The Assassin and the Desert (Throne of Glass 0.3)(22)

Mikhail had dragged Ansel to the dancing, and she was grinning as she twirled and bobbed and bounced from partner to partner, all of the assassins now keeping the same, silent beat. Ansel had experienced great horror, and yet she could also be so carefree, so keenly alive. Mikhail caught her in his arms and dipped her, low enough for Ansel’s eyes to widen.

Mikhail truly liked Ansel—that much was obvious. He always found excuses to touch her, always smiled at her, always looked at her as if she were the only person in the room.

Celaena sloshed her wine around in her glass. If she were being honest, sometimes she thought Sam looked at her that way. But then he’d go and say something absurd, or try to undermine her, and she’d chide herself for even thinking that about him.

Her stomach tightened. What had Arobynn done to him that night? She should have inquired after him. But in the days afterward, she’d been so busy, so wrapped in her rage . . . She hadn’t dared look for him, actually. Because if Arobynn had hurt Sam the way he’d hurt her—if he’d hurt Sam worse than he’d hurt her . . .

Celaena drained the rest of her wine. During the two days after she’d awoken from her beating, she’d used a good chunk of her savings to purchase her own apartment, away and well hidden from the Assassin’s Keep. She hadn’t told anyone—partially because she was worried she might change her mind while she was away—but with each day here, with each lesson with the kind and gentle Master, she was more and more resolved to tell Arobynn she was moving out. She was actually eager to see the look on his face. She still owed him money, of course—he’d seen to it that her debts would keep her with him for a while—but there was no rule that said she had to live with him. And if he ever laid a hand on her again . . .

If Arobynn ever laid a hand on her or Sam again, she’d see to it that he lost that hand. Actually, she’d see to it that he lost everything up to the elbow.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Celaena looked up from her empty wine goblet to find Ilias standing behind her. She hadn’t seen much of him in the past few days, aside from at dinner, where he still glanced at her and gave her those lovely smiles. He offered his hand.

Celaena’s face instantly warmed and she shook her head, trying her best to convey a sense of not knowing these dances.

Ilias shrugged, his eyes bright. His hand remained extended.

She bit her lip and glanced pointedly at his feet. Ilias shrugged again, this time as if to suggest that his toes weren’t all that valuable, anyway.

Celaena glanced at Mikhail and Ansel, spinning wildly to a beat only the two of them could hear. Ilias raised his brows. Live a little, Sardothien! Ansel had said that day they stole the horses. Why not live a little tonight, too?

Celaena gave him a dramatic shrug and took his hand, tossing a wry smile his way. I suppose I could spare a dance or two, she wanted to say.

Even though there was no music, Ilias led her through the dances with ease, each of his movements sure and steady. It was hard to look away—not just from his face, but also from the contentment that radiated from him. And he looked back at her so intently that she had to wonder if he’d been watching her all these weeks not just to protect his father.

They danced until well after midnight; wild dances that weren’t at all like the waltzes she’d learned in Rifthold. Even when she switched partners, Ilias was always there, waiting for the next dance. It was almost as intoxicating as the oddity of dancing to no music, to hearing a collective, silent rhythm—to letting the wind and the sighing sand outside the fortress provide the beat and the melody. It was lovely and strange, and as the hours passed, she often wondered if she’d strayed into some dream.

When the moon was setting, Celaena found herself leaving the dance floor, doing her best to convey how exhausted she was. It wasn’t a lie. Her feet hurt, and she hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in weeks and weeks. Ilias tried pulling her back onto the floor for one last dance, but she nimbly slipped out of his grasp, grinning as she shook her head. Ansel and Mikhail were still dancing, holding each other closer than any other pair on the dance floor. Not wanting to interrupt her friend, Celaena left the hall, Ilias in tow.

She couldn’t deny that her racing heartbeat wasn’t just from the dancing as they walked down the empty hall. Ilias strolled beside her, silent as ever, and she swallowed tightly.

What would he say—that is, if he could speak—if he knew that Adarlan’s Assassin had never been kissed? She’d killed men, freed slaves, stolen horses, but she’d never kissed anyone. It was ridiculous, somehow. Something that she should have gotten out of the way at some point, but she’d never found the right person.

All too quickly, they were standing outside the door to her room. Celaena didn’t touch the door handle, and tried to calm her breathing as she turned to face Ilias.

He was smiling. Maybe he didn’t mean to kiss her. His room was, after all, just a few doors down.

“Well,” she said. After so many hours of silence, the word was jarringly loud. Her face burned. He stepped closer, and she tried not to flinch as he slipped a hand around her waist. It would be so simple to kiss him, she realized as she looked up at him.

His other hand slid against her neck, his thumb caressing her jaw as he gently tilted her head back. Her blood pounded through every inch of her. Her lips parted . . . but as Ilias inclined his head, she went rigid and stepped back.