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The month of October passes in a blur. I see Matthew usually once a week.

We go on chaperoned dates throughout the city and spend time together at social events on Academy grounds.

An afternoon stroll in the gardens, or perhaps Forsyth Park, a tour through a downtown museum, a few dinners at corner restaurants.

It could be fun, but we’re always accompanied by an Academy-sanctioned babysitter.

They do their best to be unobtrusive, they really try.

But unfortunately, for someone like me, who’s never had a parental presence in her life, it’s a tough pill to swallow.

So everything stays sweet and innocent between Matthew and me. Adorable, right?

Except I don’t do adorable. Not even a little bit. My inner adrenaline addict is in the throes of full-blown withdrawal.

Until one heart-stopping conversation at an Academy evening social.

I’m clustered in a group with the trifecta and Florence. She’s plastered to Daniel’s side, putting Harry through his paces with gossip about the Astor Manor caper.

“Harry, were you home when it happened?” she asks, drawing a hand to her breast. “When they were in the house?”

“No, I was out that night.” He crosses his arms. “My mother was alone.”

Florence shudders. “Thank goodness they didn’t hurt her.”

“She’s lucky they didn’t,” Matthew says. “The violence downtown is getting worse. I stitch people up almost every night. ”

Despite myself, I can’t remain silent. “Surely, not all of those people are victims of the Wolfpack?”

“No, but some of ’em are. And that’s only counting the ones who stay alive long enough to get to me. The morgue is busier than the hospital these days.”

“It’s not going to change anytime soon, Matt,” Daniel says, shaking his head. “This Wolfpack and some of the other gangs, they’re smart. And they’re getting bolder. Crime isn’t relegated to the bayou and the Catacombs anymore. If they can get into Astor Manor, they can get in anywhere.”

“How did they get in?” Florence asks.

“No idea.” Harry shrugs. “It was the middle of the night. There were no witnesses. The doors to the house were all locked from the inside, so it’s quite the mystery.

We did find one unsecured window on the third story, but it’s over twenty feet up.

Perhaps that was the entry and exit point, but if so, I sure as hell don’t know how they managed it. ”

“The Cat Burglar,” Florence offers. “They say she can do just about anything.”

I fidget, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

“The walls under that window are sheer marble over twenty feet high,” he repeats.

“If she scaled up and down that without breaking her neck, my hat’s off to her.

I’m just grateful they left my mother sleeping in her bed.

She didn’t notice anything was wrong until morning when she saw the mark painted on the door… ”

Moments like this remind me just how tenuous my footing here truly is. How close I’m dancing to the sun with Matthew.

And I ask myself, over and over, is this worth it?

Paul would say yes , but he’s a greedy idiot.

Matthew is blithely unaware, an idiot of a different kind.

I’m perhaps the most objective person here, but I’m becoming less and less so by the day.

For the first time in my life, I’m paralyzed with indecision.

How can I justify a relationship under the guise of “business as usual” when the rapidly ratcheting rate of my pulse tells a different story?

Little by little, Matthew and I are getting to know each other. Since we’re always watched, there’s not much to fill the time but talking. It’s treacherous because, usually, I intentionally keep an emotional distance from my marks.

But Matthew is a brilliant conversationalist. He draws me in and keeps me laughing until my cheeks are sore.

I learn about his family and his work. He tells me stories from growing up, and I offer a few of my own.

I hint at the personalities of Paul, Abe, and Tony.

I desperately want him to know where I come from, so I share as much as I can, and believe it or not, he does start to understand me.

On one or two occasions, he tries to ask about Paul, but I’m tight-lipped.

Our relationship is hard to explain these days, even to myself.

During this time, the Royals remain relatively silent.

Paul stays true to his word and doesn’t harass me about any jobs, giving me the break I desperately need.

Ray continues handing off large chunks of bills to me every two weeks or so.

I dutifully pass them to Paul, privately wondering what he’s moving in the bayou to bring in such consistent profit.

The one time I ask, he tells me he’s been selling tribute from Craig and the Magpies.

It’s plausible, I suppose. Craig is his squeeze, the main contact point for the Magpie gang since Damien’s death. But something in my gut tells me there’s more. That, for the first time in our lives, neither Paul nor I are being entirely honest with the other.

Much to Mellie’s dismay, I continue to sneak out of the Academy once a week to meet up with the Royals or to spend a night alone with Paul.

He doesn’t ask about Matthew again, and I don’t tell him anything, but I caught a flash of Abe’s dark hair around a corner on our museum date. Paul is keeping his tabs .

We come to our first confrontational head over the issue in the final week of the month. On Wednesday night, I sneak out to the bayou loft. Tony is out, but Paul and Abe are both there. Paul is less than amused when I ask him to change our Hallows’ Eve plans from Saturday to Friday.

“Why?”

I don’t answer right away. The conflict boils within me.

“Because her new beau probably invited her to do something Saturday,” Abe says with a laugh, head buried in a bowl of cereal.

That’s right. Ten o’clock at night and the boy is slurping down cereal. With a rolled-up joint on the table beside him.

“Is that why?” Paul’s eyes dart to me.

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

Without looking up from his bowl, Abe triumphantly flicks his spoon.

“His parents host an annual Hallows’ Eve party at their cottage on Jekyll Island to open the club’s season. It’s on Saturday, and yes, he invited me. To Jekyll Island.”

Paul studies my face, but I keep it blank. It doesn’t matter what he says. I’ve already made up my mind to go, but I don’t want him to know that. The mark of a good queen is letting her king think he’s the one holding the cards.

“He invited you…” Paul repeats slowly. “To the Jekyll Island Club?”

“Yes.”

Nothing else needs to be said. The promise of opportunity hanging in the air is more than enough bait.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “We’ll go out Friday instead. And you’re gonna look around that house very closely while you’re there. Every nook, every cranny. The whole damn club if you can manage it. Get your little boyfriend to give you a grand tour.”

I nod .

“And Friday night, when we’re together,” he continues, “I’m going to screw your brains out. So you don’t forget who you actually belong to.”

Abe snorts into his bowl.

“Hey, peanut gallery,” Paul warns, “I’ve heard just about enough outta you.”

“I know who I belong to, Paul.” I sidle over and press my lips to his.

His kiss is as fierce and powerful as ever; it feels good and achingly familiar. The usual fire ignites. I let him pull me into the bedroom and kick the door closed.

I stay with him for two hours, being enjoyed by him and enjoying being his. Because it’s true: I am his, and he is mine.

But deep down, I know that I don’t belong to anyone but myself.

I choose who I give myself to. And tonight, I choose him.