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“Jesus,” I breathe, hand pressed to my thudding chest. “Get a hold of yourself.” The creeping unease dissipates with the ridiculousness of it all, and I turn back to the river.

But there’s a dark figure right in front of me.

I gasp, stumbling back so hard that I nearly lose my balance, catching my heel on a rotten, downed branch. None of that registers, though. My eyes are glued to the form twelve feet ahead.

He’s wearing a black ski mask.

Not Pace.

I can’t make his eyes out, but I can feel them on me as his head tips to the side. Worse than his presence is the deep, raspy sound of his voice.

“Do you believe in fate, Sinclaire?”

My blood runs cold, and unthinkingly, I press a palm to my belly, taking two steps back. “M-my Princes are coming for me,” I stutter, panicking as the man follows me, two steps forward for each of my two steps backward.

“No, they aren’t.” His voice is like sandpaper, low and rough. “I think it’s fate that you came out here,” he says, advancing on me slowly enough that I get a glimpse of his hands—one curled into a loose fist, the other clutching a knife. “I've been waiting for the right moment to come to you, but I didn't need to. Here you are, like a pretty little gift.” There’s a twist to his voice as if he’s smirking beneath the mask. “I’m glad it’s happening here. Fitting, isn’t it? So much better than trying to get into your bedroom again.” He breathes deep, as if he’s trying to catch a scent.

I quicken my pace, backing away from him with a shuddering inhale. “That was you,” I realize, dread settling into my stomach like a brick. “You tried to break in that night.”

“Almost did, too.” He stalks forward like a cat, his movements as fluid as smoke. “God, we would have had so much fun. Just you, me, and hours of uninterrupted depravity.” He sighs, reaching across his chest to rub his shoulder. “I would’ve been back sooner if your boyfriend hadn’t hit me, but in the end, it worked out. Gave me more opportunity to watch and understand you. Far more effectively than your scared little Princes.”

Abruptly, I stop, watching as he freezes in place with me. “You took Stella.” It covers me like a cold veil, the knowledge that this man did something to her, and for a heartstopping moment, I think I’ll rush him. Attack him.Fighthim.

To the victor go the spoils.

But the hand on my belly says otherwise.

It says torun.

So that’s what I do.

Fear clenched in my throat, I whirl around and dash toward the palace, my feet pushing frantically against the soft ground. I duck around a thick patch of brambled undergrowth, barely hissing when a thorn slashes against my cheek. It’s all adrenaline now—that, and the instinct to survive. To escape. To run to the safety of my Princes.

Because here, at the end of it all, that’s what they are to me.

Protection.

Salvation.

Home.

Behind me, the malevolent presence draws nearer, his heavy footsteps echoing ominously through the trees. The fading light plays tricks on my vision, making the forest a disorienting labyrinth of twisted trees and elongated shadows. I know I’m slow—he could probably catch me easily. But it’s almost like he’s toying with me, letting me dodge around fallen limbs and weave through the thick trunks.

My instincts urge me to run faster, but my legs feel like lead. It doesn’t help that the roots and branches seem to conspire against me, snagging at my clothes and scratching my skin. My lungs are on fire, but all I can think about is the faint glow of the Purple Palace through the trees, its windows glowing with life. It feels so close that I chance a peek over my shoulder, immediately regretting it.

The man is springing toward me with a speed that makes me cry out in shock.

But when I turn back, I’m breaking through the tree line, desperation fueling the beat of my feet as I fly toward the house. I’m so close that I wonder if I have the voice to scream—to alert them.

As soon as the thought arrives, my foot catches on a vine, sending me hurtling forward.

I slam into something hard and solid, the collision making my vision swim with pinpricks of stars. Worse than that is the way my breath is knocked violently from my lungs.

And worst of all is the way I land, stomach first onto Michael’s hard marble tomb.

If the fall hadn’t taken the breath out of me already, then this pain would’ve. It’s immediate and intense, shooting through my abdomen like lightning. The sound that’s ripped from my chest is ragged and sharp, and when I try to push myself up, tears welling in my eyes, my limbs refuse to cooperate.

It takes everything in me to roll to my back.