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“You’re making what?”

Silas is already moving, scooping up a half-finished crown, glittering like a lunatic. “We’re having a bonding exercise,” he sing-songs. “Riven’s the flower girl. I’m the entertainment.”

I level a glare at him sharp enough to kill, but Silas just winks like he’s immune.

Ambrose sighs, long and heavy, dragging a hand over his face like he’s wondering how we’ve managed to survive this long without self-destructing.

“You’re all deranged,” he mutters.

Luna tips her head back toward him, grinning slow and sweet, dangerous as hell. “You married me now, Ambrose. You’re stuck.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks, and I swear, for a fraction of a second, something cracks in his composure. Before he can respond, Luna holds out a rose crown toward him like she’s offering a weapon.

“Sit down,” she says. “You’re next.”

And Ambrose—cold, calculating, ruthless Ambrose—just stares at her like she’s a loaded gun pointed at his chest. Like he already knows he’s going to fucking lose.

I expect him to say no.

Hell, I expect him to scoff, snarl something sharp enough to flay skin, turn on his heel and walk away like he always does when we get too human, too soft, too close.

But Ambrose doesn’t.

He holds Luna’s gaze for a long, weighted beat, something dark and reluctant flashing behind his eyes like he knowsexactly how dangerous this is—that sitting down means letting her win.

And then, without a word, he folds.

Literally.

He moves like gravity’s dragging him down against his will, long legs bending until he’s sitting cross-legged in the dirt beside us, arms still crossed, expression carved from marble.

Luna’s smile sharpens like a blade at his throat.

I blink at him, baffled, because there’s no universe where Ambrose fucking Dalmar voluntarily participates in glitter and roses—and yet, here he is.

Silas wastes no goddamn time.

The second Ambrose’s ass hits the ground, Silas grins wide enough to split his face, pulling a fresh handful of glitter from his jacket like he’s been waiting for this moment all his life.

“Ohhh,” Silas croons, voice syrup-sweet and deadly, as he shuffles closer. “Look who finally joined the dark side.”

Ambrose doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even flinch. Which is how I know he’s seconds from snapping.

Silas leans in dramatically, holding the glitter high like a blessing, and starts chanting under his breath like some cracked-out priest.

“Ambrose with the rose in his name,” he sing-songs, already dumping glitter over Ambrose’s head like he’s anointing a king. “Stone-hearted and cold but now soft all the same.”

I bite back a laugh, my mouth twitching despite myself, because watching Ambrose sit there—glistening now, glitter sticking to his dark hair, shoulders hunched like he’s reconsidering every life decision—is maybe the only thing that could make me feel remotely human right now.

Silas isn’t done.

He scatters more glitter, hands fluttering like he’s casting a spell. “A thorn in the side, a blade in the dark—yet here he sits, covered in spark.”

Luna’s laugh is quiet, deadly sweet beside me, her fingers grazing my knee like she knows I’ll combust at any second.

Ambrose finally exhales through his nose like he’s about to murder all of us, glitter be damned.

But he doesn’t move.