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His shoulders relax, although his wings remain tense against his back.

And then, he extends his hand to mine.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the table where breakfast is laid out. It’s larger than usual—pancakes, waffles, eggs, and even the cookies I love so much. “Please.”

My stomach flips at the vulnerability in that one word.

Please.

So, I take his hand, letting him guide me to the chair across from his.

The unnamed woman remains standing by the window, perfectly still, like a statue or a piece of furniture.

Aerix sits with practiced grace, his wings adjusting to accommodate the chair’s back. He doesn’t release my hand, instead tightening his grip slightly, as if afraid I might withdraw.

“Come,” he commands, not looking at the woman, but clearly addressing her.

She approaches without hesitation, her steps silent against the stone floor. As she stops beside his chair, hereyes remain fixed on some distant point, her face expressionless.

Is she new? She has to be new. Royals don’t take hand-me-downs.

Without needing further instruction, the woman bends her neck to the side, exposing the pale column of her throat.

Aerix’s eyes lock on mine as he lowers his mouth to her neck, his fangs extending and puncturing the skin with zero hesitation, zero mercy. There’s no care in the way he bites—no pretense of gentleness. It’s completely opposite of the tenderness he uses when he feeds from me, or the distant respect he used to offer Sophia.

As he drinks, he doesn’t release my hand. If anything, his grip tightens. Hard. Fingers interlaced with mine like a vow he’s carving into my bones.

My breath catches, and he notices—of course he does. A flicker of pleasure passes through his eyes, so subtle I might have missed it if I wasn’t watching him the way he’s watching me.

When he eventually pulls away, his lips are red and perfect. He lingers for a moment, his mouth close to the woman’s throat, but his hand continues to grip mine like it’s the only thing tethering him to the room.

And maybe it is.

“Go,” he tells the woman, who bows slightly, then retreats from the room without a backward glance.

We sit in silence, and I wait for him to say something about what just happened. About Sophia, and about this new girl whose name I don’t even know.

Instead, he shifts gears.

“I have something for you.” He releases my hand and crosses the room to his wardrobe, pulling out a silk-covered box from inside—long and flat. “I want you to put it on.”

I look up at him, searching his face for some clue about what this means.

His expression gives nothing away. It’s only sharp lines and unreadable stillness.

“What is it?” I finally ask.

“Open it,” he says, coming over and holding the box out to me, the breakfast he’d had arranged for us apparently forgotten.

Just like Sophia was forgotten. Just like everything is, once he remembers I’m the only thing in the world that matters to him.

I lift the lid, and my breath catches. Because inside lies a gown unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The fabric is dark, and it’s shot through with hand-stitched streaks of red, the same hue as blood. Silvery gems glitter in swirling patterns across the bodice… or are they diamonds? I’m not sure.

It’s decadent. Violent. Beautiful. A warning dressed in silk.

It’s the kind of dress that belongs in a fairy tale. Not in the hands of a small-town girl from Presque Isle.

But Aerix doesn’t see me as that girl anymore. Maybe he never did.