She must realize she’s flushed, because she swallows, and I can’t help the way her throat bobbing redirects my attention to her reddening neck. She blinks rapidly and tucks her long raven hair behind her ear, exposing her pulse as she averts her eyes and returns her attention to her book.

The memory washes over me, bathing me in warmth as I relive pressing my chest against her back, allowing my touch to linger at her hands as I tucked the tossed quill into her fingers.

I dig my fingernails into my palms.

Fates, I knew it would be difficult seeing her after my bloodlust was triggered, but it’s never been this intense before. It probably doesn’t help that I was attracted to her before I scented her blood.

I find myself wishing she would say my name, express a sort of excitement that I’ve returned.

It pricks at my pride that she doesn’t—the way she’s ignoring me, but it’s probably for the best. Besides, I don’t know why I’m expecting a prisoner to jump up and down with enthusiasm at the return of her torturer.

Still, I don’t think my desires were playing tricks on me when I sensed her heart race at my nearness, the way her breath went shallow as I whispered into her ear.

“Blaise,” I say, because I can’t seem to help myself.

She looks up from her book again, but she’s clearly steeled herself from blushing this time, which is likely for the best, but also a very specific brand of torture for me.

“You’re back,” she says, though it’s with hesitation that she says it. I suppose that’s sensible of her after the way I behaved.

What if I’d rather keep you?

Ugh.

Those words have tortured me relentlessly the past few days, the possessiveness that overcame me. How she must have interpreted them.

How she was right to interpret them.

I rub the back of my neck, half because I’m embarrassed, half to tether myself. Like I think I can physically hold myself back if I need to. But then I find myself by her side, like I’ve simply taken a step, and the space between us has shrunk to accommodate my desire. She’s close enough that I can feel the heat emanating off of her. “Blaise, about the other day—”

“I think I’ve found something,” she says, quickly gesturing toward the book and scooting away from me in the process. Her gaze darts to the corner. “Gunter won’t admit it, but he’s impressed.”

I straighten and turn, noticing for the first time that Blaise and I are not alone in the room. I’m not sure how I missed Gunter’s presence, the sound of his breath, but I did. I suppose I was too fixated on Blaise to process anything else.

“I see you’re up and well,” Gunter says through gritted teeth, and though his tone is cheerful, his expression is not.

Shame washes over me, enveloping me, and I hurriedly cross the room, putting my back and as much distance between myself and Blaise as possible.

Blaise clears her throat much more loudly than I imagine servants are taught to do. The effect is dramatic, as I imagine she means it to be, and I have to admit that it works in dissolving the tension in the room. “This right here”—I suppose she’s gesturing to the grimoire in her lap, though I keep my gaze fixed on the notes I left on the counter three days ago—“contains some rather interesting notions regarding celestial magic. I’m assuming you’ve heard of it,” Blaise says, mimicking a rather condescending tone.

Gunter says nothing, at which point I realize she’s addressing me. I chance turning to face her and instantly regret it, because she’s got her head cocked to the side and resting on her hand as her dark hair falls in loose waves and pools on the dais.

My throat tightens. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

Her brown eyes shutter, and she looks taken aback. “I wasn’t asking in earnest, but all right,” she says, looking mildly offended. “Anyway, this magister wrote about fae ascetics who separated themselves from the Old Magic in their blood for religious reasons. Apparently it’s quite difficult to do, but they managed it by harboring celestial events, usually comets, and amplifying them with a blood sacrifice. Obviously. Because when does a blood sacrifice not come in handy?”

Blaise flicks hers palm outward, but even the word blood forming on her lips has my stomach lurching. She must glimpse a shadow of the bloodlust on my face, because she frowns then shakes her head, like she’s ridding herself of a mirage.

“Blood is the most potent of binding agents,” Gunter recites, probably for the thousandth time.

Blaise continues, “It seems the ascetics’ favorite celestial event to harbor was Lazarus’s Comet. At least, that’s the name that keeps popping up.”

“Lazarus’s Comet won’t return for another century,” I say, to which she scowls and flicks her wrist, as if to banish my negativity.

“Well, what about a full moon?”

Gunter grunts.

“If you’re asking whether it will return sooner than Lazarus’s Comet, the answer is yes.” It comes out with more bite than I mean it to, and I cross my arms to hide the fact my knuckles are paling.

Frustration heats Blaise’s cheeks, and I can’t help but wonder if the queen intentionally brought back the most physically expressive person in the entirety of Alondria just to torture me.

As if in answer, she makes a point of tossing her long hair over her shoulder, and the scent of jasmine and vanilla that wafts through the room has me digging my fingernails into my sides.

“What I meant is, Cinderella only comes out on the full moon. If the moon can provide her enough power to”—she swallows—“you know, turn me into a ruthless psychopath, then maybe we could use it to rip her slimy fingers out of my brain.”

Gunter and I exchange a look. His gaze dips down to my crossed arms, where he no doubt notices the way I’m physically holding myself back. His eyes narrow.

“I can’t imagine that the full moon would be a powerful enough celestial occurrence to sever a parasite from its host,” I say, more to Gunter than I do to Blaise. I can tell it riles her, because she hops onto her feet and stomps across the room toward us.

When she approaches, I tense, and her head jerks back in offense. “If you don’t like the way I smell, tell your precious queen to let me bathe.”

Shocked, I fumble for words, but I can’t seem to find any, not with the roar in my head that’s drowning out everything else now that she’s near.

Fates, this is going to be more of a problem than I accounted for.

Blaise scoots herself into the space between me and Gunter, brushing her hips up against my side in the process.

I should back away, give her some space, but I don’t.

At least, not until Gunter eyes me over the top of her head.

I take a step back.

Blaise shoots a glare at me, and I wonder if I’ve offended her again, but then she spreads the ancient text out onto the counter, smoothing down the weathered pages with her pale fingers.

I stifle a laugh when I notice the dog-eared corners of the parchment.

Now it’s Gunter’s turn to hold himself back from harming our prisoner.

“I figured it’s not powerful enough on its own. Even the comet wasn’t powerful enough, which is why they used the blood sacrifices,” she says, running her finger over the text to trace the words. My attention catches on the blue veins that snake across the backs of her hands, and I find my mind wandering, wondering how those veins would feel underneath my lips.

I can hardly hear her over the sound of her pulse, thrumming and excited as she explains her theory, but I force my thoughts into submission, mooring them to the sound of her voice.

“I thought that if they could use a blood sacrifice to enhance the power of the comet, maybe we could do the same thing, except with something more powerful than a blood sacrifice to make up for the lack of power from the moon.”

“Magic doesn’t work exactly like arithmetic,” I say, which she pretends not to hear as she looks to Gunter for a response.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I suppose it could work.”