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Chapter Five
Her plan for breakfast was solid: Eat pancakes. Steer clear of Damon. Give her regrets to the king. Get the hell out of there.
Except the pancakes betrayed her.
Everyone was in the dining room when she shuffled in, leaving the only empty seat next to Damon. She tried ignoring him but he wasn't having it, raving to his father about what a brilliant dancer she is. An elbow to the ribs only led to more compliments until Giuseppe insisted she save him a waltz.
"It would be incredibly rude not to dance with the king," Damon whispered in her ear as she stuffed the last bite of pancake in her mouth to keep from screaming at him.
So much for regrets.
Now, she's panicking.
Her phone buzzes as she charges up the stairs, bumping into a suit of armor on the landing.
"Excuse me," she murmurs absently.
Once again, her best friend's knack for anticipating her meltdowns is spot-on.
"Bonnie, I can't do this," she answers in a rush.
"Hello to you, too. By 'this,' I'm guessing you mean the ball?"
"Sorry. Damon opened his stupid, ridiculously kissable mouth and now I can't back out."
There's a heavy pause on the other end.
"Do you want to unpack that or shall I?"
"No unpacking." God, what is wrong with her. "I don't even have a dress, Bon."
Screw the curtains. Maybe she can repurpose the table linens and pass it off as the newest creation from some up-and-coming designer.
"Elena, breathe. You're going to pass out."
That's it! All she needs is a hot water bottle. She can fake a fever. Forgiveness comes a lot easier when you're sick. Or pretending to be.
Barging into her room with a plan, she stumbles over her own feet when she spots the enormous garment bag hanging on her closet door.
"Oh, no. No, no, no."
"What is it?"
Elena paces in front of the bag, afraid to even touch it as if it might bite. To unzip it or to hide under the bed, that is the question. Closing her eyes, she tugs on the tab. Soft fabric spills onto her hand.
Red tulle. Yards and yards of it.
There's a note pinned to the hanger, written in a crisp, elegant hand.
I can't wait to see you in this. —D
She opens her mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled wheeze. She swallows and tries again.
"The dress from the shop. He bought it."
"What."
"Damon bought me a dress."
###
Elena knots her fingers to stop their trembling as Caroline places the last ruby-encrusted comb in her hair and rearranges the cascade of curls tumbling over her shoulder.
"Beautiful," Caroline says, smiling at her in the mirror. "You're going to be the talk of the ball."
"That's what I'm worried about," Elena mutters under her breath. One of the many things.
Caroline hooks an arm through hers. "Shall we?"
"Is it too late to run the other way?"
"I'll tackle you myself," Caroline says sweetly.
"This is your fault, y'know. You had to go and tell him."
"How else was I going to get you in a dress." She shrugs, not sorry in the least. "C'mon, everyone is waiting."
"Can't have that."
Caroline leads her to a grand staircase with plush carpeting that descends into the ballroom below. Elena peers over the railing and gasps. The room is lit with candelabras taller than she is and the glow from the twinkling white lights nestled in wreaths, garlands, and no fewer than a dozen Christmas trees.
"My prince awaits. See you at the bottom."
With a wave and a wink, Caroline is making her way toward a beaming Stefan, her gown sparkling wherever the light hits it.
"What am I supposed to do now?" Elena whispers. Those stairs are killer. She's expected to walk down them gracefully in front of a room full of dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses, earls and countesses, and the king and his two sons—not to mention the other assorted royals and dignitaries—without falling on her face?
Right.
"Miss?" an usher quietly calls to her. "Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
When she reaches the top, a hush falls over the crowd. Elena breaks out in a cold sweat.
Until she sees the man standing at the base. A prince. Waiting on her.
Damon's tux was no doubt tailored just for him. It clings to his broad shoulders and toned arms then tapers to his lean waist. It's a formal-wear wet dream.
He might pass for a normal—albeit obscenely handsome—guy if not for the reminder of his birthright hanging from the satin ribbon around his neck. The gold medallion features the Salvatore family crest and Mystfallia's national emblem.
Her wobbly legs are only capable of tiny, tentative steps. At this rate, the ball will be over by the time she arrives at the bottom.
Don't trip. Don't fall. Stop grimacing.
When her heels finally meet the mosaic floor, she's shaking like a leaf in a hurricane but somehow manages an elegant-ish curtsy.
"Your Highness," she murmurs.
Damon gently tugs her out of the bow, turning her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "You look like a queen."
"Queens do not get sweaty and gross."
"Then I guess it's a good thing you're neither," he says with a sly grin. "Will you do me the honor of joining me for the first dance?"
She glances at the crowd. Several of the women are sizing up Damon as if he's an all-you-can-eat buffet and they haven't had a meal in weeks.
"Are you sure that honor shouldn't go to someone with a title?"
"Why would I ask them when you're the most stunning woman in the room," he husks. "Dance with me, cara mia."
