THE CLOCKWORK CAPTIVE

Chapter 8: A Garden of Lies

The garden party was a sea of pastel silk and forced laughter, the air thick with the cloying scent of jasmine and political ambition. Zavi stood by the fountain, feeling the weight of a dozen judgmental stares.

"Stop looking at the exit," Serafia murmured, her hand hooking firmly into the crook of his arm. "People are starting to notice your wanderlust."

"I’m not looking at the exit," Zavi lied, his jaw tight. "I’m looking for a place where I can breathe without smelling your perfume on every breeze."

Serafia laughed, a bright, melodic sound that drew a few nearby nobles to glance their way. "You smell like expensive cedar and nervous sweat. It’s intoxicating."

"It’s not sweat, it’s desperation," Zavi hissed. "Why are we even here? I’m supposed to be a 'warrior,' not a lawn ornament."

"You’re the man of the hour, Zavi. The 'untouchable' suitor who bested Jeremy. You don't hide the trophy; you display it."

"I’m not a trophy. I’m a guy who is counting down the days until he drops dead."

"And yet, you’re still here, holding my hand." She squeezed his fingers, her nails digging into his palm. "Are you ready to make a scene? Or are you going to keep pretending you hate the attention?"

Zavi looked at a group of giggling noblewomen near the buffet. "Watch this."

He strode toward the center of the lawn, ignoring the hushed gasps as he bumped into a passing servant, causing a tray of crystal flutes to shatter with a deafening crash against the marble.

"Whoops," Zavi shouted, his voice echoing across the garden. "Is this the best the estate has to offer? Stale champagne and clumsy help?"

A collective gasp rippled through the guests. A high-ranking Duke turned, his monocle popping out of his eye in shock.

"That was incredibly rude, Zavi," Serafia said, stepping up behind him. She didn't sound angry; she sounded delighted.

"Rude? I’m being honest," Zavi barked, grabbing a fresh glass from a nearby table and downing it in one gulp. "The whole thing is a farce. Look at these people! They’re all dressed like peacocks just to hide the fact that they have no personalities."

"He’s drunk," one noble whispered.

"No," another replied, eyes wide with fascination. "He’s bold. Look at the way he carries himself. He doesn't care about their status."

Zavi turned to the crowd, his face flushed with manufactured rage. "You’re all boring! Every single one of you! And this garden? It’s a tomb with flowers!"

Serafia stepped into his personal space, her eyes sparkling. "My, my. You really are trying to get yourself banished, aren't you?"

"I’m trying to get you to hate me," he whispered, so only she could hear. "Is it working yet? Am I 'tacky' enough for you now?"

She reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her touch agonizingly gentle. "You’re making them watch you, Zavi. You’re the center of the universe today. Do you really think they’re offended? Look at their eyes."

Zavi looked. The noblewomen were swooning. The men were staring with a mixture of envy and newfound respect.

"He called us boring," a young countess giggled. "Did you hear? He actually said it to our faces."

"He’s so… unfiltered," another added. "It’s devastatingly masculine."

Zavi felt his stomach turn. "Are you kidding me? They’re eating it up."

"Of course they are," Serafia purred. "Power is the most addictive perfume, darling. And you are dripping with it."

"I am not a power player. I’m a disaster."

"A beautiful, chaotic disaster that everyone wants to own," she corrected.

Zavi reached for another glass of wine, but Serafia grabbed his wrist. "Enough. You’ve had your fun. Now, it’s time for the dance."

"I don't dance," Zavi said, trying to yank his arm away.

"Everyone dances for the host," she whispered, her voice hardening. "Unless you want me to start asking questions about that 'lifeforce' of yours in front of the Prince."

Zavi froze. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

She dragged him toward the dance floor. The orchestra struck up a slow, haunting waltz. As they stepped into the center of the crowd, the nobility parted, giving them space.

"You look tense," she whispered, her hand moving to his shoulder.

"I’m counting seconds," Zavi muttered, her hand resting hesitantly on her waist.

"Count heartbeats instead," she murmured, pulling him closer.

They began to move. The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of lights and silk. Zavi tried to focus on his footing, but Serafia was a force of nature, guiding him with an iron grip.

"You’re doing perfectly," she whispered.

"I’m hating every second," he countered.

"Good. The anger makes you focused."

Suddenly, the music dipped into a minor key. Zavi felt a prickle of static against his neck—a sensation he’d grown to recognize as danger.

"Serafia, stop," he whispered.

"Don't lead, Zavi. Just follow."

"No, look—!"

A shadow moved in the peripheral of the dance floor, a figure in a black cloak lunging forward, a silver blade glinting in the moonlight. The crowd didn't see it yet; they were too busy admiring the 'passionate' couple.

Zavi spun her, not out of grace, but to shove her out of the way.

Thwip.

The air whistled. A throwing dagger embedded itself deep into the stone pillar exactly where Serafia’s heart had been a second before.

The music stuttered to a halt. The woman in the cloak vanished into the dark, leaving the dancers screaming.

Serafia looked at the dagger, then back at Zavi. Her expression wasn't one of fear, but of dark, cold realization.

"Well," she whispered, her grip on his coat tightening until his knuckles turned white. "It seems someone else wants you dead, too. Shall we show them who’s in charge?"