Selene ran her fingers over the frame of a painting, pretending to admire the brush strokes. The hall was dimly lit, the torches casting shadows against the stone walls. It was quiet here, away from the suffocating lavishness of the ballroom. Away from him.
She had counted to sixty.
That's how long it took for King Ronan Dain to find her.
"Hiding?"
The deep timbre of his voice sent a ripple of something—not fear, not quite—down her spine.
She smiled, keeping her back to him for a moment longer. "Merely appreciating art, Your Majesty."
The sound of his boots echoed off the stone floor as he stepped closer.
"Strange. You don't seem the type to be moved by paintings."
Selene turned then, tilting her head, her emerald eyes glinting in the low light. "And what type do I seem to be?"
Ronan took a slow step forward, his piercing gaze locked onto hers.
"A woman who prefers the thrill of something far less… still."
He wasn't wrong.
Selene kept her expression neutral, though inside she was waging a battle. The weight of the dagger strapped to her thigh was tempting. A single move, and she could end this now.
She could sink the blade into his throat.
Kill him on the very spot he stood.
*Avenge her family.*
*Avenge her people.*
But that would be reckless. Foolish. Not the plan.
Not yet.
The flickering flame from the torches casted shadows on the walls as she deliberated.
"You've been watching me, Your Majesty," she said instead, a playful lilt in her voice.
Ronan chuckled, slow and deep. "You make it impossible not to."
Selene crossed her arms, shifting her weight slightly. "Is that so?"
He stepped even closer, the scent of steel and something dark—like fire and blood—clinging to him.
"You intrigue me, Selene."
Her name sounded dangerous on his lips.
"Why?" she asked.
Stepping closer to him, there bodies inches apart. A proper lady would have maintained a respectable distance, but Selene was no proper lady. She was a woman on a mission.
Ronan studied her, his gaze trailing over every detail—the striking emerald eyes, the confident tilt of her chin, the way she stood before him without a trace of fear.
"You are unlike any woman I have ever met."
Selene's heart should have pounded at that. But she forced herself to meet his stare with ease, her lips curving slightly.
"And you, Your Majesty," she murmured, "are exactly the man I expected you to be."
Ronan's brows lifted slightly. "Is that so?"
"Yes." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath it. "A conqueror. A warrior. A man who takes what he wants."
He considered her words, then smirked. "And yet, I have asked you for a dance—twice, if I recall. And still, you deny me."
Selene shrugged. "I enjoy watching a man work for what he wants."
Ronan chuckled again, this time lower, something more dangerous curling at the edges of it.
"Is that so?" he mused. "Then tell me, Selene—when will my efforts be rewarded?"
Selene's fingers twitched.
Oh, he would be rewarded.
With the blade against his throat, just as her father had been. With poison in his veins, watching his strength fade as her mother's had. With fire consuming everything he held dear—just as he had done to her world.
Hatred burned through her, hot and intense.
Standing this close to him, after years of dreaming of his death, felt almost surreal.
Not yet.
Not yet.
She forced a slow, steady breath and lifted her gaze to his, letting amusement dance in her emerald eyes.
"Take me back to the ballroom, Your Majesty. And perhaps, I will reconsider."
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Ronan held out his arm.
Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his.
And every eye in the ballroom turned to them the moment they stepped inside.
A hush fell over the crowd. The women whispered behind their fans, the men watched with envy.
The King had chosen.
The music faltered, if only for a moment, before resuming, a slow and haunting melody.
Ronan led her through the grand space. His grip on her hand was firm but not cruel, his presence commanding without effort.
And when they reached the center of the ballroom, he turned to her once more.
"Dance with me, Selene."
A command.
But also a request.
Selene let a slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.
"Since you ask so nicely, Your Majesty."
And so she danced with the King.
A deadly beauty in his arms.
The world around them blurred, the music swelling as they moved together. Selene let him lead, let him believe he had control, all while she studied him—every shift of muscle, every flicker of intent in his gaze.
Ronan's grip tightened ever so slightly. "You're a dangerous woman."
Selene raised a brow. "Is that a compliment?"
He smirked. "An observation."
She laughed softly, tilting her head as they spun. "And yet, here you are, holding me."
His lips quirked, but there was something else in his expression now. A deeper interest. A realization.
Ronan Dain was not a fool.
He had built his empire by recognizing threats before they struck.
And yet, for the first time, he was willingly holding one.
He sensed the danger in her, he could tell she was trouble, but he couldn't figure out what kind of trouble she was. Either way, she belonged in his arms.
Selene's fingers brushed against the back of his neck, the movement barely noticeable. Just enough to feel the warmth of his skin. Just enough to imagine how easy it would be to slide a blade there.
But not yet.
For now, she let him believe she was some pretty damsel.
And Ronan, watching her with those piercing, unreadable golden eyes, knew one thing with certainty—
He had found his Queen.