Pairings: Prince! Tamsy Caines X Commoner! Black Fem reader
(ANYONE CAN READ🧚🏾♀️)
Summary: The Prince sneaks out during night two of the kingdom's Festival Of Peace. Disguising himself and pretending to be a foreigner from the far north, he spends the night with a beautiful street dancer.
Status: Ongoing!!
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Warnings: None this chapter!!
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Taglist: @strawberryosaki @tulnht @whatthenanamii
The royal salon smelled faintly of jasmine and polished marble. Servants moved quietly in the background, pouring fresh tea, replacing fruit trays, diligently changing out flowers as the hours crawled by.
Tamsy sat in the same gilded chair for most of it, posture perfect, expression serene—the image of a dutiful crown prince entertaining his potential future queen.
The first lady—Lady Irina, daughter of a wealthy viscount—sat straight-backed before him, her dress a pale pink confection of chiffon and pearls.
"My father always says I have a keen mind for numbers," she said proudly, her voice crisp. "I've overseen the ledgers of our house since I was sixteen. I think a queen should understand economics, don't you, Your Highness?"
He smiled politely, nodding as expected. "Yes, of course. Financial literacy is a valuable trait."
"I could manage the palace accounts myself, if necessary," she added with a delicate flutter of lashes. "I'm told I have a head for business."
He forced another nod, eyes flicking briefly to the clock behind her. They'd been talking for seven minutes. It felt like seventy.
She continued. "Of course, I also paint! And I speak some Dahrilian. Only a little, of course—'trade language,' they call it."
He hummed in acknowledgment, sipping his tea, the same tired words echoing in his skull. I'm accomplished, I'm graceful, I'd be the perfect queen.
When she finally curtsied and left, he exhaled.
The next entered almost immediately.
Lady Kesia of House Menel, only twenty, vibrant and confident. "I think Mahan needs a queen who can charm other nations," she said. "Someone who understands diplomacy. My mother always said I was born for court life."
"I see," Tamsy murmured, eyes flicking to her rings—dozens of them, glittering under the light. She'd dressed to impress, every movement choreographed.
"I've attended every royal event since I was a girl," she continued with a practiced laugh. "I've always admired how Your Highness carries himself. So dignified."
"Thank you," he said, tone neutral.
But inside, he was screaming.
Her laughter filled the room, shrill and bright, bouncing off the high ceilings.
By the time Lady Alora came in, the tea was cold again.
Her perfume was heavy—too heavy—mechanical smile fixed in place. "Your Highness, I believe leadership begins with the heart. I would devote myself to serving the kingdom—and to you."
The way she said it—it wasn't devotion, it was ambition. And it was awkward. As if she'd been rehearsing it nervously over and over to still muddy it up once the moment to deliver came.
"Of course," he said blandly, "service is vital."
She smiled wider. "I know my worth, Your Highness. I think the people would too."
Each lady blurred into the next.
Different dresses, same words.
Different smiles, same tone.
Every answer perfect. Every compliment painfully predictable.
The afternoon sun arced across the windows, slipping lower, casting bars of light across the table.
Tamsy's hands were folded neatly, his expression unreadable, his voice steady. But his mind—his mind was elsewhere.
He wasn't hearing them anymore. He was hearing laughter.
Her laughter.
The kind that didn't echo off walls, but melted into music and night and spice-scented air.
He remembered that stall at the Festival of Peace—the one draped with ribbons and painted hearts, where the crowd had gathered, calling out to strangers who looked like lovers.
"Kiss her!" they'd shouted. "Don't be shy!"
He'd been drunk on adrenaline, on the smell of food and the rhythm of drums. She'd looked at him sparkly-eyed, half laughing, half mortified, her face glowing gold from lantern light.
He could still feel her lips against his, soft and shy at first, then surer, lingering. He'd felt her smile against his mouth when the crowd cheered.
For one ridiculous, naive second, he'd believed in that stall's promise. That the kiss would bring good luck. That somehow, they'd be destined to find each other again.
He wondered now if it had just been a trick—a game for couples passing by.
But God, he hoped it hadn't been.
Because if there was any truth to it, he could really use that luck now.
The voice jolted him back. Lady Edda was still talking, watching him expectantly.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "You were saying?"
Her smile flickered, trying not to show offense. "Only that I think partnership is most important in a marriage."
"Ah," he murmured, "Yes. Partnership."
He wanted to laugh. The word meant nothing here.
This—these polished performances—was only politics. And he couldn't take much more of it.
