Roseblood

He put a hand at my waist—trying to touch me lightly, but somehow conveying tenderness in the gesture instead—and raised my right hand in the air with his left, and then we were moving across the floor in rhythm with the music.

Though Thorny had lived a few years of his life as a wolf, he was actually a good dancer. He was graceful and sure-footed, gliding across the floor without a single stumble. All the while, he tried not to look at me.

Though he was also doing his best to touch me as little as possible, I could feel the warmth of his fingers at my hip . . . and the clamminess of the hand that held mine. He was nervous, and I found it endearing.

“You truly are a good dancer, Thorny,” I told him.

“Thanks,” he said, still avoiding my gaze.

“I would not imagine a wolf-man to have such grace,” I persisted.

“Yeah.”

I was not about to be deterred by his attempts to give monosyllabic replies, so I simply continued talking. “This is the sort of dancing that could sweep a girl off her feet.”

His body tensed. “My feelings haven’t ch—”

“I heard about the roses,” I interrupted. My thoughts flicked briefly back to the dead rose that had brought Thorny and I together. Someone had gone to fetch it for me, and I was certain having it near would comfort me. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I did it because they reminded me of you,” he said curtly. “I didn’t want that reminder all around me.”

I pressed my lips together. I didn’t buy his cavalier attitude in the slightest. “I heard about how you captured my stepmother.”

He hesitated as he tried to think of a response. “I only did that because I didn’t want a dangerous witch running amok in my kingdom. That’s worse than bandits.”

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t you have her executed?”

He didn’t answer; he merely tightened his grip on my hand slightly.

I waited for an answer, briefly allowing myself to enjoy dancing with Thorny and spinning around the room. But when he gave no response, I spoke again. “I know you check on me in my dreams.”

He flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Thorny,” I said sharply, suddenly sick of his attitude, “I don’t know why you’re acting like this, and I wish you’d tell me.”

“I have nothing to say.”

I snorted. “You can say that all you want. I’ll never believe you.”

“You can think what you want, but I don’t care about you anymore.”

“I don’t believe that either,” I said, though his comment hurt a little nonetheless. Changing the subject, I told him, “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

He softened a little at that, and I thought I saw a glint of sadness in his face. “I had let my guard down. We . . . we got a little closer there at the end. I guess I learned to see past the beast myself.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said gently. “You shouldn’t hate your father. No matter what he did, he was your flesh and blood. I’m sure he loved you.”

“How are you holding up?” he blurted. He glanced at me for the briefest of moments before looking away once more. He seemed to regret the outburst, but he couldn’t exactly take it back.

“I miss my father every day,” I whispered, closing my eyes briefly to push back unexpected tears. “But I still carry him with me—and I always will.”

“I’m glad,” he murmured.

I brought a hand up to touch his cheek, and as he flinched away, the music stopped.

“I want to talk to you again, Thorny,” I told him, my voice a plea.

“No,” he said. “Not outside the dance floor.”