Metheea hadn't slept.
Not a single hour.
She sat on the edge of her bed, back straight, eyes locked on the floor. The dress from the ball was still on her. Her fingers kept curling, flexing, then curling again. Her chest ached.
The sleeping partner list.
And her name was on it.
She had seen Azrayel at the ball, standing across the hall, perfectly composed. She wanted to confront him then. She nearly did but she stopped herself.
She will not do it in front of everyone. Not with the court already watching her every move.
So she waited until morning.
She crossed the palace courtyard and entered the prince's private wing. Her boots hit the marble with sharp, deliberate steps. The guards stationed at his entrance opened the gate without a word, without hesitation as if they'd been told to expect her.
A maid appeared as soon as she stepped into the entry hall. "His Highness is expecting you," the woman said. "This way."
Metheea followed her down a short hallway and into the room where the prince received visitors. She didn't wait for the maid to announce her. As soon as the door was opened, she stepped inside.
Azrayel was by the window, but the room told her more than he did. A table had been set for two with fresh bread, warm tea, fruits, and silverware placed with care.
"You came," he said, voice low but warm. "I was hoping you would. Sit. Eat. We don't have to start with arguments."
Metheea didn't move. She stayed by the door, arms tense at her sides, staring at him with sharp anger in her eyes.
Azrayel acted like nothing was wrong. He stepped away from the window and walked toward her with calm and steady steps.
"What did you do?" she asked. Her tone was flat. Controlled.
"Is this about the ball?" he asked, pretending he didn't know.
She stepped forward. "Why am I on the list?"
"What list?" he asked, like he truly didn't understand but fooling no one.
Metheea's face hardened. "Sleeping partner? How dare you put my name there without asking me."
"I gave you a choice," Azrayel said calmly.
Her eyes narrowed. She remembered the conversation by the lake about her extending her stay.
"And I declined," she snapped.
"I can make you stay," he said, voice calm but firmer now. "If I want to, I can keep you here."
She spun to face him fully. "Do that, and you'll never see me again."
His jaw tightened, something sharp flashing in his eyes. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then, his expression darkened.
He took her hand in his and kissed it gently. "You are mine," he said, like it was fact.
Metheea stared at him, stunned. Her throat tightened. She wanted to rip her hand away, to shout at him, I am your sister!
But instead, tears threatened to rise. Why couldn't he feel it? Why couldn't he see the truth she never stopped knowing? That they shared the same blood?
She turned around. "There is no use in talking to you," she said, already walking toward the door.
She packed everything quickly. She folded her gowns, placed her shoes in a corner of the bag, and added only a few books. Every movement was fast, deliberate, and final. She had made up her mind. She was going back to the academy.
Kalistra stood by the door. "You sure about this?"
"I never meant to come," Metheea said. It was easier to say that than admit the truth. She couldn't bring herself to tell Kalistra what really happened that the prince wanted to bed her.
Saying it aloud felt disgusting and shameful.
Kalistra stepped forward. "Do you want me to come with you?"
Before Metheea could answer, the door opened.
Azrayel stood there, eyes landing on the bag she had just finished packing.
Metheea froze.
Kalistra didn't wait. "I'll give you two a moment," she muttered quickly and slipped out past him, leaving the door slightly open behind her.
Metheea turned back to her bag and continued packing. She didn't acknowledge him.
Azrayel walked in and sat down on the edge of the couch across the room, watching her in silence.
"You need to leave," she said, not looking at him. "It's inappropriate for you to be here."
"I've already crossed that line," he replied. "You know I have."
She tightened the strap on her bag. "Then you should know why this is wrong."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you really think you can escape this? Us?"
She stopped moving. Her fingers froze over the buckle.
"There is no us,'" she said without turning around.
Azrayel stood and stepped closer. "That's a lie," he said, voice lower. "You feel it too."
He stood behind her, close enough to brush against her. He reached out and let his fingers trail lightly along her bare arm.
Her skin prickled. Every hair stood on end.
She jerked away. "Don't touch me."
He chuckled under his breath, the sound darker than before. "Why? My touch burns you?"
She glared at him, eyes sharp with anger and disbelief. Without another word, she tightened the last buckle on her bag and stood upright.
Later, as the carriage pulled away from the palace, she sat stiffly inside, hands in her lap. She refused to look back.
But Azrayel stood at the steps, watching her leave with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.
She clenched her jaw. He thought he'd won something but he hadn't.
After days of travel, Metheea finally reached her old room at the academy, dragging her bag inside with stiff arms and aching legs. She closed the door behind her with a tired sigh then stopped.
Lerima was waiting inside, lounging in the chair by the window. She looked up as Metheea entered and asked with mock sweetness, "Have a good time at the Skarthan palace?" The sarcasm in her tone was sharp.
Metheea didn't answer. She glanced at her, then walked past and sat down, too drained to play Lerima's games.
A familiar smirk curved her lips as she held out an envelope.
Metheea stared at her. Something about the way she smiled made her skin crawl.
There was no seal.
Something in her stomach twisted. She already knew it wasn't good.
She opened it. Read it.
The lamb is requested to return to the fold.
No greeting. No signature from her mother.
Lerima crossed one leg over the other, smirk never fading. "I've told her about your little trip," she said lightly.
Metheea's head snapped up, glare sharp.
She had expected her mother to find out eventually but not like this.
Being ordered back to Dythrid felt like a death sentence but she had no choice.