The Avagarians had nearly eradicated their entire human culture through savage warfare. Ballet dancing was one of the last few traces of art the Tarlèans still had. The ballet dancers were revered to the likes of celebrity gods by the people.
Evening blanketed the land in gloomy shadows. Pale glimpses of moonlight peeped through the trees in flashes of light.
The night seemed an apt representation of his mood, he thought bitterly.
A line was already formed out front of the dancing hall, not exactly typical for an early weeknight. But it looked like everyone had received their missive from the king and wanted a fresh look at the famous ballet dancer up for claiming.
Ryon stifled a curse as he tethered his horse. There were far too many men in line for his liking. Patting Dominic, his horses head, he lingered for a moment before slipping past the known security guard with a glance. Murmurs sounded around him.
“The general,” buzzed the crowd like agitated bees.
Inside Prima Donna’s dance hall the swinging cabaret music resounded in full force: a mixture of jazzy saxophones, hooting trumpets, and deep baritones of a thumping upright bass. Above it all was a husky woman’s voice crooning about tulip fields and other nonsense. A troupe of women wearing colorful leotards, tights, and ballet slippers kicked their legs high in the air to the jazzy tunes. Ballet had changed and shaped over the years. The music they danced to had changed and morphed just as they, as people, had. The plies, sautes, and glissades were all there, but the dancing was quicker and more robust.
The woman he searched for was not on stage.
Ryon pushed himself through the crowd. The heavy digestion of people made walking a chore as they shuffled shoulder to shoulder into the club. The music grew louder as he came closer to his target. He surveyed the crowd, his gaze skimming across a figure in a dazzling sequined outfit and tutu that barely covered more than the necessary parts, before locking on.
She was the center of attention once more; a crowd having grown around her at the news of her Claiming Day.
Her beauty took his breath away. She was the kind of woman you wanted all to yourself. He wanted many things from her, and to give many things to her. He wanted her looking up at him with soft-eyed passion after a good kissing. He wanted to feel her arms wrapped tightly around him as they make love. Too many things to name.
He’d tasted her exquisiteness once.
Once.
Before it’d been ruined.
A scowl slashed his features and in the next moment he charged through the crowd with determined strides. People parted for him, instant recognition on their faces.
“The general,” someone whispered excitedly. Others piped in too. He grew tired of the whispers, but the people knew him as a hero and that was all he was to them. They didn’t know him personally, therefore they didn’t treat him the same. Such was life. He’d learned to deal with the attention, to ignore it, as saying anything usually made the situation worse.
The news must have gotten to her across the room, for Penelope Farris, looking utterly womanly in her outfit, stood from her leaning position, and locked eyes with him. As always when he looked at her, his heart lurched in his chest like a spring-loaded weapon.
Down, boy; she doesn’t feel that way about you.
Yet.
Her eyes widened, alarmed, as she turned to face him. The man she’d been leaning over appeared behind her and a noise much like a growl climbed from Ryon’s throat.
Duke Patrick Gaines, a wealthy, entitled yuppie of a scoundrel—he couldn’t say enough good things about the man—slumped against the wall near Penelope looking like a hungry cat waiting to be fed by hand.
Fierce jealousy surged as it always did when he saw men leering at Pen. She was his, even if he had yet to claim her.
Ryon didn’t stop to say a word, couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to. His lips were pursed tighter than a wet seal, his biceps contracted with the urge to throw his fist into the duke’s pale, smug face until it turned purple and blue.
“General. What are you doing here?”
He heard tension in Penelope’s voice. Her eyes skated down his torso then back up. Did she have any idea what her greedy copper eyes did to him? When she looked at him like he was a large, intimidating man and she liked it.
Lord, she drove him mad.
If only she’d stop running from him.
“Please, do tell. What’s your business here, General Ward?” the duke asked. “I don’t believe it’s every day you find the general visiting a dance hall.” Mocking words had never sounded so obvious.
Tall and slender, the aristocrat wore his black hair pulled into a long braided thong around his shoulder. His lips dipped into a twisted scowl, disdain dripping from every pour of his body. He wore expensive clothes made with fine etchings in gold and silver thread. The red velvet cape draped across his narrow frame must be worth more than Ryon’s current ensemble.