My heart thrashed a frantic beat, leaving me breathless and dizzy, my palms sweat-sticky and fingertips numb. Time marched on—seconds, minutes, hours—I had no idea how far into the evening we'd reached while I stood upon the stone pedestal trembling, my dress shivering and scattering glitter like stardust around my figure.

The Emporium was loud and chaotic. Modern music clashed against the ancient building with its stark masonry. Imagine Dragons's 'Natural,' with its sinister hymn, blended into the hum of feverish conversation and the exuberant barks of laughter. The attention of the men and women gathered on the rooftop was fixated on me, bright eyes sly and hungry, mouths working in an exaggerated manner as they spoke to one another, hoping for a cringeworthy moment to later gossip about. But I didn't see them. I didn't hear them. I stared through them as my mind arced inward, spinning with a singular thought.

I was going to die.

And soon—whispered a dark, cruel place in me.

I'd battled to find the mites in my plan to escape the Crowthers only to discover it was a wasted effort, futile with the Alverac hanging over my head like a sword. If the wild magic was as dangerous as Sirro believed, I'd be dead before the Witches Ball even took place.

Stone gritted beneath my high heels as I shifted my position to glance toward the rooftop's foyer where Master Sirro had left earlier. When would I see him again to give him an answer to his proposition? All the Horned God wanted in exchange was my body. But for how long? A night, a week, a month? Maybe forever?

Would it matter?—that dark place inside my mind murmured.

A thick knot of guilt clogged up my throat.

There was only one way to survive.

Only one way to ensure I kept breathing.

And that was by taking up Master Sirro's offer.

The Horned God would ensure Graysen met his end, but could I make that choice?

In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of mist billowing outward. Tulle floated like a drifting cloud around me as I twisted to peer at the wall of darkness behind the line of ancient columns just as Mrysst emerged from its depth, shadows washing wide as she stepped closer to a pillar. She leaned against it, her hand curled around its grooved girth, droplets of blood smearing her fingers as she poked them through the latticework of black flowers.

Dread drew sharp, pointy teeth along my skin, its bleak, wintry breath making me shiver. The Crowthers were desperate for Jurgana's attention, and here was her shy sister who hid behind a veil of age-stained lace, already curious about my presence at the Emporium. I had many desirable qualities that could be hacked from my body or pulled free like colorful threads from a tapestry. But power, real power Sirro had told me, the kind the witches would slaver over, was in the fact that I wouldn't bend the knee. And the Crowthers hadn't considered that aspect of me.

Frayed lace rippled as Mrysst cast a glance over her shoulder into the oily darkness behind her, rising up on her hooves as if looking for someone before lowering herself back down and returning her gaze slowly to me.

The delicate lace was draped from her coiled horns and amber eyes peeked out behind the worn layers. I watched her watching me while I drew my hands behind my back to hide the shaking. Mrysst had entered the Emporium on the arm of Sirro. The Horned God seemed to be playing a game with all of us, a game we weren't even aware we were playing. A game we didn't know the rules of nor the prize.

The prize was me.

It was a certainty I felt deep in my bones.

I slicked my tongue nervously across parched lips before sloping up my chin and steeling my spine. I bowed to no one. Not even one of the witches.

Purposely turning my gaze away, I stared straight ahead to ignore Mrysst in favor of inspecting the collected crowd. Valarie wasn't anywhere on the rooftop I could see. Kenton paced back and forth near a worn and cracked statue with climbing flowers entangling the limbs of the couple caught in cunnilingus. Filmy candlelight limned one side of his face and brushed over a broad shoulder encased in a striped dress shirt and elegant waistcoat. The eldest brother was acting as the auctioneer and kept a hawk-eyed gaze sweeping over the Houses, acknowledging the bids flowing in from men, and even a few women, before advising Caidan who, according to Jett, was with the man determined to win me for the night.

Kenton stopped pacing, slanting his head as he turned an inquiring eye to his brother, lifting a hand, and signaling with his fingers to indicate how much the bidding had reached. Caidan jerked his chin, silently replying in a confident hand gesture he was raising the bid, before going back to quietly confer with his companion whose rough hands nervously cradled a beer. The older man with a headful of bouncy curls seemed to be getting uneasy and his complexion pallid as time wore on. Perplexion twanged along my veins. It was a strange expression for someone so eager to buy my body for the night that he was out-bidding everyone.

