While the last kiss was soft and gentle, this one was of another nature. There was a shadow of desperation and sorrow in it, but most of it felt the same way on my lips as his hands felt on my body. Rough. Possessive. Fingers biting into the nape of my neck, the other hand roaming and digging into my ass and squeezing. He pressed his hard-muscled body into mine, bending me backward as if he wished he could sink into my body completely. Mark it in ownership. It was in the way he stared at me as he kissed me, dark eyes blazing with a single word that sent electrifying pulses through my entire body, shaking every part of me awake.

Mine, he was claiming.

He nipped. Teeth scraped and tugged my soft inner lip. I moaned and he growled. The vibration danced across my tongue and speared straight to my aching core. He pulled away, both of us breathing hard. He ran a big hand through his hair and stared intensely at my mouth as if he were reluctant to give me a moment to catch my breath before he claimed my lips again.

I swayed on my feet, blinking lust-dazed with a kiss-drunk smile tugging one side of my mouth up. I darted the tip of my tongue along my swollen lips stinging a little with his aggression, still tasting of him. "I liked that one a lot."

A sudden noise came from the bedroom, the squeak of a door opening and then a thump as it shut. Light hurried footsteps. I pushed away, creating distance between us just as Valarie Crowther appeared. Her wide eyes met mine. "I can't believe you did that," she gasped. "Are you t-truly alright? You d-didn't g-get hurt?" She pressed a hand to her heart as she approached us both. She was pale and shaking. "You saved my life." She glanced to Mr. Whiskers, her delicate features pinched with anger. "Laurena c-can't get away w-with this."

Laurena was a Wychthorn Princess. It was something with which I'd already reconciled myself—she would get away with it. "Laurena's from Great House. She's untouchable. I'm just a servant," I said, heaving a weary sigh.

I knew what the outcome would be. Even though Laurena had gone after Valarie, it was me she had accidentally stabbed—not that she knew what she'd done. Hopefully, I'd successfully made her doubt that it had happened. I'd grabbed hold of the scissors as they pushed their way inside my body, spinning around with the momentum. Everything had happened too fast to know for sure. Either way, Laurena wouldn't be apprehended for it.

"She thought I w-was the one who had c-cut her hair off. She hates me, hates us. She was f-furious when Byron defended me and told her the truth, that he did it." Valarie shook her head, her anger melting to astonishment, and her ash-coated black hair swayed. Her bright eyes sliced to Mr. Whiskers as she threw up a hand. "Byron cut his s-sister's hair off. Madness."

"Who'd have guessed that Byron was such a cold motherfucker," Mr. Whiskers said to Valarie, grinning, a flash of white teeth. "I like him."

I squinted, my mind slowly catching on to what was happening before me. A cold, unsettling feeling drifted like snowflakes to the pit of my stomach.

They knew one another.

Valarie rolled her eyes as she batted Mr. Whiskers' arm.

My gaze honed in on his arm before shifting to her dirty hand now hanging by her side.

Valarie had touched him.

She hadn't touched him as if he were a hunter for House Lyon, but as if they were on the same level. A small, rational part of my mind whispered that Marissa and I were friends too—a daughter of a House and a servant.

Maybe they knew one another.

Or knew one another intimately, an insidious voice hissed inside my mind. That thought sent a sting of jealousy to curdle my blood.

I angled my head slightly, frowning, as Valarie and Mr. Whiskers spoke further about what had happened out there in the hallway, but I had tuned them out. As my eyes drifted over the pair of them, noting the details that were slowly coming into focus, my gaze bounced back and forth, faster and faster. Both of them had swords strapped to their backs, the hilts poking over their shoulders.

Black hair.

Violet eyes.

The same age.

Valarie Crowther had a twin brother.

Oswin's voice swirled in my head—He was a beast. Enormous. All wild hair and glowing fire-red eyes with talons and sharpened fangs.

My heart faltered. My knees grew weak enough that I gripped the vanity behind me hard.

Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my freaking gods...

Valarie's attention swung to me. She stepped closer, worried. "Are y-you alright? You're so p-pale."

