"Stay in the light, Sienna. You lose the light, you lose your life. Are you listening to me?"
Marcus's voice crackled in my earpiece, low and gravelly, cutting through the orchestral swell of the ballroom. I adjusted the lace of my mask, feeling the cool weight of the silver dagger pressed against my inner thigh.
"I'm listening, Marcus. Hard not to when you're screaming in my ear," I whispered, my lips barely moving as I accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. "And I'm not in the light. I'm in a room full of dead things wearing silk. There isn't a 'safe' spot in this entire zip code."
"Don't get cocky. You're a trainee, not a legend yet. Remember the brief: Prince Julian Vane. Mid-thirties in appearance, black hair, eyes like a god and a heart like a sinkhole. He doesn't just kill; he plays. Do not let him play with you."
"He's not going to play with me," I muttered, taking a fake sip of the vintage. "He's going to die. That's the job, isn't it?"
"The job is to survive the kill, Sienna. Now, locate him. The Silver Thorne didn't spend ten years training you to get distracted by the chandeliers."
I lowered the glass, my eyes scanning the sea of masks. The Vane Estate was a cathedral of excess—velvet drapes the color of dried blood, gold leaf on every molding, and the heavy, cloying scent of lilies meant to mask the faint metallic tang that always clung to vampires.
"I see his brother, Silas," I said, my pulse quickening. "He's currently cornering a blonde in the corner. He looks... hungry."
"Ignore Silas. He's the distraction. Julian is the head of the snake. Find the head, and the House falls."
I moved through the crowd, my silk gown swirling around my ankles. To anyone else, I was just another socialite, a pretty girl in a violet dress looking for a thrill. They didn't see the callouses on my fingers from hours of sword drills. They didn't see the way my eyes tracked the exits, the guards, and the jugulars of every creature in the room.
"Found him," I breathed.
He was standing on the far dais, perfectly still while everyone around him moved in a frantic dance of sycophancy. Julian Vane. He didn't need a crown; the air seemed to bend around him, heavy and pressurized. He was dressed in charcoal black, his mask a simple, terrifying raven's face.
"He's beautiful, Marcus. In a 'I'm going to ruin your life' kind of way."
"Sienna! Focus. Is the perimeter clear?"
"As clear as it gets in a nest of leeches," I replied, weaving through the guests. "I'm moving in. Switching to silent mode. See you on the other side."
"Sienna, wait—"
I tapped the earpiece, killing the connection. I didn't need his caution right now. I needed my rage. I needed the memory of the night the vampires had taken everything from me—the fire, the screams, the smell of ash.
I reached the edge of the dais. Julian was talking to an older vampire, his voice a low, melodic hum that vibrated in my chest.
"A toast, Prince Julian?" I said, stepping forward with a practiced, shy smile.
He paused, his head turning slowly. Up close, the pressure was worse. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff during a storm. His eyes, visible through the raven mask, weren't red—not yet. They were a deep, predatory gray.
"Do I know you, little bird?" he asked. His voice was like velvet dragged over gravel.
"I'm new to the city," I said, offering him a fresh glass from a tray I'd snatched. "I heard the Vane masquerade was the only place worth being tonight. I wanted to see if the Prince lived up to the rumors."
Julian took the glass, his fingers brushing mine. The contact was electric—not the romantic kind, but a jolt of pure, biological warning. My skin screamed predator.
"And what rumors have you heard?" he asked, tilting his head. He didn't drink. He just watched me.
"That you're cold. That you're bored. That you haven't found anything worth... keeping... in a long time."
He chuckled, a dark, rich sound. "The rumors are half-true. I am certainly bored. But you... you have an interesting energy. You don't smell like the others. There's a certain... spice... beneath the perfume."
I felt the sweat begin to prickle at the back of my neck. He knows. No, he can't know. The scent-maskers should be working.
"Maybe it's the excitement," I said, leaning closer, letting my voice drop to a whisper. "I've always been drawn to danger."
"Danger is a fickle lover, girl. She usually leaves you bleeding in the dirt."
"I'm willing to take the risk. Are you?"
He looked at me for a long beat, his gaze moving from my eyes to my throat, then back again. For a second, I thought he was going to bite me right there in the middle of the ballroom. Part of me—the terrified, human part—wanted him to. It would be faster.
"Dance with me," he commanded.
It wasn't a request. He set the glass down and took my hand, leading me toward the center of the floor. The music shifted, becoming slower, more predatory. As we moved, he pulled me flush against him. He was cold—so cold it felt like he was made of marble.
"You're tense," he whispered in my ear. "Your heart is drumming a very fast rhythm. Like a rabbit in a snare."
"I'm just overwhelmed by the company," I lied, my hand sliding slowly toward the slit in my dress. My fingers brushed the cold hilt of the dagger. Almost there. Just a few more steps toward the shadows of the pillars.
"Is that what it is? Or is it the weight of that silver against your thigh?"
My heart stopped. Literally stopped. I didn't breathe. I didn't blink.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I managed to choke out.
"Don't lie. It ruins the flavor." He spun me, his grip tightening. We were at the edge of the ballroom now, near the heavy velvet curtains that led to the darkened gallery. "I could smell the silver the moment you walked through the door. It has such a distinct, sterile scent. Very different from the warm, sweet copper of your blood."
I didn't wait. I couldn't.
With a surge of adrenaline, I shoved him back, my hand blurring as I drew the dagger. The silver caught the light of the chandeliers, a flash of holy death. I lunged, aiming for the space between his ribs, right where his dead heart lay.
"For the Thorne!" I hissed.
I was fast. I was the best in my class. I had spent thousands of hours perfecting this exact strike.
Julian didn't even move his feet.
In a blur that my human eyes couldn't even follow, his hand shot up. He didn't just block the strike; he caught my wrist in a grip that felt like a hydraulic press. The bone groaned under the pressure, and the dagger clattered to the floor, the silver ringing out like a funeral bell.
Before I could even scream, he slammed me back against a cold stone pillar, his body pinning mine. His other hand flew to my throat, not crushing it, but encircling it like a collar of iron.
I thrashed, kicking out, but it was like trying to fight a mountain. He was immovable, his face inches from mine, the raven mask discarded on the floor between us.
His eyes were no longer gray. They were burning with a terrifying, molten crimson.
"Such a brave little thing," he purred, his breath cold against my skin. "To come into my house, drink my wine, and try to take my life. Do you have any idea how long it's been since someone had the nerve to try that?"
"Kill me and get it over with," I spat, staring into those red depths. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Oh, but you are. I can feel the tremors in your pulse. I can hear the way your blood is singing to me, Sienna."
My blood turned to ice. "How do you know my name?"
He leaned in, his nose brushing the hollow of my neck, right over the vein that was throbbing with terror. He took a deep, theatrical breath, his eyes closing in what looked like ecstasy.
"I've been smelling you since you stepped onto my lands, little wolf," he whispered, his voice vibrating through my entire body. "And you don't smell like a hunter. You smell like... dinner. And something else. Something I haven't tasted in three centuries."
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, a cruel, beautiful smile curling his lips.
"Tell me, Sienna... does the Silver Thorne know what you really are? Or are they as blind as you are to the power running through those veins?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't snap my neck. He didn't call the guards.
Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of my throat, his grip on my neck tightening just enough to make my head light.
"You're not going to die tonight," he whispered, his voice a promise of something far worse than death. "But you're never going to be free again."
As he dragged me toward the darkened balcony, the ballroom music fading into a dull, distant roar, one terrifying question hammered in my brain: What did he smell in my blood that I didn't even know was there?
The trap hadn't been for him.
The trap was for me.