Page 127 of Reign

“I don’t feel like it,” Fitzroy mumbled into his goblet.

I huffed, disappointed by his refusal.

“I didn’t feel like staying awake night after night, enchanting all those weapons for your army,” I chided, disappointment giving way to frustration. “Sometimes we do things for others, even if we don’t feel like it.”

He peered through his strong brow to meet my wrath. I narrowed my eyes into tight slits, so he’d know I wasn’t entertaining a refusal.

With a defeated groan, Fitzroy hoisted himself to his feet.

“Fine,” he grumbled beneath his breath. “Do you get a thrill out of blackmailing people?”

Without warning, he snatched my wrist and dragged me to the dance floor.

“If we must dance, let’s do it properly,” Fitzroy said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Facing my way, he executed a courtly bow.

“You need to curtsy,” he instructed, slipping into his favorite commanding tone.

I offered my most graceful obeisance—then Fitzroy placed both hands on my waist, yanking me in as close as the layers of skirts and hoops would allow. Unsure of where to put my hands, I rested them on his shoulders as he began the dance.

Fitzroy performed fancy footwork, while I was thankful no one could see my awkward steps beneath the full hem of my skirt.

The smug grin on his face betrayed his delight in outshining me.

He laughed as he spun me beneath his arm with such vigor that I nearly toppled.

“Stop!” I screamed, but my shrieking only encouraged Fitzroy to swivel me faster.

A second before I would’ve passed out, Fitzroy caught me, pulling me close. His chest pressed against mine while my arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, clinging tightly.

“You’re as elegant as an old drunkard,” Fitzroy teased, still chortling at his own tomfoolery.

But I didn’t find being twirled like a spinning top humorous in the slightest.

I flicked his ear—making him flinch for a split second before his cheeky grin returned.

Our gazes locked in that familiar, challenging glare we did to intimidate one another. But this time, something was different.

My heart no longer thudded in anger, but in anticipation.

Fitzroy bit his bottom lip—drawing my attention to his tempting mouth.

As I wondered whether his lips were juicier than blackberries in late summer, they parted—and I knew the gods were testing me.

His smoldering eyes flicked briefly to my mouth. He let out a small, frustrated huff, before returning to meet my hungry stare.

I smoothed my palms across the back of his neck, noting how his skin was as soft as overripe plums, and warmer than mulled mead—prompting Fitzroy to tighten his grip around my waist, drawing me closer.

For a fleeting moment, I thought he might actually kiss me—his face edging toward mine.

Was I about to be rewarded for enduring his sharp tongue? The fruits of my labor: a taste of his mouth?

But the song ended before we collided.

As the courtiers applauded, I remembered we had an audience.

My cheeks reddened like heather in bloom as I pushed Fitzroy away, hastily returning to my seat—chastising myself for desiring things of the flesh.