I wasn't even sure my voice was working properly when I turned to Mr. Whiskers and asked, "What's your name?"

He sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes flared wide as his lips thinned and his entire body stiffened. His fingertips pushed through the scruffy black beard on his jaw as he parted his mouth to say something, but he kind of hummed instead, as if he were scrambling to think of a way out of this because both of us knew exactly what his freaking name was!

"Say it," I hissed, as fury ignited and had me slapping my palm against the cold marble vanity top. "Say it!"

But someone else answered for him.

A feminine voice, sultry and a little manic, cried out, "Varen!"

Irma Szarvas stumbled into the crowded bathroom. Even despite the messy hair, the ash and blood smeared over her cheeks along with mascara, somehow she still looked stunning with big hazel eyes swimming with tears of relief.

She hurriedly limped in with one strappy high heel dangling from her fingers, her bottom lip trembling.

Irma Szarvas had always been intriguing to me because my mother and I had worked for Lower House Szarvas before everything had happened and redefined my life. Yet, I couldn't remember Irma at all. I knew nothing about my time working for the Szarvases, nor living there with my mother. I'd awoken on the estate of Lower House Deniaud with no memory of my prior life. On the odd occasion, I'd spotted Irma at House Gatherings, and my gaze had greedily gobbled her up, knowing that I'd probably cleaned her room and served her, but remembered nothing of her. Sometimes, I would run into the servants of the Szarvases and they would speak to me as if they knew me, but I didn't know them. The encounters were always awkward and left me feeling guilty that I couldn't give them what they wanted—the girl they knew beforehand.

Irma threw herself at Mr. Whiskers...no, not Mr. Whiskers. Varen.

He staggered with the sudden movement, both of them swaying as she clung to him. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and drew him down while she stretched up and kissed him.

Kissed him.

My world, my whole world spun on its axis, and the cool tiles beneath my bare feet tipped beneath me like grains of sand being sucked out between my toes by a wash of water.

Varen Crowther.

Varen Crowther—the childhood sweetheart of Irma Szarvas.

Varen Crowther—who was going to marry Irma Szarvas.

Varen Crowther—the cheater.

The cheater's gaze snapped to mine and I didn't know what was on my expression apart from utter shock. What was scored across his expression was panic.

Stupid me.

Stupid me for thinking that some guy was actually interested in me. I'd kissed him. I'd jumped him and touched him in an R18 kind of way too. I'd fallen for him and imagined what our future life could be like. Like a fool, I'd thought he was a hunter, a servant like me.

Except he wasn't.

He was a member of the upper ranks.

The heir to Lower House Crowther.

And gods, even looking like he'd barely survived a warzone, with all that thick black hair tied back and sweaty strands coming loose and framing his brutally striking features, of course, someone as attractive as him wouldn't be unattached.

A horrible bitter feeling, stinging like barbed nettles, twisted around my heart and strangled it.

Worse than all of that, he'd been pretending to be a hunter for House Lyon. He'd purposely played me. no doubt laughing at my gullibility. Just as Laurena had spat venomously to Valarie, like filth splattering the floor, he'd wanted to bed me, and once taken what he callously desired, discard me and turn me into a story he would brag to his friends. Not that he'd slept with a girl from the wrong House, but in my particular case, the girl from the wrong class.

Irma sobbed into his chest. "I-I thought I was going to die." She sagged against him, her hands holding his upper arms in ownership, and quite rightly so. They were practically engaged. "Are you alright baby? I was so worried about you."

I hadn't realized that I'd lurched backward, nor did I hear the sound of shattering glass either, until Irma peered out from Varen's chest and blinked at me, expectantly.

I wanted to beg for her forgiveness.

I didn't know who he was, that he was in a relationship, had been for almost eight years. Because cheaters don't tell the other woman that they were engaged. They lied and toyed with them.

"Aren't you going to pick that up?" Irma asked, raising one eyebrow.

I blinked in confusion, only looking down because she had. Shards of crystal twinkled between my bare feet, along with fluffy cotton. I closed my eyes, and what was left of my fractured heart sank. Another smashed antique, a rose-crystal urn that held soft cotton balls, added to the growing list of financial woes.

