Chapter 162: Dance

“Flattered,” he repeated, as if savoring the taste of the word. “But really… what was that? How did you get to this level of… um… family civil war?”

Morgana looked away first, crossing her arms. It wasn’t shame—Morgana didn’t have that. It was… irritation. Old exasperation.

And weariness.

“…She’s not my mother,” she said, her voice low, firm, practical. “She’s my stepmother.”

Damon blinked.

Ah.

That explained a lot.

“I understand,” he murmured. Then: “And your real mother…?”

“She died when I was very young,” Morgana answered without hesitation. It was a truth she carried as part of herself, without excessive sentimentality. “And, to be honest, I think she always hated the Duchess. Sometimes I think that if she could come back from the grave just to haunt her, she would come back laughing.” Damon chuckled softly.

“Looks like a lively family.”

Morgana finally looked at him—a sharp look, but without any real hostility directed at him. Just the reflection of years dealing with the woman who had just tried to slap her.

“I grew up with that woman trying to control my every move,” she continued. “Deciding what I wore, how I behaved, who I talked to… and, most importantly, who I should marry. She always loved choosing suitors… as long as they were useful to her family.”

Damon raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“Including the fiancé who peed his pants?”

Morgana let out a long sigh… and, much against her will, a short laugh escaped.

“Including him.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want anything to do with him. I never did. But while I was trapped in the mansion, I didn’t have much choice.” And the Duchess loved to pretend it was for my own good.

She leaned against the wall and raised her chin, staring into the empty hallway.

“The worst part is… she believes it. She really thinks she knows what’s best for me. She thinks marrying some cowardly imbecile is a wonderful destiny.”

Damon took another step toward her, until he was less than a meter away. His shadow fell upon her—not threateningly, but… present.

Deeply present.

“So you really don’t have any connection to her,” he said, with a rare gentleness.

Morgana turned to face him. Her eyes were calm… but something was burning there behind them.

“No,” she replied. “She’s not my mother. Never was. She just likes to pretend she has some power over me because it feeds her ego.”

Damon tilted his head.

“It must be difficult.”

She lifted a corner of her mouth.

“You have no idea.”

He let out a short sigh… and then a slow smile appeared, that half-smile that irritated and attracted at the same time.

“So… she wanted to control you your whole life.”

He moved a little closer.

“And now she’s lost any control she thought she had.”

Morgana held his gaze.

“It seems so.”

“She must be furious.”

“Very.”

Damon examined her face for a moment—that kind of look that seemed to see beyond what she said. He didn’t say anything for a moment… and that made the air between them thicker, warmer.

Then he spoke, in a low voice:

“You should be more careful, you know?”

Morgana frowned.

“Why?”

“Because people like her… when they lose control…” He slid his fingers along his lapel.

“They’re trying to get it back by force.”

Morgana flashed a small, sharp, utterly fearless smile.

“Let her try.”

She raised her chin, haughty.

“I’m not that easy to catch.”

Damon let out a short, deep laugh. He seemed almost… satisfied with the response.

“That’s true,” he murmured. “But even so… I think you irritated her more than you should have.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You irritated her more than you should have. Stopping her hand like that… it’s going to leave a mark.”

Damon shrugged.

“I like leaving marks.”

Morgana choked on her own breath.

He knew what he was doing.

And she knew that he knew.

She tried to say something—anything intelligent, sharp, worthy of Morgana Arven—but the words wouldn’t come. Just an angry, warm, uncomfortable silence in a way she didn’t know how to manage.

Then she turned her face away.

“You’re unbearable.”

Damon leaned in a little closer, just enough for her to feel the warmth of his body, and whispered:

“And yet… you still listen to me.”

She held her breath.

For a second.

Just one.

And then she nudged his shoulder lightly, as if that would regain control of the situation.

“Go away before she comes back,” she muttered.

“I’m going,” he said, but didn’t leave immediately.

The announcement echoed through the hall like an elegant thunderclap:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ball will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the main hall.”

The sound traveled up the stairs and reached the two in the silent hallway.

Morgana rolled her eyes.

“Great. The peacock parade is about to begin.”

Damon let out a slow, lazy… dangerous smile.

“And you’re not going to participate?”

She crossed her arms immediately.

“No. I hate formal dances. I hate nobles trying to step on my foot as if they wanted to amputate me. And above all, I hate—”

“Marrying decrepit old men?” he finished, amused.

She grimaced.

“That too.”

Damon took a step forward—not as close as before, but close enough to call her back to the present.