As the last lady curtsied and finally exited, he leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. The room felt stifling, the air thick with perfume and protocol.
He stood abruptly, ignoring the startled look from the attendant by the door.
"Cancel the next meeting," he said curtly.
The attendant gawked at him, his hazel eyes wide at the demand.
"Cancel?! But, Your Highness, there's—"
The attendant instantly nodded. "Yes, Your Highness. As you wish."
Night draped itself over the palace, soft and hushed. The corridors were still, save for the faint sound of servants and maids busying themselves throughout the palace, still hard at work.
But in the dance hall, there was only her.
The room glowed with the light of scattered lanterns, their orange flames swaying and throwing warm gold against the mirrors. Her reflection moved with her, multiplying her grace tenfold—an endless waltz of motion and shadow.
The fan in her hand gleamed deep blue, embroidered with gold—his colors, the colors of Mahan. Every turn of her wrist made it catch the light, every shift of her step made her anklets sing in soft chimes.
Her eyes were closed. She wasn't performing for anyone.
Her breathing was measured, in rhythm with the music that only she could hear, her body tracing each familiar motion—earth, air, fire, water. The language of dance.
From the doorway, Tamsy stood still, his heart thudding once, then again, before he quietly slipped inside.
He didn't want to interrupt. He just wanted to watch her.
Her movements were slower tonight, deliberate, almost meditative. The way she tilted her head, the way the muscles in her arms flowed beneath her skin—it mesmerized him. The soft snap of the fan as she shifted its position made his pulse jump, irrationally.
He moved quietly across the room, his shoes silent against the floor, and took a seat against the mirrored wall a few feet in front of her. He drew one knee up, resting his arm over it, content to just . . . watch.
When she finally finished, the fan closing with a soft click, she opened her eyes—only to gasp softly, startled by the shadow of him sitting there.
"Oh—!" Her hand flew to her chest, heart racing. "You scared me! You can't just—"
She caught herself, remembering who she was talking to. Her tone softened, more clipped now, more cautious. "I . . . didn't realize I had an audience."
Tamsy frowned faintly. He hated when she spoke to him that way—careful, distant, like everyone else in the palace did.
He wanted her to talk to him like before. Like the boy she met under the festival lights, not the prince who sat on a gilded dais.
Instead, he nodded toward the open floor, voice soft but sure. "Keep going."
She blinked, surprised. "I was just practicing."
Really, she just needed some time to process the emotional drain of her own grueling day. The noble ladies of course made her first day of teaching a living hell. None of them respected her, none of them considered her a professional, someone worth being taught under.
They'd snickered and whispered and mocked her the entire time. Made her feel less than from the moment they each walked in and saw her. That "attention-hungry" commoner girl from the fête. She hated that it broke her confidence, that it made her question herself and the only thing she had ever been sure of in her life. Her talent.
She felt weak here. Like a small fish realizing there are bigger, faster, more dangerous creatures roaming the water.
So she stayed in the dance hall to clear her mind. To dance and prove at least to herself that she was worthy to be regarded a professional. That she was more than just some commoner girl. That she wasn't a fool for believing she was a large step closer to her dream.
"Then keep practicing," he said, leaning his head back against the mirror behind him. His voice was warm—so gentle it almost didn't sound like a command.
Her brow furrowed, lips pursing into the smallest frown. "I don't usually practice with a royal audience," she muttered. "My practicing isn't as graceful as my performances."
He chuckled, a low, amused sound that made her glance up despite herself. "To you, maybe not. To me?" He shrugged lightly. "I can't tell the difference."
Her lips twitched—half flattered, half exasperated—and she sighed, flicking open the fan again. "Fine."
She took her place again, sliding into the rhythm of movement, the fan fluttering with each motion.
The silence between them was comfortable now, less charged and tense, like it had been back at the festival. The faint jingling of her jewelry filled the air. Every so often he'd feel an ache in his chest—that yearning to reach out, to touch, to say something that would make her stop running from him.
But for now, he said nothing.
Every breath, every turn of her body, every time the light caught the curve of her cheek or the seashells in her hair—it was all burned into him.
And though she didn't see it, the look in his eyes said everything he couldn't tell her yet:
And then abruptly, before he could think on it enough to stop himself, he asked, "What do you think of the kingdom's economic state?"
She faltered—not in her steps, but in her expression—brow instantly furrowing as she rose onto the ball of her foot, arm extended, balanced and elegant.
"What do I think?" she repeated, incredulous.