Jett began to saunter back toward me, threading through the throng of guests dressed impeccably in light suits and sparkling gowns who were seated in wicker furniture or standing around tall tables. Servants waved huge fans woven from flax to cool their heated bodies. Zielenski strode beside Jett, both of them talking softly before the ruler of the Emporium nodded once and then parted company with the youngest Crowther brother.

I stiffened at Jett's smug expression. White teeth flashed in a shiny grin as he scanned my face intently, searching for weakness. He was patiently awaiting the moment when I'd break and start begging him to remain untouched.

I couldn't let him see me small and afraid, even if I did feel that way.

Behind my back, I clenched my hands into fists to force the trembling to subside.

Jett arrived to stand before the dais. Long inky hair grazed his shoulder. He tucked a lock behind his ear as he widened his stance, his thick eyebrows knitting together. "What did Sirro want with you?"

I almost clicked my tongue in curiosity and just managed to stop myself in time. How interesting that he hadn't overheard what the Horned God and I spoke about. Perhaps he'd been too far away, the crowd and music too loud to hear us. Perhaps Sirro had shielded our conversation from prying ears. Or maybe Jett was still playing games with me.

It was better that he didn't know I held his older brother's life in my hands.

Sometimes it's not the loud, angry face that scares someone so much, it's the smile, the quietness of it all. Graysen had shared that with me the day he took me on a tour of the Keep. And so I answered Jett with nothing but a cold smile that was slow to adorn my lips and full of secretive mirth.

At the smile, a muscle feathered in Jett's cheek as he clamped his jaw tight. He was pissed-off, and it cracked the smug veneer he wore like one of his bespoke suits. My smile grew wider and I loosened a fake bored sigh, skimming my fingers over my elaborate pompadour, satiny ribbons and pearl pins bumping the underside of my hand as I dismissed him by shifting my attention toward Zielenski. He stood nearby, leaning slightly sideways to speak to his assistant, dirty-blond hair dripping over his forehead. The rings on his fingers gleamed in the wavering golden light as he gestured while speaking. Then my gaze breezed behind Zielenski and landed on someone I hadn't seen arrive.

A horrifying bolt of shock slammed against my lungs pushing all the air from them in a whistling exhale. I felt all the color drain from my face.

The man I was staring at raised the flute of champagne to his wide mouth and took a sip. He wasn't looking my way but staring at someone else flitting nearby in a pleated dress of ivory. His throat worked to swallow down the bubbly alcohol, rippling the milky skin dotted with rusty freckles, and in the darkness, his ginger hair was more of an auburn shade.

Untainted terror ripped through me. All I could see were hazel eyes blazing with ugly lust. Freckled, puffy features bunched into a cruel, entitled sneer. And a phantom twinge of searing pain—Danne's hands on my body, squeezing hard enough to bruise, sharp fingernails slicing skin.

I staggered back, almost tumbling off the pedestal. I would have if not for someone lunging for me. One hand grabbed hold of my arm and the other was placed at the small of my back to steady my stance. "What the fuck is up with you?" I heard Jett ask, annoyance pinching his tone.

I could barely breathe.

I couldn't tear my gaze away.

"Danne..."

I felt rather than saw Jett's shoulders half-twist around, the fabric of his shirt swishing against my side as he angled himself into my line of sight. A moment later I felt his grip on my body tighten. "That motherfucker," he snarled viciously.

My knees shook and terror dewed tears in my eyelashes.

"Wychthorn..."

My body jerked wildly as Jett tugged at me to get my attention, to drag my gaze to his so there was nowhere else to look but into his eyes—violet not black. And for once soft with understanding. "It's not Danne. He's dead, remember? My brother killed him."

No, I did...

Except my confession remained on my tongue because I was so constrained by fright, I couldn't make my mouth work.

"It's not him," Jett urged. "Take another look, it's not him."

It's not him, it's not him...

When I stole a glance, the man had swiveled around and light dusted a face that was leaner, lips thinner, and features more aristocratic than his younger brother's had been. I squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on breathing in and out slowly, waiting for my pulse to slow, and I didn't open them until I could drag in a breath without my lungs rattling.

