The Bazaar pulsed with unrelenting life—colors clashed, languages bled into one another, and the air was thick with spice, ozone, and mystery. Amid the chaos, John and Ziraya moved like shadows under the Glamour woven into her cloak. It didn’t make them invisible, but it kept wandering eyes sliding off them like water down a tarp.

  John kept close. “So where exactly are we going?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “We still missing anything?”

  “A few essentials,” Ziraya said without looking back. Her tail tightened around his waist and tugged him with the practiced ease of a leash. “No idea how the Dance of Whispers will unfold. But we’ll be prepared.” She stopped abruptly in front of a weapon shop, and the tail around John’s waist flexed—just tight enough to freeze him in place.

  “Weapons? Again?” John squinted through the window. “You’ve already got a sword.”

  Ziraya smirked, fangs flashing. “It has a name, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it does,” John muttered, half-teasing. “What is it?”

  “Bond of Permanence.”

  Everything in John froze. A chill ran down his spine as the world narrowed, his mind locking on that name. Bond of Permanence. Permanence, his Authority that he couldn’t speak of no matter what. His breath hitched. He stared blankly at her sword’s scabbard, suddenly afraid that the system would snap its jaws shut around him. That some ancient failsafe would reveal him here, in the middle of the street, exposing the lie he built everything on.

  But… nothing happened.

  No shudder in the world. No ominous blue window. No forced reset.

  Ziraya had said the word—but without triggering the system. Which meant she didn’t know. She couldn't know. And yet… how could she have chosen that name?

  He tried to breathe normally, but his heart thudded a traitorous rhythm in his ears. “W-What made you call it that?” he asked, too quickly.

  Ziraya shrugged, watching a passing fae woman just a beat too long before her eyes flicked back to John, sharp and possessive. “It just came to me. A symbol of what I am. Enduring. Unyielding. And…” She paused. “Tied to something important.”

  She didn’t say ‘you.’ She didn’t have to.

  John swallowed and looked away. He couldn’t be sure. Had his Authority reached out through his subconscious and planted the name in her mind? Was he influencing her without meaning to? Was that why she was so… intense around him?

  Her tail flexed again—just a warning this time—as she scanned the crowd. “You’re twitchy,” she muttered. “Did you see something?”

  John forced a smile and raised his hands in mock surrender.

  She narrowed her eyes. He quickly pointed toward the shop. “So, uh… what are we after?”

  Ziraya turned, easing only slightly as she stepped into the shop. “Consumables.”

  “Consumables?” he echoed, following.

  “For the Dance,” she said, studying the displays. “Enclosed space, unclear security. If things go wrong—and they will—we need to vanish fast.”

  John arched a brow. “When, not if?”

  “It’s the fae,” she said, lips curling. “And the Ash Vigil might be there. We can’t be too prepared.”

  Ziraya gestured to a high shelf lined with glass bulbs. “Veilspore capsules,” she said. “They disperse a mist that hides you from magical tracking and, if we’re lucky, gives our enemies vertigo.”

  John leaned in and read the label. “Twenty thousand Credits each?! For glorified fog bombs?”

  “They’re rare,” she said, as if that explained everything. “Fungal. Very hard to harvest and process. Only last fifteen seconds. Highly effective if you know when to use them.”

  John squinted. “You know what might be cheaper? Smoke grenades.”

  The words were out before he could stop them.

  Ziraya’s eyes narrowed. “Smoke… grenades?”

  He fumbled. “Heard Chase talk about them. Human tech. Little metal canister, puff of thick smoke. Nothing fancy.”

  She clicked her tongue, tail flicking. “Is that so?”

  John tried not to visibly edge away. “I’ve read things, and maybe picked up the same hobby as him.”

  “Mm.” Her gaze lingered on him.

  John nodded quickly, shifting his posture in an attempt to hide his guns from her view.

  Ziraya picked up two of the capsules and handed him one. “Now for separation protocols,” she said, her voice unusually tense. Her tail squeezed around his waist, far too hard for a casual gesture.

  “I don’t plan on getting separated,” he grunted, trying to breathe.

  “Neither do I,” she hissed, then quickly looked away, embarrassed at her own intensity. She tossed him a handful of glass marbles. “Catapults. Keep them close.”

