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Do not look for him, Ela. A courtesan would not look. She would wait like a dutiful dormouse.

Gathering her thoughts, Elarian took three steps into the ballroom.

Then, the room changed.

Shadows seemed to grow longer. Conversations faded and the glittering dresses and elegant masks around her turned to gray. Elarian looked up, aware that in front of her, a vampire now stared at her with deep hunger. No, not a vampire—

Lucan Valmere.

The Blooded Prince had been speaking with three nobles near the foot of the dais. He stopped, silent words spilling from his mouth as he turned toward the open doors. The noble speaking to him continued until noticing he no longer had the prince’s attention. At first, Elarian thought he was simply responding to the arrival of her group; a brief acknowledgment required from someone of his station.

But his eyes only found hers.

Crimson in a sea of black, burning as though she were the only soul in the ballroom.

He raised one finger and bent it toward him.

Come, it said.

Her stomach tightened. Could he know? How could he know? She had disguised herself so perfectly, assumed the identity of a dhampir courtesan—the rare blessing from her eyes pale like faded amaranth petals—and bathed in rosewater and drank their foul bloodwine. She had played the part perfectly.

Impossible.

He could not know…she was still breathing.

Maybe he simply wishes to meet his courtesan. Yes, that is it. Calm down, Ela. You cannot ruin this now.

Keeping her expression carefully demure, Elarian crossed the ballroom while conversations died one after another around her. Hundreds of eyes turned toward her, raking across her exposed skin, drinking in the beautiful blade wrapped in crimson and gold. A cloak the color of old blood billowed behind her as she crossed. Blinking, Elarian imagined the sea of red behind her was the court’s. She felt their gaze upon her like prickling needles. Their curiosity. Their hunger.

At last, Elarian stood only a few paces from Lucan. Her body trembled, standing so close to him again. The ghostly tendrils of his shadows around her thighs pulled the faintest of moans from her lips. Lucan smiled imperceptibly at the sound.

“My prince,” she purred as she bowed low.

Lucan studied her for several long seconds.

“Ah, there she is—my lovely gift from the countess. Anileta always did have exquisite taste when choosing my courtesans.”

His companions laughed politely. Elarian inclined her head.

“I shall endeavor not to disappoint her, my prince.”

“No.” His smile widened. “I suspect you will not, pet.”

Elarian’s cheeks flushed beneath her mask.

Pet.

The word elicited a strange combination of revile and satisfaction—satisfaction that she had played the part so perfectly that he truly thought he owned her, surely. She repeated it to herself, but it still sounded like a lie.

Beside Lucan, one of the lords dressed in deep purples and wearing a foxen-faced mask stirred.

“Your Highness, as I was saying, I believe that we should mo—”

“Another time,” Lucan replied, waving his hand in dismissal without ever breaking Elarian’s gaze. “Whatever you were saying can wait. I am simply beholden already to this divine creature. Isn’t she lovely?”

The lords around him all echoed their earnest approval before scattering like cockroaches under the rising sun. As they left, Elarian studied the mask covering Lucan’s eyes. The black lacquer drew out the pale gray scar over his lip, crimson gaze burning like molten lava. Thin rivulets of brilliant cerulean blue wound across the smooth lacquer, branching like rivers beneath winter ice.

She realized—horrifically—that black and blue suited him much more than gold or red.