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She was standing just in front of his chair. She thought of the banquet where she’d served, the way she’d leaned over him, licked the wine from his throat. It seemed a million years ago. Then she thought of the way he’d kissed her by the wall, with that raw desperation that seemed to tear through him and drive into her.

Mason had never kissed her like that.

She laid her hands on Ash’s shoulders, soft velvet starred with the roughness of diamonds. His wineglass clattered to the table and he gripped the arms of his seat as she slid into his lap.

He made a low, breathy sound, and for a moment she thought he was about to stand up, dumping her onto the floor.

Instead, his hands rose to slide across her back. She felt his palms against the metal lacings of her dress, his fingers finding the bare skin between the lacings, stroking so lightly she shivered. His head fell back, his eyes on her, his fixed gaze half predatory, half fascinated.

Dru let her own hands slip from his shoulders down to his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breathing, the rapid pulse of his heart against her palm. They say the Prince has no heart. They say the old King took it.

He pulled one lace loose from her dress. Then another. He slipped his left hand under the now-loosened fabric, stroking the bare skin he could reach. His fingers were calloused, exquisitely rough. Drusilla arched at his touch until her body was flush against his. She said, her voice shaking, “You should kiss me if you’re going to do that.”

She heard him laugh softly, almost a growl, and then his mouth was against hers, hot and demanding. There were no butterfly kisses this time, no gentle touches, only a ravenous hunger. Her mouth opened under his willingly; he tasted like sugar, like fire. Sparks ran up and down her veins as he explored her mouth. She had never felt anything like this: not with Mason, not with anyone.

Letting this happen had not been part of her plan.

But sometimes plans changed mid-battle. Dru smiled, reaching for Ash’s hands. Still kissing her, he let her take them and place them on her thighs, his palms against the silk of her dress. The noise he made in the back of his throat was dark as pain, sweet as honey. Bunching the dress fabric in his fists, he slid it up her legs, the silk like water rising up over her knees, her thighs. His hands followed the path of the dress until he was gripping her hips. His breath stuttered, harsh and uneven as her fingers found their way to the hem of his tunic, pulling it free, hands sliding up under the velvet to glide across the smooth heat of his skin. The muscles of his stomach jumped under her touch, his hips arching up toward her as she found the waistband of his breeches, the back of her knuckles brushing against him as she twisted her wrist, trying to undo the buttons—

His hand clamped around her wrist, the message clear: Stop.

Dru jerked back, breaking their kiss. She could taste iron and honey in her mouth. She stared at Ash in confusion.

“You’re different,” he said. His face was white except for the flush across his cheeks.

“Ash,” she whispered. What did he mean, different? That she felt different? That her kissing was different than it had been last night?

He sat back, his shoulders suddenly rigid. He’d drawn his hands away, though he’d left the laces of her dress partly undone. “You might as well tell me what you want, Drusilla,” he said. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

I won’t regret it, she wanted to whisper. Her body was humming with desire. But there was something in his voice, something hard and raw, that made her sit back.

“What do you mean,” she said, “tell you what I want?”

“You think you can manipulate me,” he said. “As if I haven’t been manipulated all my life, and by those far more skilled at it than you are. If you insisted”—he made the word sound almost filthy—“on coming to my bed, I would take what you offered. I am no enthusiast of self-denial. But I would come to hate you before the morning. I can only bear so many lies, so much pretending.”

Dru felt as if something sharp had pierced her chest. So many lies, so much pretending. He didn’t just mean her. He meant everyone at the Court, everyone affected by his power. She ought to have thought of that. How sensitive to false affection he would be. Far more so than Mason. Who, she had to admit, he was absolutely nothing like.

“Fine,” she said. “I need to get to Alicante.”

Something passed behind his eyes, something she couldn’t define. She wondered what he’d expected her to say.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of what I saw in the scrying bowl. My brother Ty and my friend Kit are alone and in danger. And everyone else, as far as I can tell, is underwater.”

He looked puzzled. “Are you saying they drowned?”

“No. They’re being held in some kind of enchanted sleep under the surface of Lake Lyn. My family is there, even my little brother, Tavvy—he’s only eleven.” At least, she hoped he was still only eleven. She had been trying not to think about the slippery way time worked in Faerie. She knew she could return years after she’d left, but the thought was too horrible to dwell on, and there was nothing she could do about it either way.

She added, “Janus didn’t do it himself, but he knows who did. He’s working with them.”

Ash didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice colorless.

Dru’s pulse quickened. “It is true. The Queen knows about it, too. She admitted it to me.”

Ash shook his head, disbelief crossing his features. “Janus told me that the Shadowhunters were in Alicante, perfectly safe. That they would be imprisoned in the Gard.”

Dru clenched her hands into fists, fighting to keep her voice from cracking. “And he told you they would be turned into mundanes. Which should be a dealbreaker—”