Before Elena can muster an argument, he escorts her onto the floor as the assembled musicians—an honest-to-god orchestra—launch into a waltz. She's seen enough Dancing with the Stars to muddle through and, of course, Damon is an attentive partner.
"She can dance," he says, chuckling at her fierce scowl.
"Worried I'd stomp on your toes?"
"After what I witnessed the other night, I was prepared to let you stand on my feet."
"How noble of you."
He spins her around, her skirt fanning out like a rose in full bloom. The room turns into a festive blur and she laughs as Damon pulls her back to him.
"This is crazy. Tonight . . . the ball, this gorgeous dress. It's too much. You shouldn't have," she fusses.
His voice drops into its shiver-inducing sweet spot. "It was made for you. It would be a crime to see it on anyone else."
She ignores the sudden weakness in her knees. "Four-year-old me would be a squealing mess. I had an extreme Disney phase."
"Those fictional princesses don't compare to you."
The song ends and Elena joins in the applause, which gives her an excuse to do something with her hands other than fan her scalding-hot cheeks.
When the orchestra starts up again, she automatically reaches for Damon, but there's a tap on her shoulder.
"May I have this dance, milady?" asks a man with slicked-back hair, thick, black brows, and a well-manicured mustache. His swagger is more pirate than royal, and Damon's smile instantly evaporates. "If His Highness approves of my cutting in, of course."
"Lorenzo," Damon growls. "Elena is spoken for."
Spoken for? Does he even remember what century they're in?
"It's okay," she says, her gaze fixed on Damon as he clenches his fists, silently begging him not to make a scene. "We're supposed to change partners for this one anyway."
He mutters something under his breath then snarls in Italian, threatening to toss Sir Smirks-a-Lot in the dungeon.
That last part might not be accurate. She still isn't sure if there is a dungeon.
After the tirade runs its course, Lorenzo nods, unfazed. Damon steps between them, blocking the other man from her view. His touch is gentle as he nudges her chin up until she's looking at him.
"You'll be in my arms again soon, tesoro. Until then . . ."
There in the center of the dance floor, with countless stares upon them and the air tainted by whispers, Damon's mouth finds hers in a long, leisurely kiss.
###
It turns out soon is a very, very long time. The kiss stirred the room into a frenzy and now every duke, earl, and baron is falling over themselves for a chance to dance with Elena while the women swarm Damon and glare at her like she's the plague personified.
The questions are endless: They've never seen her around the palace before and what did she say her family's name is again? Is she from the House of Savoy? How long has she known the prince? There's been no talk of an engagement and why is that?
Elena gives vague non-answers and when that's not enough to satisfy them, she taps her ear and blames the orchestra with "Sorry, I can't hear you over the music."
Her current partner, an elderly baron with a surprisingly strong grip, is determined to unravel the mystery. He's oblivious to the flock of men desperately trying to cut in. Even better, or worse, he's a big fan of the peerless Katherine. Ms. Pierce belonged on the prince's arm and it's a shame the wedding was called off, don't you think?
Elena's lungs seize up and she swallows against the wave of anxiety sending her pulse into overdrive. She searches for Damon, but he's caught in his own tangle of admirers and looking murderous about it.
There are too many voices. It's too hot. And the baron won't let go of her hand.
The room is spinning.
"Please—"
"Excuse me, Baron Genova," interrupts a sharp but familiar voice. "You've occupied quite enough of this lovely lady's time."
The baron startles and releases her. "Of c-course, Your Majesty," he stammers. "My apologies."
As he scuttles away, Giuseppe offers his hand and a kind smile, and her pounding heart settles into a less frantic rhythm.
"May I, my dear?"
She curtsies and places her palm in his, whispering her thanks for the save. With the king as her partner, the others keep their distance. After a few turns, the vise loosens and she can breathe again. She manages a tiny wisp of a smile. Giuseppe's is much more brilliant, and there's a hint of Damon in it.
"I watched you two earlier," he says. "You look well together. I'd not seen him that happy since he was a boy."
Oh, god. The kiss. Did he notice? Where's the champagne fountain and how quickly can she douse herself in it.
"He's an excellent dancer." Which is the lamest response in the history of lamedom.
"As are you. My son was right."
Speaking of his son, he's chatting up a tall redhead with a tiara perched in her elegantly coiffed hair. She leans in, her lips brushing his ear, and Damon laughs at whatever she says. They look well together, too, and something dark and ugly unfurls in Elena's chest.
She winces and concentrates on the glittering lights and beautifully decorated trees. At least those don't make her nauseous.
"Don't pay the others any mind," Giuseppe says gently, misinterpreting her mood. "If it weren't for gossip, they'd have nothing to sustain themselves."
"They think we're a couple." She chews her lip to squelch a fit of hysterical giggles. Or sobs. "We hardly know each other."
