“Slow down,” I hiss at his back.
He doesn’t seem to hear, tracking to the stairs, and then leads me up them.
I take one more look at my friends. Wynter determinedly ignores us as he is joined by a second pretty girl. Cleona and Amaya lift a glass to me, the latter catcalling us. Felix dances with Ember, his eyes glued to her, and she laughs at something he said. Kasper shifts from watching her, to me, with something strange in his expression, as if he wants to warn me to stop.
Well, fuck him, it’s not his business.
Draven hurries up the stairs, and before I can point him to Amaya’s room, he’s leading me into a different one next to hers. It’s blessedly empty.
When I turn to him, he’s already on top of me. I back into the wall, my chest tight from the thrill of what comes next, and then his hands cage me against it, his mouth crashing against my neck and I arch my chest into his.
His lips move sloppier now. I blame the drinks for his teeth-dragging scratches. Unlike the claim, it hurts, as if it’s unintentional. I lace my hand through his hair, gripping it like before, but he doesn’t stop, as if between whatever happened then and now he’s forgotten our silent language.
“What did the guards want you for?” My nerves spike, demanding we slow down.
“What’s it matter?” His voice is rough, throaty.
Is he upset? Did something happen? His hips pin against mine, but it doesn’t drag out the warmth it did before. The fabric only scratches now, not as soft as I remember. I shift under him.
“Talk to me.” My hands move to either side of his face, but his grip only pins them back behind my head. The other braces against the wall, nails extending until he’s slicing holes into the wallpaper.
“What do you want to hear, little pet?” His hips slam into mine again, and this time it really hurts. My head clacks against the wall and then his lips crash against mine and he tastes … like sea salt and vanilla. But not the food, more like I’ve bitten into a candle. There’s something false there. I pull away and his hand grasps my throat, the kiss lengthening, and his hair smellswrong.Hot sand, seaweed, and a sweat that’s not his.
I know what Prince Draven smells like.
I know what he fucking tastes like.
This is not him.
I buck, kneeing the impostor in the groin, and he drops, but he grabs my tarot pack off the belt at my hip as he does. I wipe his spit from my mouth, my anger roiling in my gut as I glare down at him. Whoever he is, he’s so fucking dead.
His skin morphs, rippling until Morgan kneels in front of me. Gaunter and angrier.
What is this? How did he get out?
I go to drop my mental shield, ready to create a little opening to blast my scream of danger down to Draven. He’ll tear this piece of garbage apart in an instant, though there might be nothing left of him by the time I am done with him.
But then changelings are closing in—from the bathroom that links to Amaya’s room, others coming out of the closet. They’reall masked, and since it’s a masquerade I’m sure no one even questioned it. The door snaps shut.
I hesitate, heart racing as I scrutinize my attackers. My hands curl to fists. I may not have my cards, but I am going to beat the ever-loving shit out of them.
“Don’t even think about it, Rune,” Morgan sneers. “We’ve infiltrated every inch of this party. Ember? Felix? Wynter? They’re the first to fall.”
“I know about your shields and I’ll know if you try to warn the prince.” One of the girls taps her temple, slowly, raw anger in her eyes. “If you so much as holler for Draven mentally or verbally, then our people will kill your friends.”
“What shields, Fallon?” one of the strangers demands, and my eyes go wide. He’s talking to the girl whose boyfriend was killed in sparring. My gaze snaps to her. She’s a hollow thin thing now, and with the full mask I didn’t recognize her.
“No names, you idiot!”
I think of those girls sidling up to Wynter below and glance to her hand where the High Priestess card glimmers. The pressure of her power crashes against my mental shields, encircling them. Thankfully holding this mental barrier is something I can continue even without my cards.
Morgan gets to his feet now, walking off the limp I put in his step.
“Rune, you’re going to stay here, silently, while my friends take care of your little boyfriend next door.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
I notice a little patch along the back of the fingerless glove, a red fist. Draven and I knew that the Ten Spires Clan that Morgan belonged to had links to the uprising, but I didn’t think that Morgan of all people was capable of an actual plot. Withhim in the Boiler, we’d put discussion of him to rest, free to focus on the Artifacts and training, but now …
“Arcadia isn’t as guarded as theythought.” Morgan rolls his neck, and I notice how much thinner he is from the last time I saw him. His face more hollowed, burn marks trailing the backs of his arms. He’s spent over a month in the Boiler. “The Ten Spires is working with the descendants of the uprising.” He flexes that glove for me to see. “And the Ascension has risen right on their doorstep.”