"Yes." His gaze was steady, curious. He asked the same questions to noble daughters and princesses, and every answer he'd ever heard was some variation of textbook obedience. But he wanted her answer.
She landed lightly, turning her head toward him without breaking her flow.
"Uuuhh, well, I'm sure I don't know as much as nobility do on the topic," she began slowly, "But from the view of the people . . ." She paused, shifting into another sequence, arms stretching outward.
"We do much of the work, and yet are paid very little for it. Our living conditions don't match the time and energy we give. Middle class?" She let out a soft laugh, spinning once before her feet grounded again. "Most of them aren't middle at all anymore, and haven't been for a very long time. The gap is constantly growing. But it's only obvious to those standing at the very bottom, looking up."
Tamsy tilted his head, studying her with fascination. "So you're saying the nobility exploit the labor of the lower classes."
She lifted a brow at him—a slightly challenging look—as she finally slowed to a halt. "Am I wrong?"
He smiled faintly. "No. But how would you fix it?"
She stilled now, arms folding lightly as she paced—her fan sticking out from her right hand— no longer dancing. It was clear the question hooked her.
"Definitely start with wages. If the kingdom is so prosperous and wealthy, why are so many scraping just to feed a family of four in the city—and especially out there on the farms and more rural areas? If there's any care about loyalty, I don't see it. Loyalty doesn't grow where hunger lives. It festers. Everybody knows a starving man doesn't dream of his king—he dreams of bread."
Tamsy's lips twitched at her boldness. "You're sharp. But tell me—how do you convince nobles to take less for themselves?"
She thought, tapping her fingers against her arm.
"Mmmm, I guess you don't. At least, not directly. You . . . " she searched for the right word, "Incentivize it. Show them how strengthening the lower classes strengthens the entire kingdom. Or—" She stopped, looking at him more intently now. "—you just force it. But then, that requires a ruler willing to tussle with his own court."
Her words lingered in the air like a challenge.
Tamsy leaned forward slightly, intrigued, his eyes never leaving hers. She wasn't like the noble ladies from earlier, eager to flatter or impress with things they thought he'd want to hear. She spoke with the weight of someone who lived what she described, someone who cared because she had to.
And he thought she looked radiant like the sun when she spoke with that fire.
He leaned back on his hands, still watching her with that quiet fascination. "Then let me ask you this," he said, voice lower, almost testing her. "Dahril. Our neighbors to the west."
Her brows lifted. "The . . . traders?"
He nodded. "Copper and iron. We rely heavily on their exports. But they've started demanding more coin for less in return." His lips curved faintly, though there was no humor. "The council debates endlessly about whether to push back, or sweeten the deal to keep relations easy. What would you do?"
Her lips parted, clearly startled. "You're asking me?"
She hesitated, her step faltering as her face heated with mild embarrassment. "I-I don't really know all that much about foreign nations and things like this. It's not something someone like me would learn . . ."
"Doesn't matter", he shook his head, "Just answer how you see it."
She gave him a look, almost wary, then sighed and started thinking aloud. "If I were dealing with Dahril as if they were . . . a merchant out in the marketplace—because to me that's what it sounds like—they're overcharging because they think you need them more than they need you."
His mouth curved just a little more. "Go on."
"So, what do you do with a merchant like that?" she continued, warming to it now. "You don't fight them outright—that makes them dig their heels in and get all defensive. You can't just bow to them either, or they'll walk all over you and then nobody will think you're worth nothin'. What you do is: you find another merchant who sells something similar. Even if you don't actually switch to them, you let the first one see you could." she said with a raised finger, clearing into this.
"You show you're not desperate that way. Make them realize they can't play you, because you have options. And options are always scary."
Her satisfied grin abruptly fell, suddenly back to being self-conscious. "That's . . . probably not how nobles would explain it, I guess."
Tamsy chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, it's not." He tilted his head, studying her. "But it's better. Simpler. And—something many nobles know nothing about—honest."
Her heart skipped, warmth crawling up her cheeks at the way he was looking at her.
"And what if Dahril calls the bluff?" He pressed, leaning forward slightly.
She thought again for a while, folding her arms. "Then you . . . better make it not a bluff. Get along good with that second merchant. Make the first one regret trying to play you. Nothing makes someone crawl back faster than realizing they just lost good coin."
Tamsy laughed, a low, genuine sound she hadn't heard from him before. "You'd be wasted in the council," he said. "They spend weeks circling the same arguments. You cut straight through."
She shook her head quickly, flustered. "I'm just speaking how I know. Everyday things, I guess. Not politics."
