Her lips still remembered the feel of his, even when her mind refused to let her rest.
Metheea was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to retreat to her room and lose herself in her bed, but she was far from done.
Azrayel didn't speak to her again, but she could feel the weight of his gaze on her back, steady and unyielding.
What he had said lingered in her mind, making her nerves spark beneath her skin, and yet she didn't have the will to ask him what he meant.
She went to her next class without looking back.
Embroidery.
When she stepped into the room, she was instantly surrounded by ladies in crisp academy uniforms embroidered with their house crests.
This was the class meant to polish future wives of power, where refinement, grace, and obedience were taught.
"You there. What's your name?"
She stopped and looked at a girl blocking her way. "Velista Alwyn," she said smoothly, giving the false name they had assigned to her. "It is poor manners to ask without offering your own name first."
The girl's mouth curled in disdain. "You don't deserve to know my name."
Metheea's gaze stayed cool as she stepped past her, ignoring the slight.
In the corner, she spotted the woman who had dumped wine on her dress, standing at the center of a tight circle of the same people, their low, malicious chatter pricking at her back like nettles.
"Alwyn?" one of them said louder as she sat down on her chair. "Oh. I know that family."
They giggled together as if sharing a joke. She had seen nobles act like this back in Dythrid, but it was worse now that it was aimed at her.
"From the North, right?" another chimed in. "Do northern nobility usually dress like peasants?"
She glanced down at her boots, still faintly dusted from the training yard. She had forgotten to clean them in her hasty escape from Azrayel.
She almost said her teeth looked dirtier and asked if she'd forgotten to clean them too, but she held her tongue.
The redhead broke from the group and walked over with contempt in her eyes. She slammed her hand onto Metheea's desk. "Baroness blood, I assume. Did your mother debase herself to secure you a place here?"
Her lips twitched in quiet amusement.
If only they knew.
She smiled sweetly and tilted her head. "Do high nobles usually behave like tavern drunks? I am only curious."
Gasps fluttered across the room.
The redhead looked like she might lunge across the table, but before she could, a voice called out from the door.
"Teacher's coming!" The room scattered quickly, the air still humming with silent threats.
It was a blonde girl standing by the entrance, calm but watchful, who had been silently observing the scene.
The redhead paused on her way back to her seat, gave Metheea a slow, smug smile, and said, "You'll regret that."
A tall woman in plum-colored robes stepped in. "I am Instructor Verentia," she said briskly. "Discipline is expected." Assistants handed out hoops and silks as the girls fell silent, heads bowed in focus.
Metheea took a deep breath and forced her focus on threading the needles.
She glanced sideways at the blonde, now seated beside her, hands moving steadily through her hoop.
"Don't take it to heart," The blonde girl murmured, eyes fixed on her stitches. "Those girls only came at you because we all saw you walk in together at the ball."
She nodded toward the redhead. "That's Resme. Count Resca's daughter. She's already staked her claim on the prince."
"The prince barely spoke a word to me," Metheea muttered. Well, there was that kiss. No—don't think about it.
"Doesn't matter. Resme's the jealous type."
Metheea glanced at the redhead again. Did she fancy herself becoming his mate? The thought made her lips twitch, but not in amusement.
Those of dragon blood only had one true mate in their lifetime, though they often married for politics instead.
She remembered that pull again—that strange, visceral thread between her and Azrayel.
No. That can't be.
"I'm Velista Alwyn. What's your name?"
"Kalistra Revines. Fourth daughter of Baron Revines."
"Pleasure to meet you."
"Pleasure." Kalistra hesitated, then offered, "Join me for tea later. I haven't made a single friend here yet."
"I'd like that," Metheea said, though her smile never reached her eyes.
After her classes, she found Lerima waiting in her room.
"Why didn't you come report after your meeting with the prince?" Lerima asked, her tone clipped. "You were careless."
Metheea turned sharply, irritation flaring at her tone. "Tell me my name."
Lerima's expression faltered. Something in Metheea's tone finally reminded her who she was speaking to. She bowed her head quickly with her spine, stiff. "Princess Metheea Feylisse of Dythrid and Katarthan."
"I am your princess," she said coolly. "And unless you'd like the Queen to hear how poorly you're guarding me, remember your place."
Lerima lowered her head. "Apologies."
"Do not question me. I didn't want to appear shaken," Metheea said. "The prince doesn't know who I am, and he'll only be here for three days."
"It's dangerous," Lerima said. "You know that."
"I know," Metheea snapped. "I'm not dumb enough to give him hints."
Lerima straightened. "I already informed the Queen."
Metheea sighed and sat on her chair. "Tell me more," she said sarcastically. Even far from Dythrid, the queen still controlled her every move.
"She sent you a message."
Metheea opened the letter.
My dearest daughter,
Another new wolf was caught near your chamber. Be careful there. That wolf can eat a lamb when he knows it's a lamb.
Metheea sat down slowly.
She wasn't safe.
And tomorrow, she'd see him again.