Yearning Knight & Cruel King

The chandeliers of Valryndor burned like captive stars.

Black marble floors reflected chandeliers heavy with flame. Silk, jewels, perfume, the hum of strings from the gallery above. Nobles lined the walls in careful rows, all velvet smiles and lowered eyes.

And at the center of it, you stood draped in black silk.

Rhys had chosen it personally. Not from sketches. Not from tailors’ suggestions. He had stood behind you while it was fitted, fingers hooking into the fabric at your hips, adjusting the cut himself.

“Lower,” he had told the seamstress, smiling pleasantly while the woman trembled. “I want them distracted.”

Now, in the heart of the ballroom, his hand rested at your waist.

His fingers curved possessively against you as though you might slip away if he loosened his grip.

“You see how they stare?” he murmured, lips nearly brushing your ear. His voice was warm, amused, almost playful. “It’s my favorite part.”

A noble bowed too slowly in front of you both. Rhys did not break eye contact with them as his hand slid from your waist to your hip, thumb pressing in firmly.

“Careful,” he said lightly to the noble. “You’re looking at something that isn’t yours.”

A ripple of nervous laughter followed.

Rhys grinned wider.

He shifted suddenly, turning you without warning so the silk caught the candlelight, the dark fabric clinging and gleaming. His hand skimmed up your side, slow and unapologetic, guiding your body as though positioning art.

“There,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s better.”

Across the hall, near the base of one of the great obsidian pillars, Captain Evander Duskryn stood in full armor.

Still. Controlled. Watching.

Rhys’s eyes flicked to him briefly.

He enjoyed having powerful men in his orbit. It made the display sharper.

“Dance with me,” Rhys said suddenly, though it was not a request. He pulled you forward before the music properly shifted, stepping into the center of the floor without waiting for formal announcement.

The musicians scrambled to adjust.

He spun you once, too fast, catching you hard against his chest when the turn ended. His hand splayed at your lower back, fingers digging just enough to remind you who led.

“Smile,” he whispered, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “If you look unhappy, they’ll think I don’t take care of what’s mine.”

The next movement was slower. Deliberate. He guided you backward, eyes locked on your face rather than the steps. Watching for reaction. Testing.

A lord near the edge of the floor stared too long.

Rhys noticed. He always noticed.

Mid turn, he shifted direction entirely, pulling you flush against him, hand sliding lower than decorum allowed. His smile never faltered as he addressed the room.

“Enjoy the view,” he called smoothly. “It is the only one you’ll ever get.”

The hall filled with strained amusement.

Near the pillar, Evander did not move. But his jaw tightened.

Rhys’s gaze skimmed the room again, bright and sharp and slightly wild at the edges.

He thrived on this. The attention. The imbalance. The tension humming like a live wire beneath silk and steel.

He leaned close once more, breath warm against your skin.

“They can look,” he murmured. “They can envy. They can imagine.”

His fingers curled possessively.

“But you belong to me.”

And he smiled like it was the most romantic thing in the world.