Metheea Feylisse hadn't even crossed the threshold of the study before someone spun her around.
One second, her hand was on the doorknob, ready to leave. The next, a hand was around her wrist, turning her toward a shadowed figure.
A mouth crashed against hers.
The world fell silent. Her spine locked, her arms stiff at her sides, her breath caught in her throat as his lips moved against hers.
It was her first kiss. And she couldn't move.
She stood frozen like a fool, not kissing the stranger back, not pushing him away either, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out every thought.
The door burst open, snapping the silence.
"Oh heavens. Another hot-blooded pair of young'ins," the man who opened the door muttered, clearly annoyed.
She looked at the stranger, heart thudding. The man was tall and unfamiliar, definitely not one of the palace guards. She hadn't even realized someone else was in the room until that kiss happened.
The stranger turned to the door and bowed quickly, muttering an apology.
For a moment, his eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable. Then, without asking, he grabbed her hand again and led her quickly past the stunned guards and down the hall.
"What are you—?" she started.
"Just trust me."
Her mind flared with a single, incredulous thought: Trust you? Every instinct screamed to yank her hand free, to put distance between them, but she froze when a guard's voice rang out behind her.
"Do not come back, or I'll report you."
The hedges rose tall around them. Cool air carried the faint scent of flowers, leaves rustled overhead, and distant music from the ballroom floated through the night.
He finally stopped. She was still reeling. The garden air didn't help clear her head. If anything, it made it worse—crisp and cold, and somehow still humming with heat from that kiss.
"Why did you do that? And who are you?" she demanded, still reeling, her voice pitching with disbelief. Her pulse thundered in her ears. "You kissed me, out of nowhere, and then dragged me out here. What in all the hells was that about?"
He stared at her like he didn't understand the question. "I just kept you from trouble."
"No. You didn't."
A beat of silence.
"You were nearly caught," he said, watching her. "That was a restricted archive room. You could've been arrested."
She blinked fast. "I was?" she thought aloud. "That doesn't justify what you did," she snapped. "And why were you in that room?"
"I was following you," he said casually.
She looked at him sharply. "No, you were not."
He shrugged. "You looked so lost. So I did what any gentleman would do."
"You are no gentleman," she said. "Who are you?"
"Az—" He stopped himself. "No one you need to worry about."
He stepped closer. The air changed. Her breath caught again, for a different reason.
She felt it.
A strange pull, like something inside her chest leaned toward him without permission. Her skin prickled, and not from the cold.
His voice was lower now. "Do you want to try again?"
"What?"
Before she could take a step back, he had closed the distance and kissed her again—slower this time, as if waiting.
And this time, she kissed him back.
Just for a second.
And in that second, something deep and old clicked into place. Like an invisible string tightened between them.
She broke the kiss, breathless. "What was that."
He didn't answer. His hand hovered just short of hers, then slowly lifted to touch her lips, gentle and deliberate, like he was trying to remember them. "You felt it too."
Her lips parted to argue. Nothing came out.
Because she did feel it.
The pull.
And it terrified her.
Because she knew what this was.
She'd read about it—buried in old texts about dragon-born lineages back in Dythrid. And it ran in her blood. That undeniable force, that ancient tug, like a bond snapping into place.
She stepped back. "No," she whispered. "I have a fiancé."
She didn't mention that her fiancé was an old, balding noble. That wasn't the point—and neither was this infuriating, bewildering pull she felt toward a stranger.
Whatever this was, it was the last thing she needed right now. She needed to get away.
"Let go. I need to get to the ball."
He tilted his head, voice smooth and unbothered. "What's his name?"
She pulled away harder, and this time, he let her.
But he followed. All the way to the entrance side of the hall. She didn't look at him, didn't speak. She stepped through the doors without a word.
The ballroom was in full swing. Candlelight glowed across polished floors, music and laughter swirled in the air, and perfume lingered as couples spun in elegant arcs.
She had been lost a while ago, trying to find the hall. She'd wandered into that room and used a basic concealment charm when she heard footsteps.
Oh no. She froze.
She had used concealment magic.
Had he seen it? Had he sensed it? She bit her nail, mind racing, the memory of that kiss flashing unwanted in her mind and making her chest tighten.
My god, what she had done was dangerous. She needed to find that man again before he breathed a word of it to another soul.
But was that really a pull?
She told herself she didn't care if it was; caring would mean giving it power, and she refused to give it any more space in her mind.
She had no intention of finding out. Right now, she had only one goal: escape everyone's grip on her. Get out of this enemy territory, breathe air that wasn't owned by watchful eyes, and finally be free.
She stayed near the edge of the ballroom, half-hidden among the shadows.
A sudden, icy jolt shot through her, stealing her breath as something cold spread across her front, soaking through the fine fabric.
She glanced down and saw crimson blooming against her dress, the dark stain spreading fast.
A woman stood before her, red hair piled impossibly high with feathers, holding a nearly empty glass of punch as if nothing had happened.
"Perhaps you should watch where you're going, my lady," Metheea said sharply, brushing at her soaked bodice. "Or is that too difficult from that height?"
The red-haired woman blinked, then offered a delicate smile, as if she hadn't even noticed Metheea's presence until now. "Oh, forgive me. I didn't realize someone was there."
Metheea inhaled sharply, remembering herself.
She was still a princess—even if in hiding. Her jaw tightened, but when she spoke again, her words were smoother.
"Of course, accidents happen… though some take more aim than others."
The woman's smile thinned, but before she could respond, more women drifted toward them, drawn by the tension or perhaps the scent of gossip.
Then a voice echoed through the hall, magically amplified and cutting through the chatter: "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. Please welcome His Highness, the Crown Prince, guest of honor for tonight's ball."
Her heart thudded.
The prince.
The brother she had never met.
The one who hated her so much he had sent assassins to kill her.
Her knees weakened and her breath shortened. The walls seemed to tilt slightly.
The women around her sneered, tossing smug glances her way before quickly gliding toward the front of the hall.
Metheea didn't follow.
She moved instead toward one of the marble foundations near the corner, hidden in the shadows, trying to steady her breath. She dared a glance at the stage. And froze.
There, standing in the glow of the chandeliers, accepting polite applause from the crowd, was the man.
The stranger.
The one who kissed her in the dark.
Her brother.
Azrayel.