★★★★★
The ballroom glittered like a threat.
Hundreds of candles floated above like stars caught in a spell, dripping gold light over everything—gilded columns, gleaming obsidian floors, and a ceiling painted with gods who probably had better things to do than watch vampires dance.
Eva stood at the edge, silver tray balanced on one hand, the other death-gripping her apron. Her new uniform itched, her shoes pinched, and her entire existence felt like a very long, very bad dream sponsored by bloodwine and anxiety.
"Try not to spill anything this time," Mira whispered as she passed, arms full of crystal goblets.
"Try not to exist," Eva muttered back, then pasted on the kind of smile you wear to funerals and family dinners.
The nobles floated through the room like smoke—graceful, impossible, entirely too dramatic for people who technically didn't have pulses. Capes swished. Jewels sparkled. Someone was wearing a live snake as a necklace.
They didn't look real.
And they definitely didn't look at her.
Eva moved between them like a ghost, invisible and ignored, her thoughts louder than the harpist trying way too hard in the corner.
Who needs a full moon when you've got this much ego packed into one room? she thought. Is that guy wearing velvet gloves? What's he hiding—claws or a manicure?
She passed a woman with eyes like molten gold and a voice like spilled honey.
"That one's Lady Nyra," Mira whispered when they crossed paths again. "She once poisoned an entire wedding party for using the wrong wine."
"Sounds fun."
"And that's Lord Verrin. Don't stare. He's been married four times. Two of them are still alive."
"Goals," Eva muttered.
Then it happened.
The doors opened.
No announcement. No trumpet. No swirl of ominous fog.
Just… silence.
Like the room had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.
He walked in like he owned the air.
Tall. Sharply dressed in black that shimmered like spilled oil. Dark hair, windswept like he'd just stepped out of a painting. And those eyes—moon-pale and predatory, cutting through the room like a knife through silk.
The Duke.
Rafe.
Eva didn't gasp. She didn't swoon. She just stood there, staring like an idiot while a single thought slammed through her brain:
Oh no.
Not because he was beautiful. Not because he made every other noble suddenly look like they were trying too hard.
But because he looked straight at her.
Not past her. Not through her.
At her.
… like he knew something she didn't.
The tray slipped a little in her hands. Just a little.
Mira hissed from the sidelines, "Do not drop that, I swear on every broken teacup in this house—"
Eva didn't hear the rest.
Click!
Not music.
Not laughter.
But a single, clipped voice—cutting through the air like frost cracking glass.
"Well, that's new. Someone stole my human and wore her perfume."
The crowd shifted like a tide.
Heads turned.
And she appeared—Lady Valerie Blackthorn.
Not loud. Not flustered. But noticed.
She moved like winter: slow, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. A gown the color of dusk trailed behind her, embroidered with tiny silver thorns. Her lips were the red of dried blood. Her expression? The kind that made you apologize for breathing near her personal space.
Cassia—pale, flawless, already regretting something—lifted her chin. "It wasn't your human."
Valerie's smile was barely there. "Darling, if she poured my drink more than once, she was mine."
"Accidents happen," Cassia offered.
"Mm," Valerie said. "So do disappearances."
No shouting. No scene.
Just a threat, gift-wrapped in silk.
Cassia looked away first.
And that was the end of it.
Valerie turned, gaze sweeping lazily across the room—until it caught on the Duke. Still, silent, watching from the shadows.
Their eyes met.
Neither bowed.
Neither smiled.
The tension? Glacial.
Eva blinked.
Oh good, she thought. Another terrifying beauty with control issues.
The music stumbled back into existence like a drunk trying to act sober. Vampires resumed their dances, conversations picked up with just a touch more edge, and the room tried to pretend nothing had cracked.
But Eva could feel it.
And so could everyone else.
A ripple of discomfort rolled through the highborns. Lady Ceressa whispered something sharp behind a jeweled fan. Lord Verrin downed a full glass of something dark and dangerous. A cluster of noblewomen exchanged looks like knives.
The Duke left the room….