"The most dangerous place is the safest place," Lulu declared, tightening the corset strings on Elara's back. "Draven is hosting the Winter Solstice Ball tonight. Every noble in the city must attend for 'security screening.' If you don't show up, his Hunters will tear this brothel apart looking for you."
Elara stared at herself in the cracked mirror. The woman looking back was a stranger. Lulu's illusion magic had turned her shimmering silver hair into a deep, raven black. Her violet-gold eyes were now masked by contacts, appearing a dull brown. She wore a dress of midnight velvet, cut low in the back, exposing the pale curve of her spine.
"I look like a crow trying to be a swan," Elara muttered, smoothing the fabric. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"You look like a survivor," Lulu corrected, handing her a glass of wine to calm her nerves. "Remember, Elara. You are a spy. You have played a thousand roles. Tonight, you are just Lady Vane, a distant cousin from the South. Do not let him smell your fear."
Fear? Elara thought bitterly. It's not fear I'm worried about. It's the hunger. Since absorbing the shard, the beast inside her had been pacing, restless. Being this close to so many humans—so much food—was dizzying. But being close to him... that was the real danger.
The Grand Ballroom of the Obsidian Castle was a masterpiece of ice and gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen tears. Hundreds of nobles danced, laughed, and drank, but the atmosphere was thick with tension. Everyone knew why they were here. The Warlord was hunting.
Draven sat on his iron throne at the head of the room, a goblet of dark red wine in his hand. He looked bored. His lieutenant, Kael, stood beside him, whispering reports. "We've searched the lower districts, Lord. No sign of the silver-haired woman."
Draven didn't answer. He just tapped his gloved finger against the armrest. Thump. Thump. Thump. His chest burned. The golden rune over his heart had been throbbing all evening, a compass needle seeking its north. She is here, the rune whispered. She is close.
Suddenly, the burning stopped. It was replaced by a wave of cool, soothing relief that washed over his skin, dampening the constant noise of the spirits in his head. Draven stopped tapping. He lifted his head, his predatory blue eyes scanning the sea of dancers. He didn't need to look. His blood pulled him.
He stood up. The music didn't stop, but the room seemed to go quiet. The Warlord was moving. He walked down the steps, the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea. He ignored the dukes bowing to him, ignored the ladies fluttering their fans. He walked straight toward a shadowed corner near the balcony doors.
Elara was trying to make herself invisible. She gripped her wine glass, calculating the distance to the exit. Just stay for ten minutes, she told herself. Show your face, pass the check, and leave.
Then, she felt it. A sudden drop in temperature. The scent of pine, gunpowder, and overwhelming power. She froze. She didn't turn around, but the fine hairs on her arms stood up.
"Lady Vane, I presume?"
The voice was deep, vibrating through her bones. Elara turned slowly. Draven Blackwood towered over her. He was even more terrifying up close, dressed in formal military regalia, his chest broad, his presence consuming all the air in the room. He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at her pulse.
"My Lord," Elara curtsied, lowering her gaze. "I didn't expect the Warlord himself to greet a nobody like me."
"I am a gracious host," Draven lied smoothly. He extended a hand, his black leather glove creaking softly. "May I have this dance?"
It wasn't a request. It was an order. Elara hesitated. If she touched him... would the illusion break? Would he feel the Fox inside her? But refusing him would be suicide. She placed her hand in his.
The moment their skin connected—even through the leather of his glove—a shockwave went through them both. Elara gasped softly. The gnawing hunger in her stomach vanished instantly. It was like taking a breath of pure oxygen after drowning. Draven's pupils blew wide. The burning in his chest turned into a pleasurable hum.
He pulled her onto the dance floor. The orchestra swelled into a slow, haunting waltz. Draven's hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body. He was warm. Dangerously warm.
"You are trembling," Draven murmured, leading her into a spin. His face was inches from hers. "Are you cold?"
"I am... overwhelmed by your presence, My Lord," Elara replied, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Liar," Draven whispered, his lips brushing her ear. The sensation sent shivers down her spine. "Your heart is beating like a rabbit's. But you don't smell like a rabbit."
Elara stiffened. She tried to pull back, but his grip on her waist tightened, turning the dance into a cage match. "And what do I smell like?" she challenged, looking up into his icy blue eyes.
Draven stared at her. He looked past the black hair, past the brown contacts. He looked straight into her soul. "Snow," he said softly. "And sin."
The music reached a crescendo. Draven spun her one last time, dancing her away from the center of the room, straight toward the dark, secluded terrace. Before Elara could protest, he pushed the glass doors open and dragged her into the freezing night air.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind them, muffling the music. Draven backed her against the stone railing. There was nowhere to run. Behind her was a hundred-foot drop into the frozen moat. In front of her was the Warlord.
"The dance is over," Draven said, his voice dropping an octave.
Elara tried to play the innocent noblewoman one last time. "My Lord, you are hurting me—"
Draven didn't listen. He ripped the glove off his right hand with his teeth and slammed his bare palm against the wall beside her head. The golden runes on his skin flared to life, illuminating the darkness. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. Elara stopped breathing.
"Did you really think," Draven growled against her skin, his hot breath sending electricity through her veins, "that dying your hair black would hide you from me?"
He pulled back, his eyes burning with triumph and a dark, twisted hunger. "I would know your soul in the dark, little Fox. I found you."