Of course. Irma would know all the members of the upper ranks here. Here I stood— unfamiliar to her. I could only be a servant. I was a servant. It was ingrained in me to serve their kind, and I slipped into my role, my expression blank, emotionless, like I was a furniture piece. I grabbed a towel, unfolded it, and placed it on the ground, about to start picking up the broken crystal.

Valarie moved to me. Her hand gripped my arm, stopping me before I lowered myself to the ground. "You d-don't need—"

"I do actually," I said brightly to Valarie, gently tugging my arm free. The smile plastered over my mouth hurt to keep in place, but damned if I would let anyone see what was happening to my heart. It sat inside my chest in shredded ribbons.

I crouched down in my dress that represented everything about me, dirty and tattered and used, and picked up the shards of crystal with trembling fingers and placed them into the towel to carry away.

I wanted to bark out a hysterical laugh.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to slap him.

I wanted to take what was left of the half-broken urn and smash it over his smug, stupid head.

"Your name?"

At first, I wasn't sure Irma had been asking me, until someone else, with a low gruff voice, said it for me. "Tabitha."

My gaze shot upward, my eyes slid from Varen, who wore cold indifference as he glared down at Irma, to the woman he'd cheated on.

Irma wiped a fingertip beneath her big eyes, sweeping away fresh tears, and sniffed. "Tabitha, can you collect our things and send them back to us?" She turned back to Varen, gripping the collar of his shirt.

Why didn't I piece it together earlier? I'd even realized he'd worn bespoke suits, suits a Hunter wouldn't have ever been able to afford, but never put the clues together.

"We have to leave, Varen," she begged, one of her hands stroking through his scruffy beard to cup his face and turn it her way even further. He turned his head, but his eyes sliced to mine. I couldn't hold his gaze. I didn't want to see that there was something else, something similar to what crushed the air in my lungs in his guilty gaze. I went back to my task, plucking shards of crystal from the floor. "I can't stay here," I heard her tell him. "You need to take us home."

Us.

Home.

I didn't know what Varen's expression looked like, but his tone was harsh and bitter and not at all kind to his distraught fiancée. "I'm not leaving, Irma. I'm staying to help."

My fingers clenched around a piece of crystal and the raw edge cut into my soft palm. It didn't matter because I'd heal. It also didn't matter because my heart bled agony and it hurt far worse than shallow skin splitting open.

I had to get out of here.

I hastily rose. Valarie had squatted down to help collect the shattered crystal, and she glanced up with wide, wary eyes. I spoke to her as I headed to the door, but I was really speaking to everyone in the room. "I'll organize your things, Miss Szarvas. Yours too, Miss and Mr. Crowther."

A gravelly voice, raw with a hint of worry, said behind me, "Wait."

But I didn't stay to find out what Varen wanted to say. More honey-coated lies no doubt. I walked stiffly out of the room and shut the door softly behind me.

I braced a hand on the door, sucking in air, trying to tame the confusion and wild emotions coursing through my body. In the end, the only thing to do was for me to spin around and run.

I ran down hallways and flew down staircases until I hit the ground floor, heading down a long hallway with the mixed sounds of orders being shouted, the crying and bleating and keening growing louder. This was where I could take my broken heart and try to figure out what had just happened, and what came next. All-consuming fear choked my thoughts too because Varen Crowther knew a few of my secrets. He held my life in his big, stupid hands. He was one of the upper ranks and clearly untrustworthy.

I wanted my aunt. I wanted her to hold me. I wanted to soak in her love and compassion and sob into her chest and let her heal me. She was my harbor when storms rolled in, and Varen Crowther was a cruel, tempestuous hurricane.

I suddenly heard a loud pounding noise behind me.

One second I was free and running, the next something warm and strong ensnared my waist and clamped over my mouth. I screamed, the sound of my fright and distress muffled by a rough palm, and I was suddenly hauled into darkness. I struggled against unyielding strength in the form of a hard body. From the mix of chemical smells, I'd been dragged into a small lightless room—a utility closet—by someone who despite the stench of smoke clinging to him, still held a scent of anise.

Varen Crowther.