused palm, the faint tremor she had never noticed before.
She did not take it.
But she did not refuse it, either.
She simply stood in the shadowed alcove, the dagger still in her hand, her heart still bleeding, and wondered if survival was the same as surrender.
---
The Floor
She danced with him.
Not because she wanted to. Not because she forgave him. Not because she believed a single word that had fallen from his beautiful, lying lips.
She danced with him because Hilda was watching from the gallery, her old eyes shining with tears. Because the King was watching from the high table, his tired face creased with hope. Because the court was watching—a thousand eyes, a thousand whispers, a thousand judgments—and she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
His hand settled on her waist. Her hand rested on his shoulder. They moved across the marble floor—not gracefully, not easily, but together.
"You are stiff," Edwin murmured.
"I am enduring."
"You are beautiful."
"I am armed."
His lips twitched. "I know."
They spun through the dancers, past Cassian and Elara—the newlyweds, flushed with wine and laughter—past Lily and Stefan, past Clara and the King, past the princes who had approached her and the lords who had watched from a distance.
Everyone stared.
Ariyana did not care.
She focused on the steps—one, two, three, turn—and the feel of his hand on her waist, and the impossible, infuriating truth that she had not stabbed him when she had the chance.
"Why?" she asked, as the music swelled. "Why do you keep trying?"
"Because you are worth it."
"You do not know me."
"I know enough."
"You know nothing."
"I know that you kept a chestnut from Theodore for seven years. I know that you read to the village children in the south because you could not bear to see them hungry for stories. I know that you wear your mother's pendant beneath your dress—" He paused, his eyes flickering to her chest. "Or you did, before you lost it."
Ariyana's breath caught. "How do you know about the pendant?"
"I have been watching you for years, Ariyana." His voice was soft. "Even when I pretended not to. Even when I told myself you were nothing. I was watching. I have always been watching."
The music stopped.
They stood in the center of the floor, surrounded by dancers who had frozen mid-step, by courtiers who had stopped whispering, by a silence so complete she could hear her own heartbeat.
Edwin's hand was still on her waist. Her hand was still on his shoulder. Their faces were inches apart.
"Find my pendant," she said. "Find the men who tried to kill me. Clear your name. And then—"
"And then?"
"And then perhaps I will stop looking at you as my enemy."
She stepped back, leaving him alone on the dance floor, and walked away without looking back.
---
The Gallery
Hilda was waiting for her in the gallery, her old face creased with joy.
"You danced with him," Hilda said, clasping her hands. "Oh, my lady. You danced with him."
"I danced with him because you asked me to."
"I did not ask—"
"Your eyes asked." Ariyana leaned against the balustrade, looking down at the dancers below. "You wanted me to dance with him. You wanted the court to see us together. You wanted—"
"I wanted you to be happy." Hilda's voice was soft. "Is that so wrong?"
Ariyana was silent for a long moment.
"I do not know how to be happy," she said finally. "I am not sure I ever learned."
"Then learn." Hilda took her hand, squeezing gently. "You are young. You are strong. You are beautiful. And that boy—that impossible, infuriating, broken boy—loves you more than he knows how to say."
"He does not love me."
"He danced with you."
"Dancing is not love."
"No." Hilda smiled. "But it is a start."
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