Not trusting that I could speak, I nodded to tell Jett that I was okay. He removed his touch from my body and shifted himself to face forward and scowl at Corné, who stood amongst his friends. All of them were carbon copies of each other—crisp tailored suits, entitled lackey boys.

I slid a sideways glance at Jett. His expression was murderous. I hated Corné because of his cruelty to my sister and I was frightened of him because of how much he looked like his younger brother Danne. Danne who had tried to hurt Jett's sister in the same way he'd hurt me. It was something all the Crowthers shared—an intense hatred for the Pelans. The Crowthers and I had something in common, and at that moment Jett and I were allies.

"Shit," Jett hissed in surprise, taking a step forward just as Corné grabbed Lila's arm as she walked by, yanking her to him roughly. The empty crystal tumblers slid across the silver tray she was carrying and almost tipped off, but in a swift, graceful move she righted the tray.

Zielenski was still in deep discussion with his assistant, but the moment Corné snatched Lila, his shoulders snapped around, his torso following, and his voice boomed across the space. A sound of fury. The words a whiplash. Before Corné even opened his mouth to speak to Lila, Zielenski stabbed a finger toward him, bellowing, "If you value your hand, Corne Pelan, I'd advise you to let go of Blue!"

The Houses fell silent. A quietness descended so only the sound of music floating overhead could be heard. An exhilarated energy radiated from the crowd, crackling like perverse electricity—the thrill of the idea that something utterly delicious and mortifying was about to occur. Corné's head jerked upward, ginger locks of hair sliding across a forehead creased with ire. His pasty nostrils flared wide and hazel eyes burned with offense. A cold shiver raced down my spine as memories flooded my mind of what that affronted emotion looked like on his younger brother.

Zielenski's dark glare returned a death promise. There was nothing in his expression that said he gave a fuck about Corné. Corné was no one to Zielenski. If my father ruled the Houses, Zielenski was overlord to this underworld and his ruling was law when it came to the Emporium.

The man with smokey-green eyes relaxed his posture, and a small smile quirked one corner of his mouth. Though he addressed Corné, he looked right at Lila, his tone challenging. "No one touches Blue unless she invites it. Isn't that right?"

Lila's eyes narrowed as a flash of defiance deepened the blue to a turbulent baltic shade. While hers were arctic, I wondered if I'd seen something warm smoldering in Zielenski's.

Corné's fingers twitched on Lila's arm with obvious reluctance that he had to let her go. Before he did, he dragged her closer to snarl so loudly into her face that everyone heard what he said. "I just want to know what my uncle saw in you. And maybe get a taste of what was denied him!"

Zielenski snapped his fingers and pointed at Corné, booming, "OUT! NOW!"

Lila spun around, twisting herself free in a fast, accomplished move, her ocean-blue tresses swinging wide. A pair of servants soared in to hide her within their ranks and a trio of guards swooped in to grab Corné, but he threw the flute of champagne at them and plunged past his friends before they could gain a hold of him.

Frenzied noise erupted across the rooftop. The Crowthers shouted orders at one another, Zielenski's guards too. A wave of guests washed outwards. Servants cried out in startlement as trays went flying and crystal smashed upon the stone floor as Corné bodily shoved past.

Caidan was livid, wanting payback for my sister, I imagined. Kenton kept Corné in his line of sight, his expression calculating and sharp like the other man was a diseased thing he had to put down fast. The two brothers fanned out like wolves flanking a doe.

Corné wasn't done with us. Outrage blotched his cheeks and reddened his nose. Hatred for me filled the room like toxic fumes. All I saw was his brother's face, all sweating and bloated with lust, as he bulldozed his way toward the dais, spitting with anger. He rushed forward, stretching a hand for me, wanting to hurt me. "Where's my brother?!" he shrieked, spittle flying from his twisted lips. "What did you do to him? I know he was murdered!"

"Go on, I dare you to put your filthy hand on her, Fuckface," said someone beside me, his voice low and menacing, a touch hopeful too.

My gaze whipped sideways to see Jett had palmed a dagger. He tossed it lazily up into the air, catching it, only to toss it back up again.

Corné froze.

