Three days. That's all the recovery time I get before the next performance.
The Academy Ball is a Blackmoor tradition—every species, every faculty member, every student who matters crammed into the grand ballroom for a night of formal posturing and barely concealed politics. Vampires and werewolves share the dance floor with fae and witches and shifters of every variety, all pretending they don't despise each other for one glittering evening.
I'm still processing what happened at the victory party. Still feeling the ghost of Rhys's fingers on my skin, still seeing his shaking hands after that conversation with the elder. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that room with my legs wrapped around him and his mouth on my throat.
And now I have to stand next to him in front of the entire academy and pretend I'm not falling apart.
The gown arrives the morning of the ball. Midnight blue this time, not his colors—a concession to formality, probably. The fabric clings to every curve before pooling at my feet, and the back dips low enough that I can't wear anything underneath without it showing.
I meet Rhys in the entrance hall. He's in a black suit that probably costs more than my father's car, silver cufflinks catching the chandelier light. When he turns and sees me, he goes completely still.
His eyes travel down my body. Slowly. Deliberately. His jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"You look..." He stops. Swallows. "We should go."
That's it. No compliment, no smooth line—just a muscle jumping in his cheek and a sudden inability to form sentences. It tells me more than any poetry could.
The ballroom is a sea of silk and candlelight, orchestral music floating over conversations in a dozen languages. Headmaster Aldrich gives a speech about unity and tradition that no one listens to. My father stands with the other coaches, looking uncomfortable in his formal wear. Grayson holds court near the werewolf section, golden and perfect, pointedly not looking in my direction.
Rhys guides me through the crowd with his hand on my lower back, introducing me to people whose names I immediately forget. For the first hour, everything feels almost normal—as normal as fake-dating a vampire prince can feel.
Then the pureblooded girls arrive.
They descend on Rhys like sharks scenting blood, beautiful and cold and dripping with breeding. One touches his arm. Another adjusts his lapel. A third—dark-haired, red-lipped, curves poured into crimson silk—slides her hand up his chest and leaves it there.
"Rhys." Her voice is honey and poison. "It's been too long."
"Celeste." His tone is carefully neutral. "I didn't know you were back from Vienna."
"Surprised?" She leans closer, her lips brushing his ear as she whispers something I can't hear. His expression doesn't change, but he doesn't push her away either.
I stand three feet away, watching my fake boyfriend get pawed by a vampire goddess, and realize this is a test. He's watching me from the corner of his eye, gauging my reaction, waiting to see if I'll crack.
I won't give him the satisfaction.
"I need a drink," I announce to no one in particular, and walk away without looking back.
The bar is on the far side of the ballroom, and I take my time getting there, stopping to examine ice sculptures and pretend I'm fascinated by the flower arrangements. A waiter hands me champagne. I drain half of it in one swallow.
"You look like you could use a rescue."
I turn. A wolf stands beside me—tall, sandy-haired, vaguely familiar from the training facility. He's not one of Grayson's inner circle. Not one of the ones who shuns me in hallways.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
"You're standing alone at a bar while your boyfriend gets felt up by Celeste Ashford." He shrugs, taking a sip of his own drink. "Doesn't look fine to me."
"You know her?"
"Everyone knows her. Old vampire money, older vampire appetites." His mouth curves. "She and Rhys have history. The kind that doesn't stay in the past."
My fingers tighten on my glass. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because Grayson's an asshole, and I don't agree with the shunning." He extends his hand. "Theo. I play defensive line."
"Sloane." I shake his hand. "But you knew that."
"Hard not to. You're the most talked-about girl at Blackmoor right now." He sets down his glass and offers me his palm. "Dance with me. Give the gossips something new to chew on."
I glance across the ballroom. Rhys is still surrounded by his vampire admirers, Celeste's hand still resting possessively on his chest. He's looking at me now, gray eyes tracking my conversation with Theo.
Good.
"I'd love to dance."
Theo leads me onto the floor as the orchestra shifts into a waltz. He's a decent partner—keeps his hands appropriate, maintains conversation, doesn't step on my feet. I let myself relax into the movement, pretending I don't feel Rhys's stare burning into my back.
"He's watching us," Theo murmurs. "Looks ready to commit murder."
"Let him watch."
"Dangerous game you're playing."
"I'm not playing anything." The lie tastes bitter. "We're just dancing."
The song is halfway through when a cold hand lands on Theo's shoulder.
"Mind if I cut in?"
Rhys's voice is pleasant. His eyes are not. Theo takes one look at his expression and releases me immediately.
"She's all yours, Vance."
Then Rhys's arms are around me, pulling me close—too close, closer than the waltz requires. His hand splays across my bare lower back, and his thigh presses between mine as we move.
"What are you doing?" I manage.
"Dancing with my girlfriend." His lips brush my ear. "Is that a problem?"
"You seemed busy with Celeste."
"Did I?" His hand slides lower, fingertips tracing the base of my spine. "Is that why you let the wolf put his hands on you?"
"His hands were perfectly appropriate. Unlike yours right now."
We're barely moving anymore, just swaying in place while his body presses against mine in ways that aren't appropriate for public. I can feel every hard line of him through the thin fabric of my gown.
"Jealous?" The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Furious." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and there's nothing fake in his expression. Nothing performed. "Watching him touch you made me want to tear his arms off."
"That's not—we're not—"
"I know what we are." His forehead drops to mine. "I know what we agreed. But when I saw you with him, I forgot all of it."
My breath catches. "Rhys—"
"Don't dance with anyone else tonight." It's not a request. "I can't watch it again."
The song ends. We stand frozen in the middle of the dance floor, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. Around us, couples shift and rearrange for the next waltz.
"I need to use the restroom," I whisper.
He releases me slowly, reluctantly, his fingers trailing across my back as I step away. "Hurry back."
The bathroom is mercifully empty—marble counters, gilt mirrors, the kind of excessive luxury that screams old money. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
This is fake. This is an arrangement. This is—
The door opens behind me.
Celeste's reflection appears in the mirror, crimson silk and predatory smile. She locks the door with a quiet click.
"We need to talk." She moves closer, heels clicking on marble. "Girl to girl."
"I don't think we have anything to talk about."
"Oh, but we do." She stops beside me, examining her lipstick in the mirror. "You think you're special. You think he chose you because you matter." Her eyes meet mine in the reflection. "He's using you to hurt your brother. Everyone knows it."
My stomach drops, but I keep my face blank. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She laughs, soft and cruel. "Rhys and Grayson have been at each other's throats for years. What better way to destroy your enemy than to seduce his sister? Make her fall for you, parade her around on your arm, then discard her when she's served her purpose."
"That's not—"
"You're the only one stupid enough to think it's real." She turns to face me, and there's something almost like pity in her eyes. "He doesn't want you, little halfblood. He wants revenge. And you're just the weapon he's using to get it."
She unlocks the door and walks out, leaving me alone with my reflection and the sinking certainty that she might be right.