The king eyes her closely. "Are you sure?"
Damon's seen her at her crazy-haired, pajama-clad worst. She's aware of his hopes for the future and the legacy he wants to leave behind. But it's been days, not months or years of acquaintance. Days.
"I met my Lilli at a ball not unlike this one." Giuseppe's gaze strays to the grand staircase and loses some of its focus. "We had yet to even speak, but the moment I saw her, my heart was no longer my own."
It's meant to be reassuring in an expect-the-unexpected sort of way, but the Salvatores' talent for insta-love doesn't give Elena the warm fuzzies. Damon fell for Katherine right from the start. She wouldn't be surprised if Stefan did the same with Caroline.
The music slows into a dreamy couples' waltz. Elena thanks Giuseppe for the dance and makes an excuse about needing to freshen up or whatever it is women do at things like this. In reality, she's planning the quickest route to the kitchen. Hopefully, they have a stockpile of the strong stuff or a wine cellar she can lose herself in.
The hallway is quieter and blessedly cooler, and instead of following the sound of clanging pots and a bevy of voices issuing instructions to refill glasses and bring out the dessert trays, she drifts toward the doors leading to the courtyard.
A fine snow is falling, coating the rink in soft, sparkly fluff. She could escape. A pair of skates and she'd be flying, far away from inquisitive glances and the whispers still filling her head.
She slips off her shoes, gathers her skirt, and reaches for the handle.
"There you are."
Damon's arms loop around her waist and he buries his face in her hair, breathing her in. Her muscles go lax in his hold. It would be so easy to stay like this forever.
If they were other people, maybe.
"I was hoping for another dance," he murmurs, turning her with ease. His touch shouldn't be so familiar. It shouldn't make her ache. "Sore feet?"
His eyes are hypnotic and there are things she's not processing. "What?"
"Your shoes."
"Oh." Just running away, Cinderella-style. No big deal. "Yeah."
He's swaying them to the music drifting out of the ballroom, the hem of her gown sweeping the floor. In less than twelve hours, she'll be on a plane and this will be nothing more than a dream. Her head settles on his chest and she holds him tighter, sifting the soft curls at his nape.
They can have this moment.
"Stay," he says. "Celebrate the holiday with us. With me." He drops a kiss to her forehead. "Tell your boss the airline overbooked your flight."
"Damon . . ." Elena straightens, leaving his warmth and ignoring the part of her that would be happiest tucked inside his jacket with him. "You should get back to the ball. Those women are waiting for you."
"I don't want them. I want you."
She shakes her head. "No, you don't."
"You're telling me how I feel?" He rakes a hand through his hair. "What's happening here is real—"
"There's nothing happening. There can't be," she adds quietly.
As soon as the words are out, she wishes she could stuff them back in. Damon's eyes flare, and for once, he's not trying to hide the swirl of emotions in their depths.
"You don't believe that."
It doesn't matter what she believes. The truth is what it is. She's not part of this world—his world—and never will be.
"Are you afraid to even consider it? Is that it?" he asks. "Because you've never allowed yourself to fall in love?"
"You said it yourself," she counters, dodging any allusions to what she may or may not be doing with her heart. "Your life is difficult. It's hard to let people in, but there's a small army of royals in this castle right now who've been raised to be the perfect match for a future king. For you."
"They only care about what I can do for them," he scoffs. "It's always the same."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"They're not like you."
No, they have money and status and everything Elena doesn't. Well-bred women with proud family lineage probably stretching back hundreds of years who can offer alliances and prestige.
"Look, I know Katherine used you, but . . ."
Damon's sudden stillness stops her cold. Not even a twitch. Someone's giving a toast in the ballroom and glasses are clinking and what the hell has she done.
"How did you find out about Katherine." It's that dangerous tone, the one from the kitchen when he assumed she was a two-bit hack come to ruin their lives.
"I never meant—"
"You said you weren't interested in affairs and 'scoop,'" he hisses. "Did you bribe the staff? Wheedle it out of Stefan? Take advantage of my father's kindness to push him into telling you the whole sordid tale?"
"No, I swear!"
A shadow passes over his features like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. Eyes that were warm and bright moments ago are pale and flinty.
"Here I was thinking you were different, but I should've known. Reporters don't stop digging until they've hit gold. Congratulations, Ms. Gilbert," he sneers. "Now you have yours. I'm sure you'll get a promotion as a reward for your diligence."
"Damon, please. Let me explain."
His icy gaze lingers on her as if she's a bit of dirt he stepped in, then he stalks in the opposite direction. Away from her.
Out of her life.
Which is the way it should be, isn't it.
Elena drags herself to the top of the stairs before the first teardrop falls.
###
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*dodges a barrage of rotten fruits and vegetables*
To quote the lovely Elena: "Just give it a second. It'll clear up." ;)