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“Wow.” That is not what I would’ve guessed in a thousand years. “Youmakethem? Yourself?”

“I like to make things. Clothing, costumes, accessories. Not all the performers can afford their own costumes, so Syril provides the fabric and I do the sewing.”

“Guess I was right about you being made of sugar.” I wink. “That’s pretty generous of you.”

He ducks his head. “It’s not like that. I owe it to Syril.”

“No one’s forcing you to do it, right?”

“Of course not.” His eyes are wide, the cool, disaffected look completely gone.

It gives me a private thrill seeing his uptight expression melt away, but what’s underneath is even more dangerous — it’s honest and open. The kind of vulnerability a guy like me isn’t used to seeing. I want to tell him to button it up, cause he can’t go around flashing that look every time some asshole cracks a flirty joke at him.

“Then it’s exactly like that, sweets.” I slide the drink across the counter and he reaches for it quickly.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I pull my hand back he almost looks disappointed.

6

LYSANDER

Sweets.The word rings in my ears all week as I hide upstairs, avoiding the club. No, surelyhidingisn’t the right word. I’ve just been busy with my costumes.

It’s not like the human scares me. There must be another explanation for the way my knees lock up and my tongue fails me whenever I see him. The words he tossed my way are stuck like gleaming gems in my head.Pretty boy. Sugary sweet. Generous.My face burns when I think of them, far from the graceful, collected image everyone has of me.

Today I’ve only come downstairs because Syril asked to see me, but when I knock, their office is empty. Thumping music carries down the hall, reminding me with a flash of guilt that there’s a show tonight and I should be in the audience. The dancers are a pair of nymphs, and the costumes I made for them are two glittering matched sets that tear away when the wearer undoes the ribbons. It was a fun challenge to come up with the ribbon placements, and they were happy to show me their dance routine so I could fit the costume to it. Everyone has been generous about my little hobby.

Projects like this give me purpose. The least I can do is attend the show.

Today I hesitate, and instead I land in the staff room. The Sanctum has been nothing but welcoming, but I still find it hard to adjust.

Of the four kingdoms, wildlings like me are least suited to life among other monsters. My people — gentle fauns, flock-minded harpies, protective dryads, even the aloof naga — are monsters of the forest. But with dwindling forest to live in, we have no choice but to live side by side with other kingdoms, a reality I’ve long been sheltered from while my family was in hiding.

Fairies are protectors. A fairy’s touch is deadly, and his ur-form is a vicious warrior. But me? I’m a coward who jumps at shadows and lets nightmares rule my sleep. Even within the safety of The Sanctum, I itch to hide from prying eyes. Especiallyhiseyes. Other monsters give me a wide berth, but the human steps over the invisible border as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, so easily it makes my skin prickle.

If I wasn’t wearing the amulet, would he still look at me the same way? The spark of… curiosity, or whatever it is, could turn to fear, or even disgust. His easy, almost arrogant grin might fade. He’s probably withdraw, leaving me cold.

Wouldn’t he?

I shudder. A gentle knock comes on the doorframe, pulling me out of my all-too-vivid thoughts.

“Syril is in, Your Highness,” Lilian says softly.

“It’s Lysander,” I remind her automatically.

Her ears flick in embarrassment and she bows quickly. “Of course, Prince Lysander!”

Before I can correct heragain, she escapes, the tap-tap of her hooves in the hall a reprimand.

Syril looks up when I enter the office. “Lysander. Thank you for coming.”

They come out from behind the desk, drifting on shadowy tendrils. Syril is a shadow dryad, their top half wreathed ina crown of branches and their bottom half a creature of pure shadow, like Orion. They straddle two kingdoms, wildling and shadowfey.

“Lilian said you wanted to see me.”

“I hope you didn’t frighten her.” Syril’s eyes twinkle. “She just rushed into the kitchen.”

“I didn’t mean to.” I sit on the divan, clutching my hands in my lap. I should be a leader to her — and all the wildlings — but instead I’m an awkward fool. Syril isn’t a prince, but they’re more composed and in charge than me by many orders of magnitude.