"Everyday things are politics," he countered, and his gaze lingered on her in a way that made her chest tighten.
"True." She said, finally letting herself sink onto the polished floor beside him. The soft chime of her anklets followed her every step, a quiet music of their own.
Her eyes flicked to him, uncertain. "Why are you even asking me all this?"
Tamsy's gaze lingered on her, his face unreadable for a beat. Then he shrugged, casually evasive. "Curiosity."
Her dark eyes faintly narrowed, skeptical. "Curiosity?"
"Yes." He smirked faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. The truth was too heavy to hand her. After hours of noble daughters rattling off titles, highly regarded tutors, and rehearsed monologues about how fit they'd be for the throne, he'd wanted to hear someone speak without pretense. He wanted her truth, not another polished answer. But he wasn't about to admit that out loud. Not when he was on a mission to spend real time with her. To not scare her off like the previous time.
"I thought maybe you were . . . messing with me," she said softly, sheepishly even.
His head tilted, his eyes narrowing with interest. "Do I strike you as the sort to waste my time with that?"
She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head with a small smile. "No."
Silence stretched between them, not awkward but thick with something unspoken. She picked at the hem of her skirt, then glanced up. "If this is the kind of stuff you have to talk about every day, I do not envy you." She chuckled.
"I don't think I'd be able to keep up with a debate. Most political things . . . I don't even know what they are."
He arched a brow. "Then ask."
So she did. Tentatively at first, describing the things she sort of knew just from conversations among other citizens either in the square or the marketplace—dinner tables even.
"—And, what we were talking about with Dahril. What's that called?"
"Geoeconomics," he replied smoothly.
"Mmmm, I see." She thought of another kind of topic, "What about when you have to sit with all those foreign envoys?"
"Diplomacy. Geopolitics, if you want to be very specific."
"And the talks you have with merchants from Mahan?"
"Internal economics." His voice was quiet, measured, each answer given without hesitation.
She leaned in a little as their rhythm picked up, asking more, each question building on the last. Her curiosity was disarming, earnest, nothing like the calculated performances of the court.
All the while, his hand had drifted toward her hair without conscious thought. A seashell glinted in the lantern light, and he touched it lightly, tracing the braid it nestled in. Then, absently, he let one of her curls coil around his finger, watching the way it sprung back into place when he released it. She didn't move away. Didn't seem to mind.
"What about when the council meets on matters of law?" She asked, voice softer now.
"Legislature," he murmured, eyes fixed on the curl springing back into place. "Tedious, mostly. Hours of arguments that circle endlessly."
She sighed, finally leaning back with a shake of her head. "Yes, I'll go right ahead and stick to dance."
That made him laugh, quiet and genuine, the kind of sound he rarely gave anyone. His eyes warmed as they lingered on her. "You'd still make half the council look like fools."
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter at that, and she looked away quickly, pretending to smooth a wrinkle in her skirt. But the weight of his gaze stayed, heavy and unyielding.
She knew he had to have just been flattering her. She wouldn't last a minute in a council room.
Tamsy tilted his head, watching her with that half-smile of his. "Enough of politics. Teach me about dance."
She blinked, surprised. "Dance?"
"Yes. Show me what it means. Each step. You speak of it as if it's a language—so teach me the words."
Her lips parted, then curved into the smallest grin. He'd caught her off guard, but she couldn't hide how much the request lit her up. Maybe she could treat this as a redo of her earlier lessons. At least one noble cared to learn from her . . .
Rising gracefully, she smoothed her skirt and moved to the center of the floor. "All right then. But don't say I didn't warn you—this is a subject I could talk about forever."
He leaned back, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes never leaving her. "I'll endure."
She chuckled, then began. "In Mahan, dance is story. For hundreds of years, we've used steps to tell them—each movement means something. Alone they're words, but together? They're stories." She demonstrated a sweep of her arm, rising to her toes, then dropping low with a spin, her skirt trailing like ink on parchment. "Even children learn this early. Nature's basics."
She wasn't telling him anything he hadn't learned before. But it was better hearing it from her, and he'd mostly tuned out much of this topic when younger. With her he finds it suddenly highly interesting and valuable information.
Her movements slowed to deliberate, teaching precision. "This—" she stepped lightly, arms stretching upward—"is the term for sky. This—" she twirled, her hands rippling—"is ocean. Fire." She snapped her wrists sharply, her body flickering with energy. "Earth." A grounded stomp, arms circling low. "Wind." A sway, her body fluid, the air in motion.