“So…” he began, tilting his head slightly. “Want to dance?”

Morgana blinked slowly, as if he had suggested something completely absurd.

“I just said I hate that.”

He smiled.

“But dancing with me is better than being kidnapped by some nobleman with the scent of a cavalry stable and three brain cells in a coma.”

Morgana opened her mouth, ready to retort… but the argument was too good.

“…Three?” she murmured, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m being optimistic.”

She looked away for a moment, thinking—not about dancing, but about the humiliation of some random person dragging her into the middle of the ballroom. The disgusting smiles of the Duchess’s old friends. The expression of feigned concern on her stepmother’s face. And, above all, the fact that everyone was expecting her to be isolated, vulnerable, easy to manipulate.

Damon understood her entire reasoning by the way her eyes changed.

Then he extended his hand.

“If you want to keep your distance from the herd…” he said softly, without breaking eye contact, “I’m the best option here.”

Morgana snorted.

“You talk as if you’re offering yourself as a sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice is you refusing,” he retorted, his tone light, provocative. “I dance very well.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious.

“That sounds unbelievable.”

“You’ll only find out if you accept.”

The announcement echoed again downstairs:

“Last warning! The ball will begin now.”

Morgana looked at his hand. Then at the corridor behind, where certainly some obnoxious nobles were already beginning to circulate. And then at his smile—insolent, patient, waiting.

Finally, she let out a defeated sigh.

“…One dance. Just one.”

Damon’s smile widened slowly, comfortable, dangerous.

“One for now,” he said, taking her hand naturally.

Morgana opened her mouth to reply, but he was already gently guiding her toward the stairs.

And, for the first time that night, someone in the hallway had the feeling that the two of them together were going to cause far more trouble than they would have been apart.

Damon stepped down the first step, and for a moment, Morgana thought he would simply walk beside her like any other man would.

But no.

He stopped on the third step, turned sideways, and extended his arm to her in a perfectly studied—almost theatrical—pose, as if inviting a queen to accompany a knight to a gala ball.

A classic gesture.

Old-fashioned.

Completely out of style.

And executed with such confidence that it seemed natural to him.

Morgana froze in place.

“What… are you doing?” she whispered, more confused than annoyed.

Damon raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

“Being polite. Or would you prefer I pushed you down the stairs?”

She pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh—or perhaps an insult. She hadn’t decided yet.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, even as her hand slowly moved to rest on his arm. Ridiculous or not… she accepted.

And as soon as her fingers touched the refined lapel of his suit, Damon inclined his head and commented in a perfectly soft tone:

“You look beautiful tonight, Morgana.”

She stopped breathing for a second.

It was subtle—just a second.

But Damon saw it.

Morgana wasn’t the type of woman to get embarrassed.

In theory.

But the way he said Morgana… The way his voice dragged out her real name, the name almost no one was allowed to use… It sounded intimate. Too intimate.

“…Don’t call me that, in that way,” she murmured, turning her face away, her tone too low for someone who didn’t really care.

Damon smiled.

“As you wish, Morgana.”

She contradicted herself, leaning slightly more against his arm, trying to regain control of her posture—but she didn’t realize that this only made the image of the two of them even more provocative.

When they reached the main hall, all eyes turned instantly.

First because of him: Damon looked absurdly elegant—thanks to Ester’s exaggerated efforts—and it was impossible not to look.

Then… because of her.

Morgana Arven, always isolated, always unattainable, descended the stairs accompanied.

And not by any useless nobleman, but by a man who didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by anyone there.

Morgana felt the stares piercing her skin, the murmur rising immediately, but Damon inclined his head toward her and murmured:

“Ignore it.”

She gave a small, wry smile.

“Easy for you to say. You like being looked at.”

“Only when it’s worth it,” he retorted, and the way his eyes locked on her face made her cheeks flush before she knew it.

Morgana quickly looked away.

“You’re trouble.”

“I know,” Damon replied, pleased. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He guided her up the last step, and the two officially entered the ballroom.

And, at that instant, the Duchess—on the other side of the room—froze at the sight of them together.

Damon smiled at Morgana, leaning in.

“Ready to cause an elegant scandal?”

“Damon…” she sighed, exasperated.

“What is it?”

She looked at his hand gripping her arm firmly.

Then at his eyes, gleaming with amusement and something deeper.

Something she didn’t want to name.

“Don’t be so provocative,” she said, her voice a little lower… a little stranger.

He smiled, pleased to have made her feel this way.

“All right, Morgana,” he said, “I won’t try to make you fall in love.”

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