  He slipped them into his coat, trying not to wince as he still had no idea how to use them, and asking now was just begging to blow his cover. A part of him believed that Ziraya wouldn’t care, but he still wasn’t fully convinced. She strode to another display—this one full of concealable blades—and picked up a stiletto with a plain damascus blade. No decoration. Just efficient death.

  “We need concealable weapons.” She continued. “These types of events always have a strict weapons ban so we have to be discreet.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Anyone can cast a spell whenever they want, so I doubt they would care that much.”

  “It’s not the same thing.” Ziraya said. “It doesn’t send the same message. A knife to the throat is always going to be faster than a spell, especially in an enclosed space. Anyways, consider these disposable.” Ziraya said, holding up the short-bladed stilettos she'd picked up from the display. “Plain steel. Won’t do much against proper shielding, but they won’t raise suspicion either.”

  John nodded, but his attention had already drifted—down to the matte-black pistol and the polished revolver strapped tight to his thighs. Ziraya followed his gaze and added, casually but firmly, “Your spell catalysts will have to come off, too.”

  He winced. Spell catalysts. That’s what she called them. That’s what everyone here assumed they were.

  He didn’t correct her.

  As she turned to head toward a nearby booth stocked with intricate wands and crystal-tipped rods, John reached out and gave her tail a quick tug. Ziraya let out a stifled yelp, stiffening with a sharp inhale, and whipped around with eyes blazing and cheeks flushed.

  “What the hell was that for?” she hissed, her voice caught between a gasp and a growl.

  “Sorry,” he said with a crooked smile. “Just—already covered. I’ve got a… compact spell catalyst.”

  He recalled his Glock 19, which collected dust inside the Ship. Not his preferred caliber, but reliable, concealable. And more importantly—his.

  Ziraya narrowed her eyes, suspicious but intrigued. “Where? What kind?”

  “Can’t say,” he said, feigning mystery.

  “Hm.” She didn’t look entirely convinced. Her eyes drifted down to his left hand, the glove stitched with faint geometric patterns. “Now that I think about it… Why are you wearing armor only on one hand?”

  John froze for half a beat. “I have my reasons.”

  “Really?” She leaned in slightly, curious. “Another spell catalyst?”

  “Yep.” He shifted uncomfortably, tugging at the edge of the glove.

  Ziraya tilted her head, still studying him, but eventually shrugged. “Alright. Doesn’t matter. Armor still has to go.”

  John’s jaw tensed. “Do we really have to do this unarmed?”

  “The Dance is formal,” she said, tone gentler now. “Even if it’s a secret and full of masked conspirators. We show up in armor, we’ll stand out.”

  He looked down at his gear—layered plates, reinforced boots, bandolier full of cartridges, the faint bulk of backup magazines. “At least let me keep my shields.”

  Ziraya smiled. “Of course you can keep your shields.” Her tail tightened around his waist and gave a warm, affectionate squeeze. “But we’re investing in proper clothes next. Real ones.”

  John clicked his tongue as they reached the counter. Ziraya slapped a few Credit Gems down with practiced flair, drawing the attention of the dragon-blooded woman behind it. The shopkeeper’s eyes, ringed with golden-brown scales, flicked to the way Ziraya’s tail still curled possessively around John.

  “Kids these days,” the woman muttered as she handed over the package.

  Ziraya shot her a scowl and dragged John away by the waist, steps quick, braid bouncing.

  “Right. Clothes,” she said, her voice lighter, a slight spring in her stride. “We’ll need something elegant. Something eye-catching. Something that doesn’t scream ‘mercenary on a budget.’”

  “You’re enjoying this,” John said, smirking despite himself.

  Ziraya glanced back at him, then forward again, smile softening. “It’s not often I got to go out like this, back when I was… you know.” Her voice trailed off. A shadow passed behind her eyes.

  John said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Anyway. I know nothing about fashion. So I’ll be in your capable, terrifying hands.”

  “Oh, I know you don’t,” she scoffed, raking her gaze up and down his outfit. “But lucky for you, I know a few places.”

  She pulled him closer as they melted back into the churning crowd of the Bazaar.

  Earth. A nameless motel slumped on the edge of a smog-choked city, tucked behind a gas station and a shuttered liquor store. The carpet squelched underfoot, soaked with blood and bile. A copper stench clung to the air like rot behind the walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering through clouds of steam rising off warm gore.

