“If you had known anything about me at all, it’s that, no matter how badly another wishes to ensure it, I’m simply not the cooperative sort.”

CHAPTER 1

BLAISE

I wasn’t supposed to be the villain.

But I guess that’s what I get for not being content with my Fates-given role of lovable side-character.

Maybe if I’d known my place, the Fates would have gifted me a love story of my own.

But as it is, I’m a criminal. Both my best friend and the love of my life pretty much hate me—they’re married now, by the way.

Oh, and I’m currently being held in a dungeon against my will. Again.

Judging by the smell, whoever owns said dungeon clearly doesn’t care that there’s a mildew problem.

Also, there are rats.

I hate rats.

More specifically, I hate rat feces.

The rats don’t seem to understand that though, no matter how many creative curses I scream when they scamper over my fingertips and stick their whiskers in my ears like they’re considering whether it would be worth the effort to squeeze through my ear canals to get to my tasty brains.

They never do—lazy vermin.

I have no idea how long I’ve been down here. I’ve only been lucid for two episodes of urination, both of which I tried and failed to hold.

So yeah. That’s about the only way I’ve figured out to count the passage of time down here. I suppose I could tally the drips of water that fall from the dank ceiling and splash against my nose, but it happens so often, I keep losing track.

So peeing my britches it is.

The dungeon is dark. The only light comes from a nearby lantern, but the glass bulb is so filthy, it hardly illuminates the contents of the room. I’m fairly certain the candle inside it is almost out of wax, because the flame keeps flickering erratically, casting eerie shadows upon the damp stone walls.

At least that means someone will be back to light it soon.

I hope.

Maybe they’ll let me use the latrine while they’re at it.

I’d rather not have to start counting craps.

It already stinks bad enough in here as it is, between the urine and mildew.

I try to focus on those scents though, on the way the metal restraints are digging into my wrists and ankles as they keep me planted supine against a stone slab—a dais, of some sort.

They aren’t pleasant sensations, but they’re better than allowing my mind to drift.

Better than remembering the events that led me here.

Evander’s face flashes in my memory, his sea-green eyes as bright as ever in contrast to my surroundings. Has he even realized that I’m missing?

Evander might have been the one to throw me in prison the first time I found myself in a cell—though admittedly one much tidier than this one—but that doesn’t make him any less my friend.

If only I’d been content with that, with his friendship, then I…

Well, I wouldn’t be strapped to a stone table trying to wriggle to keep my wet britches from chafing, now would I?

There’s a thought that’s been gnawing at me ever since I woke up: what if he thinks I escaped on purpose? What if he doesn’t come after me, thinking he’s letting me go free?

Really, the only thought that calms me from the impending panic attack that particular line of thinking threatens to trigger is the fact that he still considers me a danger to Ellie. His wife. The woman whom the magic that possesses my body keeps trying to kill. My best friend.

Well, Ellie’s probably not my best friend anymore.

As it turns out, hiding the fact that you’re in love with your best friend’s fiancé (and that you’re possessed by an ancient magic that’s responsible for stabbing your best friend) tends to put a strain on even the most stable of relationships.

Still. Evander thinks I’m a threat to Ellie—who am I kidding?—I am a threat to Ellie, like it or not.

He’s definitely not okay with me being on the loose. That’s the whole reason he locked me up.

Which means he’ll be looking for me.

He is looking for me.

Right now.

Surely.

I hope.

He’ll start by questioning my cell guard. The one who Clarissa, my lovely step-monster, paid off (by selling off my stepsister Chrys into marriage) to turn a blind eye while she peddled me over to a stranger.

A chill scuttles down my spine at the memory of the fae female.

Her pale lips. Icy eyes. The lone blood-red gemstone dangling from her bracelet.

My dear, I’m afraid I wasn’t speaking to you, were her last words to me before the moon rose over the horizon and locked me away.

My instinct for self-preservation has my spine seizing, which would have sent me jolting upright if not for the restraints on my wrists and ankles. Instead, the sudden lurch just sends the back of my head slamming against the stone slab.

Well, at least the stars dappling the edges of my vision brighten up the room a bit.

I don’t know who my captor is, but that’s not exactly the problem.

The problem is that she knows me. Rather, she knows about what’s inside me.

Crap, crap, crap.