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Paul had never been mesmerized by a stranger before, but the first time he saw the Harkonnen heir he couldn’t bring himself to look away.
“Who is that?” he asked his mother.
“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. You’d best steer clear of him,” she answered.
He meant to follow her instruction, he really did. He stayed on the edge of the ballroom, sipping his drink slowly, until someone appeared at his side.
“Atreides,” a low voice rumbled.
Paul turned to see Feyd-Rautha standing next to him, close enough to touch. He was dressed in all black, as was the Harkonnen custom, and he cut an intimidating figure. Paul, however, refused to be intimidated.
“Harkonnen,” he replied, nodding once and turning to face the dancers again.
Feyd-Rautha inched closer. “Fancy a dance?”
Paul’s head turned so fast he feared he’d hurt his neck. "What?"
“A dance,” Feyd-Rautha repeated. “Surely you have dances on Caladan.”
“We do, but—" Paul crinkled his nose. “I’m not—we shouldn’t—"
“Shouldn’t we?” Feyd-Rautha asked. Paul would swear those dark eyes were peering into his very soul. Something was bubbling within him, something that had awoken the moment he’d laid eyes on Feyd-Rautha, something desperate to burst free.
"You might mean to distract me so that I don't anticipate an attack," he found himself saying, tamping down his desire to say yes, please.
"I might," Feyd-Rautha agreed. "Or I might mean that I'd like to dance with you."
Paul pondered this. Feyd-Rautha's face was inscrutable. “One dance?”
“One dance,” Feyd-Rautha confirmed. Then, with a smirk: “Unless you’re desperate for more after you have a taste of me.”
Paul rolled his eyes but could not suppress the flush that rose to his cheeks.
“We'll see,” he said, and allowed Feyd-Rautha to pull him onto the dance floor and into his arms.