  Three lanky, hunched figures crouched in the center of the room, red skin glistening beneath the heavy folds of a stained brown cloak. They picked through what little remained of the werewolf—its body twisted beyond recognition, ribcage crushed, fur matted with blood. The creature had died in its underpants, a humiliating end for something that once thought itself a predator.

  The first imp glanced at the scattered ice shards where one of their own had once stood—now nothing more than glistening fragments on the cheap linoleum floor. “They don’t last long,” he muttered, voice like dry leaves scraping against stone.

  The vengeance had been immediate. The werewolf and his mercenary team hadn’t stood a chance. One’s arm was embedded in the drywall, twitching faintly as if the nerves hadn’t yet realized they were dead. Another’s jawbone had snapped clean in half and hung like a broken door. A gutted fishman slumped in the bathtub, and as the second imp stood up, he crushed the werewolf’s skull with a wet crack beneath one clawed heel.

  “But we got what we came for,” the second imp said, lips peeling back in a feral grin. He held up a folder slick with blood, half the pages melted into one another. “Can you believe they didn’t even burn it? Left it lying around like some half-written postcard.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  He snorted, flipping it open with a claw and scanning the smeared words. “Sloppy. Drinking before the job. Mouthing off about the mission to anything with ears.”

  “They really have no standards in this world,” the third imp added, flicking blood off his fingertips with delicate distaste. “Their minds are soft. Always trying to impress each other. Always bragging.”

  The second imp turned back to the file, then tilted his head toward the werewolf’s mangled face. Its eyes were still open, cloudy with death and pain. “Still,” he said, his voice almost amused, “he was quite informative in the end. The Amber Crown, they called it. If their screams were true... the last piece lies in Faerie.”

  “Guarded,” the first imp murmured. “Deep. Hidden. But not forever.”

  The third one’s grin sharpened. “We need it. No matter what. If that is the last piece... then the ritual is within reach.”

  “Getting there won’t be easy,” the first warned. His long tongue flicked out to taste the air, catching a trace of magic still clinging to the space where one mercenary had tried—and failed—to cast a protection spell. “The mortals guard their portals. Their worlds are fragmented, and crossing over without notice is... difficult.”

  The second imp shrugged, unconcerned. “Their grasp of magic is infantile. We’ll slip past as we always do. They never see us coming.”

  “Of course,” the third said. “No room for doubt now. The moment approaches. He draws nearer.”

  All three paused, then slowly turned toward each other, eyes glowing faintly in the dim, blood-smeared room. Something passed between them—an old understanding, older than the motel, older than Earth itself.

  “After all these centuries,” one whispered, almost reverently. “We are so close.”

  And with that, the imps vanished—popping out of existence in a rush of sulfur and smoke, leaving only silence... and the ruined corpses of the mercenary company.

  The light flickered once more. Then went out.

  “One hundred thousand Credits, each!” John’s eyes bulged as they stepped out of the shop with their new outfits carefully packaged in round red boxes. “I can’t believe you paid for all of that. I could’ve paid for my share, you know.”

  Ziraya harrumphed, wrapping her tail tightly around his waist and pulling him toward her without breaking stride. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Her eyes snapped to a fae woman who passed a little too close to John’s side. Ziraya’s claws flexed as her slitted pupils narrowed. She didn’t say a word, but her gaze followed the woman like a blade ready to strike. Only once the stranger disappeared into the crowd did Ziraya tilt her head and mutter, “How much time do we have left?”

  John checked his phone. “Around an hour and a half.”

  The Bazaar pulsed with alien life around them — scents too dense to decode, signs scrawled in languages John couldn’t read, even after spending all this time in the Hidden World. Yet somehow, it was starting to feel familiar. Maybe even like a home.

  And then the Ship resurfaced in his mind — a mechanical reminder that he already had a “home.” One that would never let him go.

  “We need to change,” Ziraya said, yanking his attention back to the present.

  “Right, right.” John followed her silently, his mind still drifting. It didn’t take long to reach the Wolfheart safehouse tucked into the edges of the Bazaar, guarded more by shadows than locks.

