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A good daughter would call her parents and let them know she’s leaving the country before she steps foot on the plane that will take her out of it.

I’m not that daughter.

I’m in Bucharest.

Or rather, just outside it where the international airport is located. We’re not actually going into the city, but somewhere around Sinaia, a smaller village in the nearby mountains.

It’s eight in the morning here, seven hours ahead of Florida, and my internal clock is all messed up.

I tried to sleep on the plane, but that’s difficult when you’re on the verge of a fourteen-hour-long panic attack.

I ended up dozing on and off, waking up every time we hit the slightest bit of turbulence, convinced we were going to crash.

The good news: we didn’t crash.

The bad news: if I ever want to return home, I’m going to have to make that flight again.

My mom answers on the second ring. “Why are you calling so late? Are you hurt? Lost?”

“No, I’m fine. But…” I brace myself. “I’m actually in Bucharest right now.”

There’s silence on the other line, and I glance at my phone to make sure we didn’t get disconnected.

“You’re where ?” she finally responds.

“Bucharest, the capital of Romania. Actually, we’re just north of it. Noah and I are here to accept Cassian’s nomination for archduke. I’m sorry I forgot to call you before we left.”

“Just a minute,” she says sharply.

“Oh, okay…”

“Piper!” my mother screeches a few seconds later. “I just checked your location. You’re in Europe .”

“Yeah…”

“How expensive is international roaming? Is this call costing you a fortune?”

It’s a weird thing for her to latch onto, but we all process shocking news in our own way, I suppose.

“I signed up for a temporary international add-on while we were waiting to board our plane in Miami.”

Or, more accurately, while we were making a mad dash to the terminal.

“Your father is going to lose his mind.”

This is probably not the best time to tell them Noah and I got married yesterday.

“We’re getting back on the plane tomorrow,” I say, trying to sound soothing. “It’s a quick trip.”

Too quick. Now that we’re here, I’d like to do a little sightseeing. But that’s not on the agenda.

“When did you get your passport?” she asks.

“That’s complicated.”

And hopefully legal. I’m not entirely sure.

“Whatever you do, don’t drink the water. I saw a documentary about a woman who picked up dysentery while traveling abroad.”

I’m about to tell her contaminants won’t bother me, but Cassian is currently in the hospital with the flu, so I’m feeling less confident. “I won’t.”

“Oh my word.” It sounds like she’s groaning into her hand. “Max was supposed to be the difficult one—not you. You’re my garden girl, my little hobbit who likes quiet things. You’re not supposed to go on sudden adventures!”

“Did you just call me a hobbit?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“Technically, several hobbits went on adventures…”

“Piper.”

“I’ll be careful, okay? I won’t follow anyone down dark alleys, I won’t accept rides from strangers, and I promise I won’t go after any dragons or their treasure.”

“You’re killing me. This heartburn I’m having is probably an ulcer. You’ve given your mother an ulcer.”

“By the way, Noah and I got married on the beach yesterday. Just so you know. Don’t worry, Sophia filmed it on Cassian’s phone. I’ll send you the video when we’re back in the States.”

Yeah, I know. But it felt right. She was already getting an ulcer anyway.

“Funny,” she says, not believing me.

Stoically, I trudge ahead. “We’ll plan a reception when we’re back.”

“You did not actually get married,” she breathes. It’s not so much a question as a threat.

“I have to go. We need to find a driver to take us to the vampire castle, and I still don’t have a ballgown for tonight’s dinner.”

“Do not change the subject. Did you just tell me you got married—wait. The vampire what ?”

“I’ll let you know when we’re headed home, okay?”

“Piper, don’t you hang?—”

“Minutes, Mom! This call is already going to be expensive.”

“You just said you enrolled in an international add-on?—”

“Love-you-so-much-and-I’ll-buy-you-a-painted-egg,” I say in one breath.

And then I end the call.

“Well.” I stare at my phone screen. “That could have gone worse.”

“It could have also gone better,” Noah says. “I’m not sure that was the right way to tell them about the wedding.”

Not even thirty seconds later, Noah’s phone rings.

“It’s your dad,” he says warily.

“Best ignore it for now. You can grovel when we get back to Glenwood.”

“I will not grovel .” Wisely, he ignores the phone call. “But I don’t think this is the best place for a chat.”

“How do we find a driver?” I ask.

People speak Romanian around us, but thankfully, many of the posted signs are in English.

Noah looks around the busy airport, frowning. “I have no idea.”

