I hurry along the hallway hours after I heard the prince seek his own bed, glancing over my shoulder. There are no guards in sight, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t eyes upon me.
And the last thing I need is to be caught right now.
I pause in front of the prince’s audience chambers, then slip a makeshift lockpick into the lock and flip the tumblers. It’s a skill I acquired when I was a youth with an insatiable appetite for reading. Sadly, I used it mostly to break into the locked section of the library.
I’m inside before anyone has a chance to investigate.
I need information to send back to my mother’s court to prove I’m right—that Angharad is the true threat.
And I need to know whether I can truly trust the prince.
My mother’s voice plays in my head. Why did the prince sweep me away to Valerian, where the barest remnant of his people linger? What doesn’t he want me to see? He clearly had business to attend to in Ceres—his frequent comings and goings attest to that—so why lock me away?
What is he hiding?
I circle the map table where his people sat. There’s nothing there. I rifle through the shelves. Books. Treatises. Scrolls I don’t have time to investigate. I need to find that letter and work out what Lysander was doing near Vervain. I shake a locked box. Something rattles. Not the letter, but it wouldn’t be locked away if it wasn’t important. Plucking a jeweled hair piece from my hair, I slip the pick inside the lock.
From princess to thief.
Perfect.
It pops open with a click, and then a necklace spills into my hands. My breath catches. Thick, gorgeous diamonds circled by golden thorns. It looks like half the stars in the sky are woven into the gold mesh.
The necklace is mine.
"Where did you get this?" I whisper, barely daring to touch it. My grandmother gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday, and I wore it every day until—
When did I lose it?
I can't remember.
And that ache in my temples starts to pulse.
I lift the necklace with shaking hands, draping it around my throat. It fits perfectly, the weight of it so familiar my heart aches. Turning toward the window, I catch a glimpse of my reflection and swallow hard.
Why in the name of the Old Ones does the Prince of Evernight have my necklace?
Is my mother right?
Is this all just some elaborate ruse to make me dance to his tune? When did he take it? Or did someone else close to me steal it?
Rage bursts through me, and I clench the necklace in my fist. I need answers. And I need them now.
I slam both hands against the doors leading to the prince’s chambers.
They hit the walls with a bang, and the prince startles upright from the chair where he’d been examining the bandage wrapped around his chest. There’s a bowl full of bloody water on the table beside him, and it looks like he’s been cutting open his wounds to drain the iron poison from them.
I don’t care.
I saved the bastard’s life once.
Now he owes me some answers.
The prince straightens to his full height, arching a mocking brow as he reaches past me for his shirt. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Clearly.”
“Come to beard the wolf in his den, my love? You ought to tread carefully, you know. I might think you’re just trying to catch me naked. Again.” Thiago reaches up, brushing his knuckles against my lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth as if he’s dying to replace one touch with another. “You’ve already paid your part of the bargain today. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten.”
“Kiss this,” I snap, thrusting my clenched fist toward him.
It makes him snap his head back, which gives me enough opportunity to escape the jail of his body. I reel into the center of his chambers and then stop, realizing I’ve trapped myself.
I’ve never been in his rooms before, and if I thought my bed looked sinful, then it has nothing on his. For one thing, it’s his bed, and I know those sheets have seen all his sins.
Looking at the bed is no safer than looking at him.
And it only makes me angrier.
“Enough with the games.” My fist curls around the necklace, and I shove it in front of him. "Why do you have my necklace? My grandmother's necklace? Why were you keeping it in your audience chamber?"
He pauses, then slowly resumes slipping his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. “I see. You’ve been digging around in places you shouldn’t have been.”
“Oh, don’t make this about me. You stole my necklace.”
“I didn’t steal it.” His lip curls in a half-snarl.
“No?” I pace around him in a half-circle. “Then who did? One of your lackeys?”
His mouth thins. Clear evidence he doesn’t intend to answer me.