  The door creaked as Ziraya entered, tossing the red boxes onto a table without even looking at them. She collapsed onto the couch, the worn springs creaking under her weight, and dragged John down with her using her tail.

  He fell headfirst into her chest again. “We really need to stop doing this. I’m going to break my nose one of these days.”

  Yet he made no move to pull away. That, more than anything, satisfied her. She gave him just enough space to breathe — but not enough to escape.

  “So,” he started, “we have some time to kill. Should we—”

  Ziraya pounced, straddling him and kissing him with a sudden, fierce hunger. Her tail coiled tighter, wrapping him in place like a serpent locking in prey. John barely managed a sound before her forked tongue was in his mouth, silencing him, claiming him.

  When she finally pulled back, her breath was heavy — not from exertion, but from something deeper, darker, needier. A moment passed. Then another. Realization dawned on her. She flushed deep crimson and looked away with a scoff, arms folded tightly over her chest.

  “Y-You make it too easy,” she mumbled.

  “I’m literally immobilized,” John said, voice dry, one eyebrow raised. “You’re doing all the work.”

  “Exactly,” she snapped, still refusing to meet his gaze. “Y-You belong to me. Don’t forget that.”

  “I think your tail made that clear.”

  She looked back at him, eyes smoldering — not with embarrassment now, but with challenge. Like she dared him to protest.

  He didn’t. He simply leaned back, still bound, and said with a lopsided grin, “Shouldn’t we get dressed?”

  Her tail didn’t loosen. Not yet.

  An uneasy silence settled in the room, thick with tension and unsaid things. Ziraya’s fingers lingered on John’s for a moment too long before she finally pulled back, the hesitation clear in the small falter of her breath.

  “I’ll, uh… I’ll start,” John muttered, clutching the red box like it might bite. He turned away, slipping into the other room, the door clicking shut behind him. His pistol and his revolver gleamed under the dim ceiling light, the worn leather of their holsters familiar and grounding. John hesitated, hand resting on the grip of one, knuckles white. Finally, with a grunt, he unhooked the straps and let them drop. The holsters hit the floor with a heavy thud, and somehow, it felt like a part of him had been stripped away.

  “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, toes curling slightly as he unbuckled his boots. The sudden lightness in his legs was almost nauseating. Naked, exposed. Vulnerable. He popped open the red box. Inside, the black suit was pristine, almost too perfect. The gray shirt beneath shimmered subtly, catching the light in shifting glimmers from the enchanted metallic threads woven through the fabric. He ran a hand down it, fingers grazing the subtle armor hidden inside the sleek folds of the jacket.

  “Not just for show, at least,” he said under his breath, tugging it on. The material molded to his frame like a second skin, unnervingly light, yet firm where it counted. The pants followed, snug but flexible, reinforced like the rest. His black leather boots were polished to a mirrored sheen, the soles giving a soft metallic ping as he tapped them experimentally.

  “Always nice to be overdressed and overarmed,” he smirked. Still, his eyes strayed longingly toward the Spell Glove, the revolver, the P50—all staying behind. It felt like walking into a fight half-naked.

  At the bottom of the box sat a small velvet tray. He blinked. “I almost forgot about the cufflinks.”

  They weren’t the plain, minimal ones he remembered picking. Instead, two tiny dragons with raised wings rested on the tray, their scales etched in gleaming silver and eyes set with crimson gems. John raised an eyebrow.

  “Of course she swapped them.” He chuckled, the sound dry. “Of course.”

  It took him a minute of awkward fiddling to figure them out. When he was finally done, he stepped back and looked at his reflection in the cracked wall mirror. The suit fit too well. He tugged on the lapels like he could stretch them into something less… tight. “I look like a damn spy,” he muttered, pulling the black mask from the pocket of his usual coat and slipping it on. He gave himself one last look—then one more toward the table where his real tools rested.

  “I’ll miss you,” he whispered to the weapons, then fastened the stiletto inside his belt and tucked the Veilspore capsule into his inner pocket. When he stepped out, Ziraya was sitting stiffly on the couch, but the moment she saw him, she stood—then stopped dead in her tracks. Her amber eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly, though no words came out.

  “How do I look?” John asked, voice pitched somewhere between bravado and dread. He gave a little spin for good measure, feeling every bit the imposter in fine clothes.

