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The imposter’s skin—his face—rippled. Before her eyes, facial bones reformed under tanned skin that had blanched, tightening and stretching to the point she thought it might split. His bones sharpened on his cheeks, and the eyes of a fiery beast took shape. When his smile widened, his lips curled back, revealing teeth as razor-edged as the swords she held. And his veins… They were branching like lightning strikes from his chest and up his neck, spiking from his fingertips as dark as the night sky.

“Tell me again who I am not, or perhaps you would care for a demonstration?” The candle on the bedside table dimmed. Shadows from every darkened corner surfaced like mist across the pelts on the floor.

By some miracle from Maker of the Skies, Alora held strong, feet planted firmly, though her blade quivered.

He reached out, tapping the blade’s edge with his black, veined finger. The blade glided upward.

“Unsteady hold,” he taunted, rasping in a dark chuckle through pointed teeth. “Do you truly believe someone such as you can champion one such as me? Careful who you threaten, darling, especially when you are so … foolishly unprepared.”

Before she could convince herself otherwise, Alora cleaved the air, drawing her trembling blade to his throat and holding the other on her outstretched arm.

The iron edge sliced into his chin, releasing a small trickle of blood across the cold metal, dripping to the pelts below.

Twice. She had drawn his bloodtwice. And blood still filled her veins. Breath still filled her lungs. Next time she might not be so lucky.

The High Prince snickered—actuallysnickered—seemingly unfazed by the hostility billowing from her darkened eyes and irradiating from her taut lips. “If you wish to leave here with your head intact”—amusement rippled across his features, and she pressed her blade to the blackened veins branching his neck—“drop the swords. I am sure you remember … I do not ask twice.” Garrik shifted once more, steadying his foot back on the ground before turning from the sword as if she wasn’t holding his life at the end of it.

Using his thumb, he wiped the blood seeping from his chin, hovering it before his mouth, and licked it clean off with a sinister grin.

As in the tavern, Alora watched, disbelief settling in her eyes as he sauntered away like any other pompous noble she ever had the displeasure of conversing with. His arrogance led him to stop near the fur-covered cot, and even more brazenly, he offered his back to her like she was something inconsiderable. A mere gnat that was easily swatted away.

Dismissing her as such turned her blood molten. With him facing away, she could deliver a lethal strike. If killing the SavagePrince could bring some justice to their cruel world, it would be worth the inevitable death to follow.

In a single, swift movement, Alora vaulted onto the chair, toppling it as she launched herself through the air, swords aimed to sink into the skull festering behind gray hair.

It was a good plan—might have even worked.

On anyone other thantheHigh Prince.

Muscles shifted and flexed under the movement. His body twisted downward, crouching on his knees.

She soared over him, slamming in a tangled mess of limbs on his cot only to realize she had merely succeeded in losing the swords. Alora’s legs scrambled, clawing at the velvety furs, desperately warring for possession of the blades.

But the High Prince’s broad hands claimed her waist, pinning her onto her stomach and knocking the wind out of her as she was reminded of Jade’s earlier kick.

His swords, which had landed in the furs, were tossed to the ground behind them. They clanged against one another as they settled near the toppled chair.

“Sire, are you alright?” a guard called from outside. They would have heard everything.

But Alora continued to thrash. Spinning herself under his grip. Embodying a feral fury of sharp nails and vicious teeth.

Garrik climbed on the bed and straddled her in an attempt to stop her rage. Broad hands met with her fists. The icy chill bit into her skin as he pulled them across her chest. And her legs … pinned to the cot by some force of nothingness.

“Enough,” the voice of the male in the alley thundered, shaking everything around them.

Even in such poor light, she could see his eyes turn dark—cold.

“Sire, are you well?” The entrance pulled open but was forced closed by tendrils of whorling shadows just as fast.

Garrik leaned close to her face, so close she could feel the feather-light tickle of his freezing breath. “Perfectly well. Do not disturb me unless I call.”

“Don’t touch me.” Alora growled, chest tightening. This was stupid. So dangerously foolish, the position she had allowed herself to become trapped in.

Kaine.He would force her like this weekly—almost daily.

Throat constricting, Alora fought off the tears threatening her eyes. From fear and anger and every single bit of humiliation burning through her veins. Despite it all, she surveyed him. Watched him.

That strong body had gone wholly rigid, every muscle solid as ice. Garrik’s face… Not of the demon she had witnessed manifest shortly ago, but of the enchanting face of a High Fae male now returned.