To Marry A Monster (by Brey Mitchell) novel Chapter 142

Chapter 142

ATASHA’S POV

“You think I can’t dance?” Cassian asked, his tone far too calm for what he’d just heard.

I stared up at him, realizing too late that everyone around us had gone quiet, at least in the five–foot radius of disaster I’d just created. Did I just say that out loud?

“I didn’t say that,” I said quickly, hands raised. “I said you don’t look like you can dance. Totally different meaning.”

One of the soldiers let out a laugh. Grace, from somewhere behind me, called out, “Careful, my Lady, he might prove you wrong!”

Cassian’s brow lifted. “Maybe I should.”

Before I could back away and save what was left of my dignity, his hand closed around mine. The next thing I knew, he was tugging me toward the open circle near the bonfire.

“Cassian!”

The soldiers immediately caught on. A few of them began clapping in rhythm, stomping their boots against the ground to the beat of the drum. Someone shouted, “The Lord and Lady of the North!” and that was it, there was no escaping now.

I dug my heels into the dirt. “Cassian, I was joking,” I hissed under my breath. “You don’t have to-”

“Too late,” he said simply, and spun me.

I squeaked–an actual squeak–as the world tilted and firelight blurred. When I landed back in front of him, my cloak swished awkwardly around my legs, and he was smirking like he’d just won a battle.

“Oh goddess,” I muttered. “You can dance.”

“Told you.”

The crowd whooped. A dozen soldiers stomped and clapped harder, the rhythm growing faster. Grace was laughing near the food table, and Rio, who’d definitely had too much to drink, jumped into the circle beside us, pulling one of the kitchen girls with him.

I wasn’t bad at dancing, normally. I’d learned as part of noble training. I knew all about the graceful steps, elegant posture, quiet smiles. But this… this was nothing like the slow, formal waltzes of the south. This was wild, loud, messy, and alive and somehow… fun.

Someone passed a drumstick from the stew pot into the air. Halden Morrow caught it and used it as a pretend flute, swaying terribly out of rhythm. The soldiers near him roared with laughter.

Cassian didn’t take his eyes off me. “Try to keep up.”

“I am keeping up.” I said defensively, though my feet disagreed. I stepped left when he stepped right and nearly collided with his chest.

“Close,” he said, chuckling.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I said, narrowing my eyes. I knew how to dance. I was confident about it or so I thought.

“Then stop stepping on my boots.”

“I’m not “I looked down. I was. “Fine. Maybe a little.” But I had an excuse. We were moving around, stomping our feet around the bonfire.

He spun me again, and this time, I stumbled but didn’t fall. My hair flew loose from its braid. Someone whistled, and the clapping got even louder.

“See?” Cassian said. “You’re getting better.”

“I’m trying not to die.”

“That’s the same thing in the North.”

I laughed then, really laughed. The sound surprised me. Around us, the fire cracked, boots pounded, and the air buzzed with energy. Grace had somehow dragged Rio into a dance–off that involved more falling than actual dancing, and Halden was teaching two very drunk soldiers something that looked more like marching

in circles.

Cassian’s hand stayed at my waist, guiding me through each messy turn. He didn’t lead like a nobleman would, with precision or show, but with a kind of confidence that made it easy to follow even when the steps made no sense.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, studying my face.

“I’m pretending to,” I replied, breathless. “It’s working.”

“Good pretending.”

The rhythm shifted again. The drumbeats came faster, the clapping louder. Cassian twirled me once more, less gracefully this time, and when I turned back toward him, I almost crashed into his chest. His hand caught the back of my cloak, keeping me from tripping into the fire.

“Careful,” he said quietly.

I looked up. His face was close, the bonfire lighting the sharp line of his jaw and the faintest hint of a smile there. And for a moment, I thought about kissing him.

“Careful?” I echoed, smiling. “You’re the one pulling me around like a sack of potatoes.”

His mouth twitched. “A very stubborn sack of potatoes.”

I gasped. “Did you just—”

He shrugged. “Observation.”

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