“What the hell are you doing on my balcony?” I hiss, throwing open the glass doors to find Prince Henry perched on the stone railing like some demented gargoyle.
“Visiting,” he slurs, swinging his legs over and dropping to the stone floor with liquid grace. Rain drips from his dark curls, and his coat hangs open despite the bitter cold.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m royal. It’s practically a requirement.” His grin is crooked, dangerous. “And you’re in a nightgown.”
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how thin the silk is. “This is the girls’ wing. You could be expelled for this.”
“Could I?” He steps closer, whiskey sharp on his breath. “Funny thing about being a prince—rules bend when you’re not looking.”
“What do you want, Henry?”
The use of his name without title makes him pause. Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition.
“To breathe,” he says finally. “Everywhere else feels like drowning.”
“Poetic. Also not an answer.”
He laughs, bitter as winter wind. “There was a dinner tonight. Diplomatic vultures picking at treaties like carrion. My father paraded me around like a prize stallion while they discussed my future bride like she was livestock.”
“How tragic for you,” I reply dryly. “Being wanted must be such a burden.”
“Wanted?” His voice cracks with something raw. “They don’t want me, Helena. They want the crown that’ll sit on my head. The bloodline I’ll pass on. The treaties I’ll sign.”
Rain begins to fall harder, soaking through his open coat. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“You came here to complain about being important?”
“I came here because you’re the only person in this godforsaken place who doesn’t pretend I’m anything other than human.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “You think I see you as human?”
“Don’t you?”
I study his face—the flush of alcohol, the wild desperation in his eyes, the way his hands shake slightly in the cold. “Sometimes. When you’re not being a complete bastard.”
“Which is most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” I agree.
He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin despite the cold. “I should kiss you.”
My heart stops. “But you won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because once I start, I won’t be able to stop.” His hand reaches up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw with devastating gentleness. “And you deserve better than a drunk prince’s mistake.”
“Maybe I don’t want better.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes search mine, looking for lies, for pretense, for the performance he expects. “You don’t mean that.”
“How do you know what I mean?”
“Because you’re not stupid enough to want this.” He gestures between us, his voice turning harsh. “Whatever this is.”
“And what is this?”
“Dangerous.” He steps back, putting distance between us like a physical barrier. “For both of us.”
Rain continues to fall, turning the stone slick beneath our feet. Henry’s shirt clings to his chest, and I can see the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.
“I have a proposition,” he says suddenly.
“Your last ones have gone so well.”
“This one’s different.” He straightens, some of the drunken looseness leaving his posture. “Come to the royal ball.”
I blink at him. “I was already planning to attend.”
“Not as a wallflower. Not hiding in corners. Come like you own the place.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to dance with you.” The words come out rough, desperate. “In front of everyone. In front of them all.”
My throat closes. “You want to dance with me?”
“I want to claim you.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Publicly. Completely. I want every person in that ballroom to know you’re mine.”
“I’m not anyone’s.”
“No,” he agrees, his smile sharp as a blade. “But you could be mine. If you wanted.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility and danger. Rain continues to fall, but neither of us moves to seek shelter.
“What happens after the dance?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His honesty is brutal. “Maybe everything changes. Maybe nothing does. Maybe we both get destroyed in the process.”
“Those aren’t very good odds.”
“No,” he agrees. “But they’re the only ones we have.”
I study his face, looking for the trap, the cruel joke, the moment when his mask slips back into place. Instead, I see something I’ve never seen before—vulnerability, raw and unguarded.
“One dance,” I say finally.
“One dance.”
“And if I regret it?”
“Then we’ll regret it together.”
He moves toward the balcony railing, preparing to leave the way he came. At the last moment, he turns back.
“Helena?”
“What?”
“Don’t make me dance alone.”