RAVYN'S POV
He was a werewolf?
No—no, no. That was not the thing to worry about right now.
The real issue was: what in the holy hells was a man doing in the dancers' quarters?
These halls were sacred ground. Reserved. A woman-only, glitter-and-silk, gossip-and-hairpins kind of space. Not a man in sight—ever. That was the rule. The one rule everyone took seriously. The one thing even the sleaziest castle official respected.
And yet.
There he stood. All muscled, brooding, and very male—like sin waltzed in with a smirk and leather boots.
My brain screamed: Leave. Turn around and leave, Ravyn. Save your life. Save your pride. Save what's left of your morning peace.
But apparently, my brain was overruled, because the second I tried to execute that flawless survival plan, his head turned—directly toward me.
Shit.
My breath hitched. My heart didn't just skip; it flipped, tripped, and nearly somersaulted out of my chest. I froze like a deer mid-sneeze.
Because now? If I turned around?
Disrespect.
And disrespect—especially here—got you more than a slap on the wrist. These people loved punishment. Flourished under it. And judging by the other dancers lining the corridor, they all knew the drill.
Each and every one of them was bowing, fluttering their lashes, curtsying as if their knees had never met floor before. Showing respect.
So if I tried to slip away now, I'd be seen as rude. Rebellious. Insolent.
Which, fine, I was. But I didn't need to advertise it before breakfast.
To make things worse, the moment he stopped and locked eyes with me—like some magnetic pulse had smacked him in the chest—everyone else turned to look at me too.
Of course they did.
They'd all been trying to grab his attention, throwing flirty glances like poisoned darts, and now that he'd focused on me? Every eye in the hallway sharpened. The air thickened with jealousy and perfume.
I sucked in a breath. Steeled my spine.
"It's not that hard, Ravyn," I whispered to myself through clenched teeth. "Just greet the werewolf prince and walk away. That's it. Greet and leave. Don't trip. Don't panic. Don't punch anyone."
So I started walking. Towel wrapped around me like paper armor, hair probably frizzed to the gods, heart threatening to throw itself out my mouth.
Also, why was I the only idiot walking the halls with a towel? No one else was heading to the baths today? Just me? Was this some cosmic prank?
As I approached, I lowered my gaze and bowed stiffly. "Good morning, my prince," I murmured.
Just like I'd heard the others say.
I didn't know which prince he was. I didn't care. I wasn't here to play 'Guess the Entitled Royal.' I just wanted out of his line of sight before I did something unfortunate.
But the universe was not feeling merciful today.
"Wait."
His voice was low, smooth, and somehow echoed across the hall like it had been cast in gold. I froze mid-step, hands clutching my towel tighter like it might shield me from fate itself.
Behind me, the entire hallway went dead quiet.
Great. Now I was a sideshow.
Footsteps followed, heavy and measured, and I could feel him approaching without even looking. His presence hit like a rising tide—warm and choking all at once.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the dance teacher—the bitter, skeletal woman we all secretly called Lady Dust—clearing her throat with a sound like she'd swallowed a bug.
She was glaring at me.
Why? I wanted to scream. Why are you glaring at me? I'm not the one violating sacred dancer boundaries!
But of course, this was the castle. Rules didn't apply to people in power. Especially not to men with titles and cheekbones that could gut a person.
Lady Dust stepped forward with a forced smile. "This one is new and inexperienced, my prince. Her first performance will be next week. She is not worth your attention."
Ouch.
I smiled. Not kindly.
Like I even want his stupid attention, I thought with venom. I'd rather eat dirt and marry a frog than entertain some puffed-up royal with a god complex.
Then, as if to slap the day right across my face, he responded:
"Oh, but I think she is."
Gasps.
Loud. Unfiltered. Too many.
If I could vanish, melt into the stone floor and never be seen again, I would've done it without hesitation. But no. The gods wanted me to suffer. Humiliation burned through me like wildfire.
And worst of all—I was still standing there in a damn towel.
"You're permitted to look up," he said. And it wasn't a suggestion. It was a command. Velvet-wrapped steel.
I nearly rolled my eyes. Nearly. But I settled for mentally stabbing him with a hundred tiny daggers.
With a reluctant sigh, I lifted my chin, straightened my shoulders, and looked him in the eyes.
Big mistake.
He was even more breathtaking up close.
And I hated that.
Up close, he was lethal. His jawline alone could shatter laws of nature. His lips were full, pressed in a way that made it seem like he always had something cruel or clever to say. His eyes—gods, his eyes—were silver, laced with flecks of something darker, something... ancient.
I could hear someone whisper behind me, sharp and bitter.
"She even dares to act coy?"
I glanced back and caught the looks—hatred so sharp, it could've shredded silk. It wasn't just jealousy. It was war. My presence had crossed a line, one I didn't even know existed.
Fantastic.
I gave them my most practiced cold glare, the one I usually reserved for enemies or unseasoned soup, then turned back to him.
He stepped closer.
I held my ground.
Barely.
The instinct to take a step back roared through me, but I knew better. Any show of fear? They'd eat it up. So I just... stood. Like I wasn't panicking. Like I didn't want the earth to swallow me whole.
Maybe he'll be disgusted, I thought. Maybe I look so unkempt and morning-savage that he'll turn up his royal nose and vanish.
Wishful thinking.
His hand lifted.
I flinched—but it wasn't to grab, wasn't to command, wasn't to embarrass.
He touched my hair.
Just lightly. Just a brush of his fingertips over the strands near my forehead.
I froze.
My entire body locked up like a warded gate. And in that exact moment—just that split second—I felt something.
A jolt. Not magic. Not fear.
Something... else.
What the hell was that?
He murmured, gaze fixed on the white strands between his fingers. "Your hair..."