He nodded, absorbing her every word, every gesture. "And the fans?"
At that, her eyes brightened. Excitedly she padded to the back of the room—anklets jingling brightly with the movement—retrieving one more of her great fans. It was a bold red with gold designs similar to the navy blue fan, the bits of gold design catching the lantern light. They were the perfect contrasts of warm and cool.
When she returned, the room felt transformed. She flicked open the red and gold fan—now replacing the navy one in her right hand—with a sharp flutter and somehow deep toned snap that echoed like a heartbeat.
"Mara-Mara is the most known," she said, spinning the open fan with ease. "But there are others. Kopi. And Getsuka'hana." She lifted both fans now—red and blue opened and stunning—crossing them before her.
"Kopi and Getsuka'hana use two fans. They're older, harder, and a lot more demanding. Even I haven't perfected Getsuka'hana yet." She added, closing the fans back.
Tamsy watched as she moved, utterly entranced. He didn't say a word.
"You are . . ." she began, her body shifting, fans opening in a single precise movement, perfectly in sync, "prince."
He almost laughed at that.
"And soon, you will be . . ." She struck another movement, the movement sharp and regal, fans slicing the air—"king."
His throat went dry at the reminder, though his smirk stayed. "I see."
He pressed further, curiosity sparking. "What about flight?"
She nodded. "Only in Kopi." She showed him, one leg extending high, closed fans rising in slow arcs before breaking open and outward in a glide.
Her expression sharpened, a look of cold fierceness. She performed a quick, forceful sequence, stamping one foot and snapping the fans shut. "All three."
She softened instantly, looking serene and flowing low to the ground, open fans rippling like water.
A pause in thought from her, then a proud smile. "Getsuka'hana. The rarest." She flicked the blue fan in her left hand open with a flourish, tracing a glowing path through the air as if painting light itself.
"Why only certain dances?" Tamsy asked, though he knew the answer to this too. He knew deep down the story would sound better, livelier, coming from her. Someone who truly cared and loved to share it.
"Because each was born from the stories of the tribesfolk at that time." she said, her tone hushed with reverence. "Before there was one kingdom—Mahan, there were tribes. Mara-Mara. Kopi. Getsuka'hana. Their dances reflected their lives, their truths. Even now, every new story must be told from the words they left behind."
Her explanation made his chest ache—heritage preserved not in books or speeches, but in the body, in rhythm, in breath.
Then her eyes gleamed mischievously. "Shall I test you, Highness?"
He raised a brow, amused. "If you dare."
She flicked both fans open, stepping into the dance. First: her body dipped, her arms sweeping wide in a rippling arc. "River."
Then she rose high, arms stretching outward as the fans glowed in the lantern light, her body unfolding like the sky itself. "Dawn."
Finally, she snapped one fan closed, raising her leg in a breathtaking extension as her arms glided, fans spreading like wings. Her skirt fell up towards her thigh as she spun, a bird brought to life before his eyes.
She stilled, lowering both fans, chest rising with quiet breath. "The full story?"
Tamsy leaned forward, brow furrowed. He'd already forgotten one of them. "Something with a river. And . . . dawn."
She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're missing a big part."
His clueless silence and dazed eyes betrayed him.
"Bird." She laughed, eyes twinkling. "A bird comes to the still river at dawn."
Then she demonstrated it again. His eyes were shamelessly too busy observing the way her skirt slid up her leg once again to pay attention to anything else. He couldn't try to hide that if he wanted to.
She drops her arms with another small laugh, amused at his awed silence. "You aren't even paying attention."
"I am. But you are a rather distracting teacher", he grinned, "Come sit."
The invitation was soft but sure, a prince's request disguised as a whisper.
She hesitated. Though still, something in his tone—steady, low, impossible to refuse—pulled her in. With a small sigh, she crossed the floor and slid down beside him, their shoulders nearly touching as they leaned against the mirrored wall. The cool glass pressed at her back; the heat of him pressed at her side.
For a moment, neither spoke, suddenly engulfed in a quiet that simultaneously felt loud with heat.
Tamsy's fingers twitched once on his knee before he gave up pretending restraint. His hand brushed a single curl from her shoulder, careful, reverent. "You know," he murmured, "you're even more beautiful up close."
Her throat tightened. The words weren't flirtation—they were a blatant ache. She could hear it in his voice, could feel it in the way his fingertips hovered just shy of her jaw, trembling with the effort not to touch.