Once you leave the airport, Romania is very green. It’s also hot and far more humid than I was expecting. Thankfully, the temperature cools somewhat as we head north into the mountains.

We drive through numerous little towns on narrow roads.

Some of the houses look like they’re straight out of a storybook.

Others look worn and crammed together, as I assume is to be expected in a place that has so much history.

We pass dozens of blue, yellow, and red Romanian flags, a massive cemetery, and dozens of tiny delivery trucks.

I marvel at it all, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m in Europe with my husband.

Soon, we’re headed up a winding mountain road.

Our guide chatters, happy to answer our touristy questions.

He’s informed me the trees are oak and beech, with a few spruces and firs mixed in.

The national flower is the peony, but sadly we missed its bloom time by several months.

My disappointment is eased by the wildflowers that grow in meadows along our route.

After about ten minutes, we reach a guard station and a gate at the end of it.

“This is the correct address?” our driver asks in his heavily accented English. He cranes his neck forward like he’s trying to see past the wrought-iron gate. But it’s an impossible task—the trees are too dense.

“We’re going to find out.” Noah exits the car, holding the door and waiting for me to follow. I scoot across the seat and join him, growing anxious.

We walk up to the guardhouse. The attendant watches us, protected from the sun. He greets us, but I don’t understand a word of what he says. Apparently, he can read the confusion on our faces because he tries again.

“State your business,” he says, probably thinking we’re lost tourists.

“I’m Montgomery York, heir to the Chevalier line, and this is my wife, Piper.”

Wife.

“We’re here to represent Cassian at tonight’s dinner,” Noah continues. “He informed the committee we’d be coming.”

The guard eyes us standing in full daylight, understandably skeptical.

Our clothing might be offending him as well.

Neither of us had time to dress up as Chevalier ambassadors.

Noah is wearing jeans, and I’m in a pair of leggings, carrying a nylon crossbody purse a NIHA hunter gave me as soon as we reached the airport. We’re both wearing T-shirts.

“We have our passports and government-issued IDs if you’d like to verify our identities,” Noah adds, not about to be turned away.

The man gives us a curt nod, and we produce the paperwork. He frowns, studying the pictures and then squinting at us. Finally, he hands back our things. “We’re expecting you. Your human can’t come inside, though. I’ll send for someone to pick you up.”

“Our…human?” I ask dumbly.

He sighs. “Your driver.”

“That’s fine,” Noah says. “I doubt he’d want to join us anyway.”

I laugh, but when I see the lack of amusement on the guard’s face, I quickly clear my throat.

Noah turns back to the car to pay our driver. He stopped at an ATM in the airport to get local currency. Hopefully, he took out enough.

He must, because the man opens the trunk and helps him with our luggage, thanking him jovially. The driver then waves goodbye as he turns around in the impossibly tiny street, backing up several times before he’s accomplished it.

About the time he’s finally made a one-eighty on the road, a black car pulls up on the other side of the gates. It’s shiny, it looks expensive, and it appears to be waiting for us.

The guard pushes a button inside his station, and the heavy gate rolls to the side, allowing us to walk through.

Our new driver gets out of the car, using the protection of a large black umbrella. He’s lean and scrappy, with thick brown hair. He looks young, barely eighteen, but for all I know, he could be five hundred years old.

“Hello. I’m Tomas, and I will be escorting you to Anghelescu Castle.” He opens the back door for me. “Madam.”

He has a Cockney accent instead of a Romanian one, and his jaunty hat makes me wonder if this is his official job—escorting important vampires between the gates and the castle.

Not that I’m an important vampire.

I slide into the seat, sinking into the luxuriously soft leather, thinking of Cassian’s car back home. It also hits me that I just got in a car with a stranger, exactly what I told my mother I wouldn’t do.

Oh well. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? Hopefully, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me either.

Noah settles in beside me, and the driver slowly makes his way up the tree-lined drive.

Soon, the greenery turns into hedges, and we get our first glance at the castle.

“Oh wow,” I whisper, marveling at the towering creation in front of us. I don’t know much about castles, but it looks like something out of a storybook. I’ve never seen so much stone in my life. There are turrets, a bell tower, and gardens…

Oh, the gardens .

They’re lush, planted in a formal style with roses, topiaries, and fountains, all embraced by the surrounding Carpathian Mountains.

“It’s beautiful,” I say.

“Would you like me to tell you its history?” Tomas asks.