  “R-Really nice,” Ziraya stammered, her voice suddenly hoarse. Her tail flicked behind her like a cat barely resisting the urge to pounce. “I-I’ll get changed too.”

  She practically bolted from the room. John blinked after her, then slumped down onto the couch with a quiet groan. The springs creaked under his weight.

  “What the hell did she pick for herself?” he murmured, rubbing his neck. “She wouldn’t let me see—so I guess I’ll—”

  The words died in his throat.

  Ziraya stepped out, and the world went very, very quiet. Her gown was liquid shadow—jet black, but shot through with crimson sheen that shimmered like oil on water with every step. It clung to her curves like it had been stitched to her skin, and the plunging neckline left no doubt about her confidence. A high slit ran up one side, revealing a toned thigh and a glimpse of the scaled sections of her skin that glinted faintly under the light. Her heels clicked against the floor like the rhythm of a countdown—sharp, dangerous, deliberate.

  Even her tail was adorned. Golden rings wrapped around it like serpents devouring their tails, linked with fine chains that shimmered with each movement.

  “H-How do I look?” she asked, crossing her arms in a vain attempt to hide the swell of her large chest—though it only made it worse.

  John tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. His heart thundered in his chest like it was trying to punch its way out. “V-Very nice,” he croaked, eyes darting to the ceiling in sheer self-preservation. He didn’t dare look again. Not directly. Not when her eyes held that gleam—one of mischief, hunger… and something else.

  Ziraya turned away too, but not before her gaze dropped to the cufflinks peeking from beneath his sleeves. Her lips curled in satisfaction, the smile sharp and knowing. She had claimed him in her own subtle way.

  “You forgot your mask,” John said, just to break the tension, grabbing the white mask from the table and handing it to her. Ziraya took it with a small nod—and then, without a word, her tail looped around his waist, slow and possessive. The decorative chains clicked gently as they brushed his shirt, pressing just enough to remind him she was there—and that she didn’t plan to let go anytime soon.

  “So,” John managed, his voice tight as the tail tightened ever so slightly, “we’re ready to go?”

  Ziraya gave a satisfied little hum and fastened her brown cloak around her shoulders, the powerful Glamour woven into it flaring to life and dulling the edge of their appearance.

  Still, when they stepped outside into the dusky streets, even the enchanted cloak couldn’t quite hide the elegance of their attire. They drew stares.

  One dragon-blooded woman let her gaze linger too long on John.

  Ziraya turned on her with a hiss, the sound low and unmistakably dangerous.

  The woman vanished into the crowd, visibly pale.

  John blinked, but said nothing and pretended that he hadn’t seen what just happened.

  It didn’t take long before they exited the Bazaar and stopped before it.

  The Ship.

  It stood there, beige and unremarkable, a geometric blemish on the world. It didn’t hum, didn’t move—it didn’t need to. The very air bent subtly around it, like heat over a mirage. It was wrong in the way that silence becomes unbearable in the middle of a scream. Looking at it too long made the mind itch.

  To John, it felt like an old scar aching in the rain—familiar, inevitable. It pulled at him like a taut rope. He exhaled, steeling himself, then glanced at Ziraya.

  She nodded once, lips pressed into a thin line. Determined. Composed.

  Until the Bond snapped into place.

  Ziraya gasped, stiffening as John’s Authority of Bonding tethered her to the Ship’s reality. Her vision wrenched sideways, and suddenly, she saw it—truly saw it. The impossible geometry of its interior flickered into her mind’s eye like a half-remembered nightmare.

  The doors hissed open.

  And the Ship turned its full attention to her.

  Ziraya staggered. Her pupils constricted. A storm of alien emotion slammed into her psyche—artificial constructs that reeked of imitation: a poorly translated wariness, a warped acceptance, a deep yearning she knew wasn’t hers.

  She bit her tongue. Hard.

  The Ship was probing her. Its awareness scraped at the outer shell of her soul, feeling for fractures, testing every inch with the patience of an executioner. It was neither curious nor cruel—it simply was, and in its presence, her existence felt provisional. She clenched her fists, grounding herself.

  The intrusion relented—barely—as John stepped forward. The Bond between them vibrated like a cable pulled taut in a hurricane, John taking the brunt of the Ship’s reality-distorting pressure without realizing. To him, it was normal. Familiar. Almost comforting as artificial happiness washed over him.