"Don't," she said softly, meaning to sound firm, but it came out like a faint plea.
He tilted his head, a subtle mischievous smile ghosting across his lips. "Don't what?"
"This. Again." She gestured vaguely between them. "You can't— we can't—"
"I can't sit beside you?"
"Not like this, Your Highness."
There she went again with that title. The name made something flicker in his eyes—a small flare of hurt, quickly hidden behind teasing. "You say that as if it's supposed to stop me."
She raised a wary brow. "It definitely should."
He leaned in just a little more, his light colored eyes pinning her in place. She inhaled sharply.
"Tell me why it's so wrong to want you." He demanded, tone quiet.
Their faces were close now, too close. Already her mind was betraying her, thinking of how quick and easy it would be to close the gap. "I've already told you why. You know why. You're a prince," she whispered. "And I'm not even a little bit noble. If anyone sees us—"
"Let them." He'd said it so casually. So carelessly it blew her mind.
Her eyes widened. "You don't really mean that."
"I do." His voice was steady now, his hand finally finding her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, then her plump bottom lip. "Do you really think I care what anyone would say?"
She trembled, torn between sense and desire, every inch of her screaming to lean into his touch. "You have to stop," she said at last, though her voice barely carried.
"I have to?" He raised a brow, his voice teasing yet laced with heat. "You're aware you're giving orders to a prince, aren't you?"
She shot him a narrow eyed look, half exasperated, half helpless. "You know what I mean. This is a bad idea."
He inched closer, his lips nearly brushing hers. It made her heart stutter.
"Wait, don't." She breathed, nothing but a desperate plea.
He watched as her eyes flickered downwards for just a moment, locking onto his lips before she forced her gaze back to his eyes. It excited him. She could barely restrain herself, struggled just as he did.
"You don't think it's a bad idea either," he said softly, "I know you don't."
Her face crumpled, every piece of the war inside her flashing across her expression. She grabbed his wrist—the one cupping her cheek—holding it there, not pushing it away but not pulling it closer either. Her pulse raced beneath her skin.
"Please," she whispered. "Don't make this harder."
He swallowed hard, every muscle in his body taut with the effort not to close the remaining distance. "You make it harder just by being here."
For a breath, it seemed the world held still—the lanterns, the shadows, even time itself—waiting to see what she would do.
And then, slowly, she let go of his wrist, lowering his hand from her face.
"You should go; before someone sees you here with me." She murmured, not daring to look at him. Then, as a second thought, she added, "We both should go.
She didn't give him a chance to respond, to reach for her, getting up quickly with her fans and putting a respectable distance between them.
The prince debated within himself.
Should he keep pressing? How far could he go without scaring her further? As soon as he tries to kiss her, to compliment her—anything—she runs off just like this. Just like she did in the gardens.
His desire won over reason—it was hardly a fight. He stood up and quickly closed the gap between them, taking her by the waist and kissing her.
His heart lifted as he felt her arms wrap around his neck—cup his face, rest on his shoulders—without hesitation. She kissed him back, just as much desperation and desire behind it as him.
And as his tongue found hers—swirling together in a tangled dance—for the first time since the festival, she moaned.
He hadn't realized just how much he missed that. How much he craved to hear it from her. It sent a wave of wild hunger through him.
The sound of their mouths ravaging each other filled the large space, bouncing off the mirrored walls. He didn't want it to end. No, all he could think of was how much he needed more.
His hands slid down her waist, further and further until they cupped and squeezed her plump cheeks, pulling her in closer until she pressed completely against him.
The way she moaned again—surprised and excited—hit him with a sizzling urge to pick her up and walk her all the way to his bed. Witnesses be damned.
But then she pulled away slowly, agonizingly denying him more of her. Her hands on his chest just to keep him from leaning in once more.
He'd almost did it, too. Took her into his arms, brought her to his bed, made her officially his. In a split second vision, he could see it: her body hot and damp against his as they lie together in bed, thoroughly satisfied from a night of passion. The joy in his heart after she said yes to being his queen.
It was all so simple in his mind. And yet somehow she refused to to see that with him.
"This . . .", she started, breathless, "This doesn't change anything I said."
Tamsy couldn't hold back the short snort of laughter at that. She could have at least tried to say it with more conviction. "Of course. Of course not."
The room felt heavy, like a dense fog rolled in and rested all throughout the hall. Neither moved, too busy thrumming with want to walk away, to break the moment.