Jett grinned and snatched the dagger from the air to point the sharp tip in front of Corné's nose to indicate someone else stood on the other side of the eldest Pelan. The calm threat in Zielenski's tone had Corné eyes narrowing, the left one twitching. "You touch Miss Wychthorn in any way Graysen Crowther disapproves of... He will end you with the blessing of Master Sirro."

Corné's gaze swiveled to Zielenski, to Jett, and back to me. The cold flames of anger burned in his hazel eyes, mouth curling on the cusp of a sneer.

"Go on," I taunted him. My bravado might have been false at first but with every movement of my body, I loosened up and started to own it. Bending a knee slightly I placed my weight casually on the other foot, a hand on my hip. Maybe I should goad Corné into doing something reckless. At least his death would save Evvie from a miserable marriage filled with suffering. I raised my arm and flicked my wrist around and around as if I were spinning the tail end of my adamere bracelet in an arc. A tickle of delight warmed my insides at the way his eyes bulged and he gulped like a toad. Corné recognized the gesture, obviously remembering the adamere beads snapping toward his cowardly face when I'd used my bracelet like a whip. He went deathly pale. Unease tensed his lean frame and made his suit seem too big as if he no longer filled it.

He jolted when Zielenski's guards circled in and seized hold of him. "Get your hands off of me!" His limbs flung around like a rag doll as he tried to wrench himself free. He was gone swiftly, hauled across the rooftop in the hands of Zielsenki's guards. A cackle of laughter chased him out. Jett clapped the hand holding his dagger to his chest and flung his head back, crowing in delight. A moment later, long strands of black hair shimmied as he shook his head, still grinning as he slid his dagger into some sheath I assumed was hidden inside the hip of his pants. "Hellsgate," he puffed out in relief just as I too expelled a similar breath. Both of us darted a surprised look toward the other.

It startled me that we'd been allies. That he'd been thoughtful in my moment of distress. I guess it startled him too. He blinked. Then that softness was wiped from his features as they hardened once more.

Darkness shimmered by the pillars, and black leaves rustled as a few more Horned Gods gathered near them, the swirl of shadows partially veiling their figures. Eyes of all shapes and colors peered out from the Emporium, drawn to our side by the drama that had unfolded between me and Corné. Their curiosity seared my skin as their gazes roamed my body.

My stomach sank. The Crowthers' plan was working. I was sure that Jurgana would be lured out soon enough.

It was then I realized Jett's gaze wasn't fixed on the Horned Gods. Wondering where he was looking, I stretched my neck long, the length of the Hangman's Noose dragging against the loose fabric of my strapless dress. He was staring in the direction of the rooftop's foyer, to its formal entranceway with its tall candelabras, the lewd statues, and creeping greenery. Anticipation thrummed from his tall physique, sparking in his violet eyes. It was almost as if he were hopeful for someone's arrival.

There was something humming in the back of my mind, prodding me with the tip of a finger, tap, tap, tap. All of this, us being here, wasn't just about the Witches Ball. This wasn't just about making a scene to draw Jurgana out. I was always going to end up here because the Crowthers needed something from my father.

What, though?

A cold sensation chilled the back of my neck, prickling fine hair and trickling down my spine. It wasn't a question of why they wanted my father broken. I understood the Crowthers' need for revenge against my family for our betrayal. But this went further than breaking him. Though Graysen had shared that aspect with me last week, he hadn't elaborated. He did, however, reveal that whatever they needed would place my family in jeopardy. I half-twisted around to face Jett, who'd turned his attention to Zielenski, watching with narrowed eyes, absentmindedly tapping a hand against his thigh as the other man strode toward Lila.

"What do you need my father to hand over?"

Jett swiveled around, blinking rapidly. He studied me in silence mulling over my question. A moment later his posture relaxed and he shrugged as if he'd weighed up whether telling me or not it was the right thing to do, and then decided he simply didn't care. "We need Brangwene's Hjarte."

My mouth fell open and my mind screeched to a halt.

As I gaped at Jett in shock, my mind raced forward, my pulse galloping and my thoughts tumbling to my family's treasure trove, to Brangwene's Hjarte, to what would happen if my father handed it to the Crowthers.

They'd hang. All of them. Every single Wychthorn.