The words struck something deep within him because gods, it was the truth.
For years, Davon had only ever known duty, pain, and war. He had never let himself have something soft, or light.
But just for a moment, with the music winding through the air and Daemon's warm hand steady against his own, he let himself pretend.
The room blurred at the edges as Davon focused on nothing but the slow rhythm of the dance. His pulse hammered beneath his skin, his body tense, waiting for the first sign of danger; whispers, judgment, or a hand reaching for a blade, none came.
The tavern was quiet, but no one moved against them. Some eyes lingered too long, filled with curiosity or disapproval, but Daemon ignored them all, his expression unreadable.
"Relax," Daemon murmured, his fingers pressing lightly against Davon's waist. "You're dancing as if I have a knife to your throat."
Davon let out a slow breath. "You might as well."