But of course, she forced herself away from him. She stepped back—as if that would somehow dissipate the tension—and slowly grabbed her two fans from the floor where she'd dropped them. The movement was too slow, rather obviously signaling she wanted him to leave first.
He shook his head, and without another word turned and left the dance hall.
After he was gone, she slipped out of the hall with her heart pounding as if she'd sprinted. The cool air of the corridor just barely soothed her warm cheeks. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. His voice still echoed in her mind.
She pressed a hand to her chest, exhaling shakily.
I have to stop letting him get that close . . .
I have to stop kissing him back, just making it worse—
There—peeking from behind a marble column suspiciously close to the door of the dance hall—was a girl. No older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. Brown skin glowing in the lantern light, medium sized, long locs falling all the way down her back like a curtain. Wide eyes.
She froze.
Then the young girl froze.
"Don't—don't worry!" she blurted, leaping out from behind the column like she hadn't just been caught eavesdropping. "I din't hear all that much—well, actually I did—but not on purpose! I mean, a little on purpose but not for nothin' bad!"
She was talking fast. Too fast. And judging by her rather heavy accent, she was from the rural lands. Kado or Murin, likely.
Her heart stumbled in her chest. "Please, tell me you won't say anything. You can't say anything." Her voice came out desperate, breathy. "Please."
The girl's face softened immediately. "Oh no, no, no! I wouldn't never tell nobody! Shoot, if anything, I'm rootin' for you!"
Her face went blank. Confused. ". . . What?"
But the girl had already seized her by the wrist, tugging her down the corridor with surprising confidence for someone so small. She dragged her behind one of the wide stone archways overlooking the gardens, glancing around expertly like someone well-trained in sneaking.
Only once she deemed the coast clear did she grin.
A bright, mischievous grin.
"I'm Tani," she whispered quickly. "I'm one of the laundry runners. Everybody calls me 'lil ears' 'cause I hear everything. And I do mean everything."
But Tani continued, undeterred. "People have been talking 'bout you nonstop since the fête, you know."
Her heart climbed into her throat. "Saying what?" she whispered, horrified.
"The way the prince was lookin' at you during your dance! We all saw it! And when you walked out after performing? The way his neck almost broke just to follow you?" She paused to reenact the look on his face and the way he'd "followed her" as she left the center of the floor. "Whew, he looked like someone stole his favorite meal right out of his hands!"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "That's—everyone is reading too much into that."
"No we ain't," Tani said bluntly, eyes glittering. "All do respect but I been workin' here for years. The prince don't never look like that. For nobody! And!", she raised a finger and peeked into the hallway again, ensuring no one approached, then leaned in conspiratorially. "You two seem like you already know each other—
The dancer gasped, a sudden wave of panic on the inside of her.
"From what just happened in that dance hall it seems like you two are already veeerry close." She whispered, like she might burst from excitement.
Her entire body tensed, flashes from the night of the festival flickering across her vision. "Tani, you really can't say things like that; and not here."
"Why not?", she frowned, "It's true, ain't it?"
"No!" She answered too quickly, feeling a little childish. "I'm just a dancer anyway. And he's the crown prince. I can't . . . we can't—I'm not—"
"Why not?" Tani challenged immediately. Again.
"Because he's going to be a whole king! And there's rules with that kind of . . . title. Rules like choosing a princess or some Duke's daughter to be queen, not a commoner. What would I look like trying to compete with noblewomen?! I shouldn't even be near him."
Tani blinked at her like she'd just said just told her the sky was green and the grass blue.
"Well, you'd look crazy trynna compete," she said slowly, "'Cause he's already picked you."
"And since he's going to be king—very soon," the girl continued with absolute, unwavering teenage logic, "Then who could speak against him? If he wants you—and he does—then that's it, ain't it? You'll be queen!"
The words made her heart sink like an anchor to her feet, her hands beginning to shake.
"Imagine that! A common girl, a street dancer made queen of—"
The rest of Tani's sentence faded out into a dull, muted drone.
That single word echoed through her like a stone dropped into deep, dark water.
Queen . . .
Imagine that!
You'll be queen!
The thought didn't feel dreamy or flattering or thrilling. It didn't make her heart flutter with excitement, didn't bring pride. Unlike other women—all those noble ladies from the fête—who would probably whoop for joy at the prospect of becoming queen of the nation, the most powerful woman in Mahan, all she felt was dread.
The thought was terrifying.
A crown.
A throne.
A kingdom.
A life carved from marble and gold.
A responsibility far too heavy for her common-bred hands.
