She won’t be waiting out here for all to see. It’s not her way. Still, my heartbeat hammers, pounding at my pulse points.

Ptolemus is not so restricted. He stands on the runway, sweating stubbornly in a summer uniform of gray linen and reserved regalia. The only metal on him winks at his wrists. Thick-braided iron rope, more weapon than jewelry. A caution, especially alongside the dozen or so guards in Samos colors. A few are cousins, marked by their silver hair and black eyes. The rest are pledged to our house, to my father’s crown, in the same way Maven’s guards were. I don’t bother noting their colors. They don’t matter.

“Eve,” he says, opening his arms to me. I return the gesture, holding him around the middle, letting all the muscles in my body release for one long moment of relief. Ptolemus is safe and whole beneath my fingertips. Solid. Real. Alive.

Now, more than ever, I won’t take that for granted.

“Tolly,” I breathe in reply, pulling back to look up at him. The same relief I feel flashes in his stormy eyes. We despise being parted. It’s like separating a sword from a shield. “I’m sorry I left.”

No, you didn’t leave him. That denotes choice. You had no choice in this. My fingers tighten on my brother’s upper arm. Father sent me to Montfort. To send a message. Not just to our coalition, but to me. He is my king and lord of my house. It is my duty to obey him. To go where he wishes, do as he says, and marry who he commands. Live as he wills.

But I see no other way, no other path than the one he sets.

“Sad to miss the chaos?” Ptolemus says, pushing me back softly. “Father’s gone a bit wild making up a proper court. Silver all over the place. And he can’t decide on a throne.”

“What about Mother?” I ask, tentative.

Despite the heat, Ptolemus tucks my arm under his, leading me toward our transport. Behind us, others fall in line, but I have little regard for them.

“More of the same,” he says. “Prodding after grandchildren. She escorts Elane to my rooms every night. I think she might even stand guard outside the door.”

Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.

“And?” I try to keep my voice from wavering. His grip tightens.

“We do as we all agreed.” His breath catches. “What has to be done, for this to work.”

Hot, green envy roars in my chest.

I thought I wouldn’t be jealous. Months ago, when all three of us came to this decision. When we decided to go through with Elane’s betrothal to my brother. At first, the betrothal was simply meant to protect her. Take her out of consideration for any other houses until we could figure something out. It would not do to have her married off to some simpering Welle greenwarden or boorish Rhambos strongarm. Both out of my reach and out of my control. She is a beautiful girl, a talented shadow. Her house is of great value. And Ptolemus is the heir to House Samos. It was an equal match, understandable, predictable. Useful for a time. When the three of us thought there were no other options. I was still betrothed to Maven, doomed to be his queen. But Ptolemus was near as his right hand, close to court. A marriage would keep Elane close too.

We didn’t know what machinations our father had in store. Not really. Not the details.

If I knew then what I know now . . . what decisions would have been different?

Ptolemus would be unwed, an eligible prince. And Elane free to follow you, her princess, wherever you may go. To marry whatever courtier you chose. Not chained to your brother, in another kingdom, another country, another bedroom, for the rest of all your lives.

Father could have stopped us, but he didn’t. He let us make this mistake. I bet he enjoyed it, knowing I was separating myself from the one person I wanted more than any crown.

“Eve?” Ptolemus whispers, bending down. He’s at least six inches taller than me. Broader, too. The firstborn, four years my elder. The son of Volos Samos, the heir to the Kingdom of the Rift. I love my brother, but his life will always be easier than mine. And I’m allowed to resent him for it, in my small way.

“It’s fine,” I force out between clenched teeth. It’s a good thing I’m not wearing my usual metals, or they all might crush to dust. Out of the corner of my eye, I note Tolly adjusting his bracelets as they tighten on his skin. “We chose this. We have to live with it.”

The odd, faraway voice rises again.

Do you?

In my mind, I see a flash of a white suit and a green one, two men, their hands different colors, fingers interlaced. They cloud across my vision, and I rely on Ptolemus to lead me the last few steps. He almost has to lift me into the transport.

The vision of Davidson and Carmadon is replaced with another. My brother and Elane in a familiar bedroom. My own wretched mother’s shadow at the door. There’s only one way to erase the vision threatening to burn itself onto my eyes.

While the rest make for the newly fashioned throne room, to greet my father as a king deserves, I do the opposite. I know Ridge House as well as my own face, and it isn’t difficult to slip away in the receiving courtyard, disappear into the regimented trees and flowers. The servants’ garden connects to the kitchens, and I barely notice the Reds as I pass. They shrink from my presence, well accustomed to my moods. Currently, I feel like a storm cloud, dark and brooding, threatening to burst.

Elane waits in my room. Our room, the windows clear, curtains open. She knows I like the sun, especially on her. She perches in one of the window seats, leaning back against a pillow, one leg dangling free, bare to her upper thigh beneath a sheer black gown. She doesn’t turn to look at me when I walk in, allowing me the time I want to adjust to her presence.

My eyes trace her leg before jumping to her hair, red and gleaming, loose around her pale shoulders. It looks like liquid fire. Her skin seems to glow, because it does. This is her ability, her art. She manipulates the light just so, accentuating herself without any need for makeup or finery. Rarely do I feel ugly. I’m a beautiful girl, by design and nature. But after the long flight, without my usual armor of an intricate dress and painted face, I feel diminished next to her. Unworthy. I fight the urge to duck into my bathroom and sweep a little makeup on.

Finally she turns, giving me full view of her face. Again I feel a little bit of shame in coming to her so disheveled. But want quickly chases away any other sensation. She laughs as I kick the door shut and cross the room to take her face in my hands. Her skin is smooth and cool beneath my fingers, a perfect alabaster. Still, she doesn’t speak, letting me look over her features.

“No crown,” she says, raising her hand to my temple.

“No need for it. They all know who I am.”

Her touch brushes lightly, sweeping down my cheekbone as she tries to smooth away my cares. “Did you sleep on your journey back?”

I huff, running my thumbs along the underside of her jaw. “Is that your way of saying I look tired?”

Her fingers continue over my face, down to my neck. “I’m saying you can sleep if you want.”

“I’ve slept enough.”

She smirks, lips twisting in the split second before I kiss her.

It breaks my heart to know she isn’t really mine.

A fist collides with my door, pounding directly on the entrance to my bedroom. Not even the salon outside, where visitors are meant to wait. My bedroom, our bedroom, directly. I shoot up from my pillows, untangling myself from the sheets with fury. With a flick of my wrist, I draw a knife from the chest across the room and make quick work of the silk twisting around my legs.

Elane doesn’t blink when the blade passes within an inch of her bare skin. She just yawns, my lazy cat, and rolls over to cradle a pillow. “So rude,” she murmurs, meaning both me and whatever idiot decided to interrupt us.

“Practicing for that foul creature,” I reply, cutting the last sheet. “What an unlucky messenger.”

I stand, naked, before tying a soft robe around myself with the blade still in hand.

The knocking continues, followed by a muffled voice. I recognize it, and some of my delicious, righteous anger evaporates. No scaring the colors out of anyone right now. Annoyed, I throw the knife at the wall. It sticks, blade sinking into the woodwork.

“What, Ptolemus?” I sigh, wrenching open the bedroom door. He looks similarly disheveled, his hair messy and his eyes burning. I suspect he was interrupted as I was. He and Wren Skonos like their afternoon trysts.