Ruby's jaw throbbed with every bite. The punch in the alley had left her teeth aching against the food.

She chewed slowly. Dion Lancaster stared at nothing, offering no conversation. The meal felt like sawdust between them.

She cleared her plate and summoned the landlady. Ruby pulled the stolen coins from the leather pouch to settle the bill.

The extra tip earned her a wide grin. The landlady slid a paper bag across the wood. "Two candied apples, on the house," she whispered. "Premium blood center... the best in Châtelet."

Ruby's smile locked. Her fingers trembled as she took the bag, masking her shudder with a tight nod.

Dion remained anchored to the view outside. Ruby swung one of the crimson-glazed apples in front of his face.

He shifted his gaze. His eyes held something new.

The usual sneer was gone. No cold detachment. No predatory spark.

"What's on your mind?" Ruby asked.

Dion snapped his gaze back to the window. His jaw tightened in silence.

He traced the map of the human realms on the condensation of the glass. A week of drills at the border with Brian Lancaster loomed.

He looked at the bruised cheek on her pale face. His grip on the table edge made the wood groan.

"You aren't leaving the palace again," he barked.

Before she could blink, he snatched her wrist and hauled her into the street. They hit a shadow, and he yanked her into his chest. He launched upward, his boots catching the stone ledge of the clock tower.

The ground vanished. Gravity became a suggestion. "Aaaaah!"

"What—what are you doing?!" Ruby screamed.

She peered over his shoulder. The shops and people became toy sets. He was suspended in the void, holding her against the night air.

Dion scanned the horizon for the spires of Solara Palace. His arm locked around her waist, pulling her flush against his ribs. He kicked off, tearing through the clouds.

Ruby's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into his silk shirt. Her voice was trapped in her throat, her body shaking against his.

"Open your eyes," Dion said.

The gale tore the words from the air before they hit her ears.

Her grip tightened on his lapels. Dion's lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. He leaned into her ear. "Open them."

"Open them, or I let go."

Her eyelids snapped open. His face was inches away—a masterpiece of pale skin and ruby eyes. His black hair whipped in the wind like a dark ink stroke.

The scent of sugar and iron hit him. Dion's focus faltered, his gaze anchoring on her lips.

"Close them," he muttered.

She blinked, her gaze staying locked on his face.

A faint heat crept into Dion's cheeks. He shifted his head, looking toward the distant forest.

The spires of Solara Palace rose to meet them. They touched down in the grass.

Silence blanketed the Rose Gallery. No guards. No life.

Dion released her wrist. "I'm sealing that door. If I find you outside again, I won't be this gentle."

Ruby gave a slow, rhythmic nod. She stood still, her feet finally back on solid stone.

She pulled the bag from her skirt and held it out. "Take these. I'm not going to eat them."

Dion glanced at the red glaze. "I don't eat trash."

Guards patrolled the corridors of Durell Palace like iron statues. Dion bypassed the main halls.

He scaled the outer wall and pried the study window open. He hit a hidden brass toggle on the wall.

The intercom hissed to life. Felix's voice came through the horn.

"Clean clothes. Now," Dion barked into the brass. He looked at the blood spatter on his cuff and the wrinkled silk where Ruby had gripped him.

He scanned for any trace of the night. Queen Bellaceline was waiting for tea.

He opened his palm. The silver burn had begun to knit, but the skin remained raw and dark.

Two ancient silver swords hung on the wall. Decorative reminders of the Crimson Pact.

Dion drew a blade. The silver caught the lantern light. He pressed the edge into the existing burn and sliced down. Beads of sweat broke on his forehead as he widened the wound.

"Highness," a voice whispered from the hallway.

"Enter."

Felix set the tray down. "Did the Queen call?" Dion asked.

"Not today, Highness."

Dion tossed the bloody shirt toward the guard. "Burn it. Who saw me leave?"

"Only a handful of your closest attendants know, sir. They think you are feeling unwell in bed."

Dion gave a sharp nod.

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Blue roses shimmer under the moon. Queen Bellaceline's favorites. Magic keeps the petals locked in an eternal, frozen bloom.

Dion Lancaster pushes through the Rose Gallery. He doesn't need a guide. Muscle memory leads him down the stone path.

A girl in champagne silk sits at the end of the trail. Brown hair pinned in a classical, heavy knot. Gold filigree catches the lantern light.

She stands and bows before Dion sees her face.

"Dion. You're here," Bellaceline says.

The Queen's eyes shift toward the girl's hand. Dion ignores the cue. He drags a chair out and drops into the seat.

Servants move in a silent blur. Black tea hits the china cup. Dion's stomach gives a low, hollow growl—Ruby's fault.

He reaches for a slice of honey cake. Bellaceline's gaze locks onto his hand. A faint smile stays on her lips, but her eyes are twin daggers.

Dion pulls his fingers back. He straightens his spine and stares at the center of the table.

Bellaceline turns to the girl. "This isn't your first time in the palace, is it, Sachester? You played in these halls as a child."

"Yes, Majesty." The voice is a dry whisper.

"Dion? You remember her?"

Dion stares into his tea. The steam rises into his face.

"You've forgotten?" Bellaceline's voice drops an octave. "She is your cousin."

Dion gives a stiff, rhythmic nod.

Sachester watches the Prince. The ruby eyes from the legends... clearer than the King's. He sits like a statue, eyes anchored on the tablecloth.

The Queen stirs her tea. Silence stretches across the garden like a wire. No one speaks.

Bellaceline sets her spoon down with a sharp clack. She gives up.

Dion digs into the cake. The sugar hits his tongue, and the world stops spinning.

The scent of the honey shifts. It becomes iron and sugar. The scent of the human princess at the altar.

Bellaceline watches her son stare at a half-eaten cake. Her eyes narrow.

A maid whispers in the Queen's ear. Bellaceline's smile remains fixed.

Sachester is dismissed. "We'll pick your jewelry the day after tomorrow," the Queen tells her.

"Walk with me, child."

Bellaceline waves the servants away. The corridor becomes a tunnel of silence.

"What do you think of Sachester?" she asks.

"Your choice is mine, Mother." Dion's voice is flat.

Bellaceline stops. Dion's boot catches the hem of her lavender silk skirt.

The Queen's brow twitches. "Where were you this morning?"

Dion's pupils shrink to pinpricks. He doesn't answer.

He looks at his bandaged palm. His fingers twitch at his side.

"When did you get hurt?" Bellaceline's gaze anchors on the wound.

"Training."

"Training?"

Bellaceline snaps her fan shut. The sound is a gunshot in the hall. "If you're injured, the border drills are canceled. You stay here."

"But Mother—"

"You stay," she barks. "You have dance lessons for the ball." She turns and vanishes, her maids rushing to catch her train.

Ruby Kingsley sinks into the duvet of Solara Palace. Rotting is her favorite sport.

The days are a steady, quiet crawl. She wakes up at noon. She drags the breakfast cart into the room.

She flips through Ronal's diaries while she eats. Sometimes the ink reveals a secret.

She asks the maids for extra cream puffs. The vampire bakers have a gift for sugar. She sleeps again after lunch.

At dusk, she stands on the balcony. She watches the sun die over the trees.

The books on the shelf are dwindling. Six months and the wood will be bare.

She thinks of the mountain of parchment in Dion's study. A lifetime of reading.

She shakes her head. Stepping into his library is a death sentence. Forget it...