She remembered the noble ladies from earlier. How just the very idea of her teaching them to dance seemed like sacrilege. All that over a dance instructor who wasn't a noble. How could she be a queen?
Her breath hitched so sharply she nearly staggered.
At that, Tani's excited smile quickly fell. "Miss . . .?"
She couldn't hide it—couldn't even try. Her stomach twisted into knots, the fear written across her features as clearly as black ink on parchment.
Tani blinked, the realization hitting her like a jolt. "Ooohhh, you're scared."
The dancer's throat tightened. She couldn't even form a denial. Not at first.
"That makes sense. I don't know the first thing about bein' a queen. But it can't be too bad?"
She shook her head. "Tani, you really can't say things like that here. We shouldn't even think things like that."
"No." She stepped back, putting distance between them as if the word queen were a venomous snake that might attack if she stood too close to it. "It can't happen. It won't happen. And we both need to—
Tani did understand. More than she wanted her to.
The girl's shoulders slumped slightly, giving her a pitying look. "You like his Highness; a lot," she said softly.
She shut her eyes, pained. "Yes . . ."
"He likes you a lot too." Her voice was pleading, trying to make her understand.
"It. Doesn't. Matter." She stressed calmly with a shake of her head, voice trembling on the edges.
"This isn't a fairytale where a prince can just pick a girl from off the streets and everything miraculously ends beautifully. This is real life. And there's too much at stake. Too many eyes. Too many people who already hate that I'm even here just as an instructor for dance."
Barely a whisper she added, "I'm not a queen, Tani. I can't be a queen."
And then, a harsh reminder for herself, ". . . I'm just a street dancer."
Tani opened her mouth again—hopeful, earnest, ready to argue. "But you could be both—
"No." She raised a hand, stopping the young girl. "Please," she whispered. "Just drop this."
The maid wilted, nodding reluctantly. ". . . Sorry, Miss."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.
Finally, she murmured a forced, wavering, "Goodnight, Tani. It was nice to meet you," and slipped past her.
She walked the long way back to her bedchamber, each step feeling heavier than the last. The palace lanterns glowed softly along the opulent walls, but they didn't offer her comfort.
Only reminded her of the world she'd stepped into.
A world that wasn't hers.
A world that would most definitely break her if she wasn't careful.
By the time she shut her chamber door behind her, she felt hollow.
Hope was too dangerous.
Dreaming was too dangerous.
And loving the prince? Loving Tamsy felt like walking along the edge of a cliff with her eyes closed.
She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of her door, breathing out a trembling sigh.
"They just don't understand . . ." She whispered, saying it out loud as if that would convince her it truly was them that didn't understand and not somehow her. She felt at war with herself. No, she was at war with herself. Ever since she'd looked up in that ballroom and saw him sitting there on that throne.
They both talk about it with so much surety, so much confidence that being together makes perfect sense. Was she wrong? Would it really be that easy—
You've got a career on the rise. That should be enough. Think about that. That is something real and attainable, not a fantasy from a storybook.
But what if, somehow, she really could have both?
And how would a queen have time for both? What would the people think of a queen that cared more for her passion than the well being of an entire nation? You can't have both. It's your career or it's—
But it shouldn't have to be either or!
And yet it is. And you know it. Just stick to the goals you've had since childhood. Why deviate from the dream for a single man? Why venture into the unknown for an outcome that isn't guaranteed, when you have the pathway to a successful dance career already ahead of you?
"I don't wanna think about this anymore." She shook her head, letting out a humorless laugh as she realized she'd made herself cry. Her vision was heavily blurred, and a single tear had already reached her jaw.
"Arguing with myself like a fool . . ." She grumbled, pulling off her clothes, stripping down for a bath. Which has quickly become the highlight of the entire palace.
The bath was large, luxurious, and so utterly exquisite. She had oils to choose from—three of them. Jasmine, Lavender, and Ylang Ylang. All of them delicious and relaxing.
Tonight she went with lavender. She tied her hair up into a large, lazy bun, and slowly sank down into the bath up to the nape of her neck with a weighted sigh.
She tried with all her might not to think of him. Not to think of her conversations tonight with him and little Tani.
A/N🧚🏾♀️: Y'all....what? I swear literally EVERYTHING was against me getting this freaking chapter out😭. Work, travel, a migraine on saturday that messed with my vision. Like DANG. But it's here and I decided not to cut this one in half or whatever because it's def like 7.2K words lol. But yeah, anyways...I hope y'all enjoy this chapter and the angst lol. And I promise things WILL get better for them....eventually😈