That does it. I cast about me and see his dagger, resting in its sheath. Lunging toward it, I unsheathe the steel with a rasp and turn to press it to his throat as he moves to grab me.
Thiago freezes, his rugged chin tilting sharply as the vicious tip of the blade digs into his tanned skin.
"You tell me what is going on. Right now."
He visibly swallows, a stubborn glint lighting those wicked green eyes. “Or. There’s usually an ‘or’ in this case.”
“Or,” I say, in an icy voice, “I’ll bury this blade up to the hilt.”
He pushes closer, the blade drawing blood. It trickles down the smooth column of his throat, drawing my attention to the hard planes of his chest and those rippling tattoos that constantly shift. “You won’t do it.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“If there’s anything I know, it’s this: You don’t have the spirit for murder. You’re not your mother. Despite everything she’s done to you, she’s never been able to tarnish your spirit.”
“Stop speaking as if you know me!”
“Stop acting as if I don’t.”
I swallow. My back meets the edge of the windowsill, and the prince rests his knuckles on either side of my hips, trapping me there.
“What are you going to do now?” he taunts. “Kill me? I’m sure your mother would relish the thought of my blood splashed all over the carpets.”
It’s too close to the truth.
“Considering your warlords would have my head, I think it unwise to pursue such a plan.”
“They would never hurt you.” His voice turns rough. “They would never dare.”
“It’s not as though you’d be there to stop them.”
We stare at each other for long moments. And then I curse and drive the dagger into the wall.
“That’s better,” he whispers.
He’s between me and the exit, so I bolt for the doors leading to the chamber next to his.
“Vi!” he yells, snatching at my wrist.
It’s too late. I’m through the doors, staggering into a world of muted blues clearly lit by the moonlight streaming through the windows. There’s a bed, a massive chest, and a daybed by the windows with a scattering of books upon it.
A female room, judging by the glimpse.
It’s just a glance that undoes me, a swift flash of white catching the corner of my eye as I look for an escape.
But I skid to a halt as if punched directly in the chest, my jaw dropping open as I stare up at the painting that resides over the bed.
The woman in the painting is gowned in pure starlight as she breezes through a forest lit by night-blooming flowers, throwing a flirtatious glance over her shoulder at the man following her. Thick, dark hair ripples down her back, a circlet of golden thorns adorning her throat, and diamonds dripping into her cleavage.
Me.
It’s a painting of me.
Wearing my starlit gown, my hair bedecked with flowers, and my grandmother’s necklace around my throat.
“What mockery is this?” I can’t catch my breath. It can’t be real. It’s only been weeks since the night of Lammastide. Not even a master could finish such a massive, lifelike portrait in such a short amount of time.
I spin toward the doors, wishing I’d kept the dagger. “What does this mean?”
Limping forward, Thiago presses his good shoulder against the pair of wooden doors. He looks somewhat wary, but hints of frustration and resignation darken his brow. “I didn’t mean for you to find out so soon.”
“Find out what?” The room is starting to spin, my breath coming swiftly. The ache in my temples increases as I glance at the painting again. “What is going on?”
The bedchambers are directly beside his. It’s the position his wife—or mistress—should hold.
He holds up his hands in a placating manner. “Vi, calm down.”
Pain lances through my temples, and I gasp, clutching at my head. It hurts. It hurts so much. The room is spinning now, threatening to bring me to my knees.
“Just breathe,” the prince whispers, sounding dangerously close. His shadow sweeps over me. “It will ease in a moment, Vi.”
“What is going on?” I dart around the bed, desperate to escape now. “Don’t you dare lie to me. Tell me what you mean. Why is there a portrait of me in your wife’s bedchamber?”
The muscle in his cheek jumps, and for a moment I see a hint of pure fury light through his eyes. Then it flickers and dies as he leans closer, his cruel face showing hints of frustration. “Because, my dearest, you are my wife.”