Dion's boots stay on the stone. He stares.

No insults. No sharp glares. He searches for a response and finds only silence.

"Stay. Just a second." She vanishes into the shadows of the room and returns in a blur.

She hauls a heavy canvas bag onto the threshold. Her face flushes crimson under the weight.

She shoves it toward his chest. Dion's hands catch it automatically.

She exhales, her shoulders dropping. "Your birthday gift."

He looks at the bag. He doesn't move.

The bag is a dead weight in his palms. "You... you actually got something. What is it?"

She looks at his fangs and back to the bag.

"Open it later. You'll love it. You'll probably thank me."

Dion's fingers tighten on the fabric.

She hasn't left the West Wing. The Duke brought this. The scent of Vraj is still on the twine.

He forces his jaw to relax. "Fine."

He looks her in the eye. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Go."

She points to the tray. The steam is fading.

Dion gives a single nod. He turns and blurs toward Durell Palace.

He waves his servants out of the study. He drops the bag onto the mahogany.

He pulls the drawstring back. His eyes widen, then narrow.

His lip curls. A violet flame flickers in his palm. He kills the fire with a snap of his fingers and shoves the mountain of arithmetic worksheets into the back of his desk drawer.

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The full moon is a sacred carnival for Châtelet. Ancient bloodlines stir and thrum with a restless hunger. The maids in Solara Palace whisper in the corridors, their eyes bright as they plan to sneak out for the midnight drinking parties.

"That drinking party... you're drinking blood, aren't you?" Ruby Kingsley asks. She grips the laundry basket, her knuckles turning white. The maid lets out a sharp laugh. "Of course, Princess."

...

"This dress..." The maid pulls a rose-red gown from the wardrobe. The fabric is thick, the cut unfamiliar to the court. "I haven't seen this one before."

Ruby's pulse hammers against her ribs. She had forgotten to hide the gift from Dion Lancaster. "I brought it from the Kingdom of Aurelia," she says, her voice steadying. "It was at the bottom of the trunk."

The maid nods, running a finger over the silk. "Should I wash it? You haven't worn it yet." "No... leave it be."

The maid snaps the fresh sheets over the mattress. Her tongue is loose today. "The wedding was supposed to be tonight, during the moon. But Prince Brian, Prince Dion, and the Queen are still at the border."

"The ceremony is postponed," she continues. "Usually, the palace is a madhouse this time of year. Now, it's just quiet."

Ruby stares at the window. Dion hasn't darkened her doorway since the ride on the hillside. The thought of the altar slips into the back of her mind.

"When is the new date?" Ruby asks. The maid shakes her head. "The Head Maid says it might be a small affair. The treasury is tightening the purse strings."

Ruby shrugs. A grand gala or a quiet room—her life remains a cage. Jacob Vraj is back in the West, carrying her latest letter to Angelina Arthur.

The days become a cycle of heavy meals and long naps. She scrawls notes to her friend and paces the Rose Gallery at dusk, catching the last of the dying sun.

The moon wanes. The royals return to the spires. The wedding is set for today.

Maids haul Ruby from her bed before dawn. She moves through the rituals like a ghost, her face a blank mask. She sits for hours in a velvet chair while they drape her in heavy white silk and blood-red rubies.

The veil drops over her face, masking the sharp lines of her cosmetics. Time is an obsession for the bloodlines. She is not permitted to leave the room until the bell strikes.

The crimson curtains bleed into the blue of the night sky. Ruby shifts in her seat, her legs turning to lead. Silence blankets the room.

The door creaks. A familiar face steps into the light—Felix. He whispers to the Head Maid, his gaze anchored on the floor.

Ruby leans forward, her ears straining. The maids bow and file out of the room. Felix is the last to leave, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.

Dead silence follows. Ruby sits alone in the cavernous room, the tick of a clock missing from the air. Her eyelids grow heavy.

The latch snaps. Boots click against the thick rug. A blurred silhouette moves behind the white gauze of her veil.

"Ruby."

"You?" Ruby's voice is a dry rasp.

Dion Lancaster steps into her space. He reaches out and flips the veil back. His ruby eyes are twin fires in the dim light.

Dion's gaze scans her face, his pupils dilating. "I just got back," he says out of nowhere.

"I can't move my legs," Ruby says, shifting on the velvet. "I've been sitting here for hours."

"Then stand up." Dion catches her elbow and pulls. Ruby winces, a sharp needle of static shooting through her calves.

Dion drops to one knee. He reaches under the heavy white silk, his fingers locking around her ankle. His thumb presses into her Achilles tendon, kneading the muscle with rhythmic pressure.

Ruby freezes. Her fingers dig into the velvet chair arms.

Dion looks up, his expression a wall of focus. "Too hard?"

"No... thank you." Ruby's voice is a whisper. Dion looks back down, the pale skin of his neck exposed.

"That's... that's enough. I can feel them again."

He releases her. The white hem of her gown brushes his sleeve like a feather. He stands abruptly, his gaze darting to the corner of the room.

The sun is dying outside, the light in his eyes reflecting the red sky. He snatches her hand, his grip crushing the lace of her glove.

Ruby winces. The gentle touch from seconds ago vanishes, replaced by a predatory heat. She looks at the ruby on his cravat—a twin to the one on her own throat.

Dion's lashes flicker. He leans in, his breath cold against the skin of her ear.

Ruby's pupils expand as the world narrows to his voice.