  They entered. The Ship’s interior was silent, sterile, and impossible. John crouched, scooping up his old Glock holstered in black nylon. He ran a thumb across the metal, checking the mag with mechanical focus before holstering it again and sinking into the single chair in the room. Ziraya dropped into his lap without a word, her tail coiling gently around one of his legs as if to anchor herself.

  He began typing.

  “The Isle of the Gilded Veil is wrapped in static,” John muttered, squinting at the map. “They’ve warded it to hell and back. We can’t land directly in the palace.”

  “Cowards.” Ziraya’s forked tongue clicked. “So, what’s the plan? We have the masks.”

  “Maybe they'll let us in. But I’d rather not rely on maybe. There's always a side door.” He tapped a few more keys. “Service entrance. If it’s locked, well…” He gave a sideways glance. “That’s why I brought Bonding.”

  Ziraya’s Authority sparked at the mention. She socked him playfully in the shoulder, but her smile was brief, tight. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Not while we’re still inside this thing.”

  “Right.” John coughed awkwardly, inputting the coordinates.

  The screen blinked. The Ship dinged.

  The landing was successful.

  “You’ve been less temperamental lately,” John muttered to the Ship, under his breath. “Either I’m getting used to you... or you’re getting smarter.”

  The Ship gave no reply. But somewhere in the walls, something shifted—like bones creaking in the dark.

  They stepped outside. The wind hit them like a charging beast, flinging Ziraya’s hair into her face. John turned his head sharply, his face blanching as vertigo took hold.

  She steadied him. “Still bad with heights?”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” he said weakly. “As long as I don’t look down, I’m fine.”

  Before them, the palace loomed—its walls polished and seamless, carved like sculpture rather than built. There were no cracks. No flaws. Just impossible perfection.

  “Too perfect,” John muttered. “Did we pick the wrong spot?”

  “Look.” Ziraya pointed with her tail. “There.”

  Half-hidden behind a hedge, a narrow door hung slightly ajar. They ducked into the shrubs, crouching low as two fae stepped outside, dragging their feet. They wore white robes under black aprons, the uniform of low-ranking palace servants. Each one yanked off a plain wooden mask with a groan.

  “I can’t breathe in those damn things,” the first fae wheezed, rubbing at his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hollow.

  “You’re not supposed to breathe easy during the Dance,” the second one drawled, sarcasm sharp. “Tradition.”

  “Tradition can kiss my ass. I’m running on fumes.” The first fae yawned, slumping against the wall.

  The second fae smiled—a slow, knowing curve of the lips. He reached under his apron and produced a small velvet pouch.

  The first fae’s nose twitched. “…Pixie Dust?”

  “Don’t judge,” the second replied, tone too casual. “You need it to make it through. This is my third Dance. You think this is rough? Just wait.”

  The first fae hesitated. “I don’t—”

  “First hit’s free.” The second one didn’t wait. He pushed the pouch into the other’s hand like a dealer slipping contraband in a back alley.

  Ziraya’s eyes narrowed. Her sixth sense flared.

  Mana. It screamed through the air the instant the dust hit the fae’s nostrils. His whole aura spasmed and flared, crackling like lightning behind stormcloud eyes. His pupils dilated, and he looked at his clenched fist like it held the secrets of the universe.

  “That’s… That’s strong stuff…”

  “Come on, big guy,” the second fae purred, his grin twitching wider. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The door was left ajar in their wake.

  Ziraya didn’t speak. Her gaze lingered on the doorway, then the shadows where the fae vanished. She touched John’s arm. He understood immediately.

  “Guess we won’t need to break through any doors.” He peered at the door. “Should we worry about the wards?”

  “Not really,” she murmured. “The palace likely limited the wards for the event. Too many guests, too many servants—they’d crash the spell matrix trying to register everyone.”

  “Even spells have memory limits,” John chuckled.

  Ziraya looked at him, her expression softening. With one fluid motion, she slipped her mask over her face, then his. Before he could speak, she stole a kiss—a brief touch of lips that lingered with heat. Then she straightened, hiding the flush behind carved wood.

  John blinked, then grinned. “I guess you’re ready.”

  Without a word, she took his hand—and together, they stepped into the Dance.