“Did it?” he murmured, bracing himself as if the air itself were plotting against us.
The GPS announced our next turn, and Cristian jumped like it had snarled his name.
I rolled my eyes. “You have fought monsters older than Boston, but a female-coded robot voice has you shook?”
His jaw tightened. “She speaks without warning.”
I patted his thigh. “Welcome to modern living.”
He went utterly still at my touch. The bond gave a quiet tug in my chest.
After half an hour of winding roads and Cristian muttering insults at other drivers (“You call that a lane change, coward?”), we turned onto a private road.
My jaw dropped.
“Holy… Versailles threw up on Tim Burton,” I whispered.
The mansion ahead was enormous and baroque, covered in spires and carved faces, all shadow and gold. Lights glowed from arched windows like molten copper. The grounds were manicured to perfection—unnatural perfection. It seemed to have been curated by beings who had time to kill and no HOA rules.
Cristian stared at it with resigned distaste. “The court likely purchased this place for theatrics.”
“Do they have two houses?” I asked.
“More than two,” he said.
A valet opened my Corolla’s door. He did not hide the confusion and disgust on his face.
Cristian stepped out like he was exiting a limousine and not my poor, exhausted Toyota. He walked around and offered his hand to help me out, and I pretended we were royalty instead of two people deep in denial about our situations.
Inside, an attendant handed us small handheld masks—mine black and beaded, Cristian’s silver and angular, like something a dark prince would wear before seducing half the room.
I gasped as we entered the ballroom.
Dim lights. Music thrumming low and seductive. People dressed in gowns and suits that defied logic. Silks, jewels, fabrics that shimmered like stars. Masks in gold, crimson, and emerald.
Cristian’s presence at my side anchored me instantly. His hand found the small of my back, firm and warm.
“Do not wander from me,” he murmured, voice brushing my ear. “And do not speak to anyone alone.”
“Got it,” I whispered. “Operational rule: remain glued.”
He took my hand, threading his fingers through mine. My chest tightened. Not in panic—something steadier, fuller. I didn’t look too closely at it.
We turned the corner and crashed straight into them.
The Sovereign Court lounged in a semi-circle like the world’s worst Renaissance-themed HOA.
Ambrosia in gold and crimson, draped in danger and ego. Hammond looking like he’d bought his brocade coat fromColonial Williamsburg: Villain Edition. The others—ancient, smug, their masks glinting like they already knew everyone’s secrets.
Ambrosia’s smile curled as soon as she saw us.
“My, my… Cristian. How stunning you look when you pretend to behave.”
Her gaze flicked to me. A bored, feline appraisal, like she was deciding whether I should be ignored or eaten.
“And you brought your little matchstick.”
My spine went rigid, and Cristian squeezed my hand. Ambrosia noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes glittered with interest.
