But at the end of all the theatrics, it was about sex. It was always about sex. It amused her to no end that she seemed to be the only person capable of seeing that.
Prince Griffin drew her along with him and because Melody could not comment on this the way she would have liked, she had no choice but to...allow it.
And there was suddenly nothing to concentrate on but him. Awareness swept over her, whether she wanted it or not.
He was hot to the touch. Too hot. He had a hand splayed at her low back again and she wished he would remove it, because it was far too...confusing.
Distracting.
She told herself it was because they were climbing stairs. That was why she seemed to be heating up, almost steaming. But deep inside, low in her belly, it was if her body was far more exultantly medieval than she’d ever imagined possible.
He moved with a certain quiet power that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Because she recognized it. He was...contained. Not quite what he seemed on the surface. And she could feel that so distinctly it was as if he was making announcements to that effect as he led her away from the crowd.
He kept a firm, if gentle, hold of her, as if she needed help navigating through the wide corridors of the palace and their acres and acres of gleaming, empty marble. He did not make small talk, and when she noticed that, it made all the strange things churning about inside her start to glow.
Because the character of Prince Griffin that everybody knew so well had never let a moment go by without filling it with sound of his own voice. Everyone knew that. Notorious charmers were rarely shy and retiring.
Not that she thought the real Prince Griffin, whoever he might be, was shy. The quality of his silence was different than that. It was too confident. Too secure.
She could feel it in the way he guided her, with an ease that suggested he’d spent the bulk of his life matching his pace to hers and maneuvering her where he wanted her, and this wasn’t the first night he’d ever done so. It felt so natural it was almost as if she was leading the way.
Melody understood, deep in her bones, that this was not a man to be trifled with.
But she couldn’t make that odd glimmer of understanding work with the fact he was Prince Griffin, so she shoved it aside. And pretended she was flushed from the walking in such a cumbersome gown, nothing more.
Instead of taking her toward the guest suite where she’d been put up the night before, he headed in a completely different direction. And paying attention to him was too disconcerting, so instead, she paid attention to the direction they moved in. A long walk, then left. Down a set of stairs, then out into a courtyard. There was a fountain making noise, and she could hear the sound of the water bounce back from the walls.
Then she remembered. Prince Griffin did not live in a wing of the palace, the way his brother did. He maintained his own residence on the far side of the palace grounds.
She could feel the press of the December night, chilly for Idylla, though mitigated by blasts of heat at equal intervals as they walked. Heaters, no doubt. Because royal personages could not be expected to suffer the travails of weather.
Melody wanted to laugh at that. But didn’t, because it occurred to her that she was now one of those royal personages. Like it or not.
Then they were inside again. His home, she understood. Hers, now. There was the scent of him, or something that reminded her of him. A certain richness, a hint of intensity. She could sense walls around her, suggesting an entry hall, and then a room. He led her to a couch, placing her hand on the arm and encouraging her to sit. She ran her fingers over the wide arm of the couch, done up in a deep, sumptuous leather. Then she sank down on the seat, tossing the skirt of her enormous dress out as she settled into place, and getting a sense of the width of the couch as she did.
And then she listened.
Her husband moved almost silently. So silently, in fact, that it once again made her shiver in the grip of too much awareness. She had the sense of him prowling, and he was...
Not the same, here.
Away from the crowds, something in her whispered.
Was this where Prince Griffin was truly himself? Whatever that meant?
That electric charge deep inside her connected again, lighting her up. Sending heat and flame and something else shivering through all parts of her body, making her want to leap to her feet to do something to dispel it—
But instead, she reminded herself to be meek. This was not where she could be herself. She could only play her prescribed part, as ordered. Melody bowed her head.
And listened as her surprisingly formidable Prince—her husband, God help her—fixed himself a drink. Then one for her too, she corrected herself, as she heard ice hit heavy crystal for a second time.
Sure enough, he was soon beside her again, pressing a cool tumbler into her palm.
“I thought we could both use a bit of whiskey,” he said, in a low sort of growl that bore almost no resemblance at all to the cultured, charming, carefree tone he’d used in the ballroom as all those women had vied for his attention.
It was fascinating. He was.
Melody felt herself flush.
“I want you to be comfortable here,” Prince Griffin told her, still sounding growly, but with a more formal note
