Chapter 1
Warmth and the scent of vanilla envelop me. The air is thick, cloying, like I’ve been wrapped in something too soft, too still. I sink into what feels like a cloud, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. My body protests as I shift, a sharp pain blooming behind my temples. I wince.
How much did I drink last night?
Wait.
I didn’t drink last night.
My eyes snap open, and the world tilts. A groan escapes me as I clutch my head, my fingers pressing against my skull like I can force the dizziness away. My surroundings swim into focus—opulence, excess, a world dripping in red velvet and gold.
A four-poster bed looms around me, carved from black wood, gilded accents gleaming in the dim light. The air is rich, heavy with something almost unnatural—too pristine, too controlled. I feel like I’ve woken up inside a painting, a relic of the eighteenth century where I’m some unwilling guest in a royal court.
Where the actual fuck am I?
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my mind to center, to ground me. Find Greyson. My mental library, the one I’ve spent weeks building, should have his door waiting for me. But it isn’t there.
Panic stabs through me.
I try again, harder this time. The silence where Greyson’s presence should be is suffocating. My chest tightens, my palms dampen with sweat. I press a shaking hand to my locket, seeking its familiar hum, the pulse of magic that has always been there.
Nothing.
Then it hits me.
Brian.
That lying, treacherous, manipulative bastard. He took me. Kidnapped me. Even after looking me in the eyes and promising he would let me close the Veil once he was free.
A fresh wave of rage surges through me, hot and searing.
I push back the heavy, expensive covers, and the moment I look down, my blood turns to ice.
A nightgown.
Not mine.
Who the fuck changed my clothes?
A sick feeling creeps up my spine. My fingers skim the fabric, smooth and silken, not mine, not mine, not mine. I force myself to move, the floor creaking beneath me as I step toward the mirror across the room.
My reflection stares back. Cleaned. Unbound. Neatly arranged. My hair cascades over my shoulders, my face free of dirt or blood, my body tended to.
I feel… refreshed.
I also feel violated.
I swallow the nausea rising in my throat.
A robe. Slippers. The only weapons I have are my wits, my fists, and whatever remnants of magic might still be locked inside me. I throw the robe over my shoulders and stalk toward the only door in the room. My fingers tighten around the handle.
Unlocked.
That’s… unexpected.
I hesitate, then slowly push the door open, wincing at the soft creak that splits the silence. My heart hammers as I peer into the hallway, checking left, then right.
Empty.
Interesting.
I slip out, letting the door close behind me with barely a whisper. My bare feet sink into a long, plush rug as I move forward, the flickering glow of flame-lit sconces casting my shadow against the walls. The scent of vanilla is even stronger here, thick enough to make my stomach turn.
The hall is eerily silent, save for the soft crackling of flames licking at the sconces. There are no guards, no footsteps, and no sign that I’m even being watched. But something inside me shifts, a quiet whisper in my bones urging me left.
So I follow it.
The paintings lining the corridor feel too lifelike, as if unseen eyes are watching my every step. My fingers twitch at my sides, instinct screaming that I should run, hide, fight. But I keep walking, pressing forward through the suffocating quiet.
Then I hear them.
Voices.
Muffled at first, but growing clearer with every step. My pulse spikes as I inch closer, pressing myself against the wall, listening.
“Do you really think the princess will agree to marry you, Brionan?” A woman’s voice—sharp, reprimanding.
“Mother, she will have to marry someone. Why not me? I am a prince after all.”
My breath catches.
The voice is so familiar it sends ice through my veins.
No.
My legs threaten to give out. I grip the wall, fingers digging into the velvet-lined surface as my vision blurs and narrows.
Brian is Brionan.
Brionan.
Not a rogue. Not an outcast. Not a desperate exile seeking a way home.
A prince.
A fucking prince.
The walls close in, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. If he’s here, if he’s royalty, if he already has a goddess-damned princess lined up for marriage, then…
Why am I here?
A chill slithers down my spine.
Whatever I thought I knew about Brian—Brionan—it’s so much worse than I imagined.
“And you think she will want to marry you after you kidnapped her?” The woman’s voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
Kidnapped? Did he do this before? Did he steal the princess too?
Or—
My breath stutters. My stomach twists with something cold and suffocating.
Why does this man think it’s okay to kidnap women?
“Alice will learn what’s good for her in time.”
I’m sorry… what?
The roaring in my ears drowns out everything else.
Alice.
They’re talking about me. I’m the princess.
A hollow feeling blooms in my chest, expanding like a black hole sucking all the air from the room. My limbs shake, my fingers digging into my arms as I stumble backward, pressing against the wall for support.
No. No. This has to be a mistake.
I slide down, my body folding in on itself as my knees press against my chest. Breathe.
In—smell the roses. Out—blow out the candles.
But I can’t. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t process the weight of what I just heard.
I am the princess.
Brionan—Brian—thinks I’m supposed to marry him.
He planned this.
The revelation hits me so hard that I almost gag.
This was never just about the Veil. Never just about freedom. He’s been playing me, positioning me like a piece on a board. Every lie, every carefully chosen word—it was all leading to this.
My pulse pounds so violently that it drowns out the sound of footsteps approaching. I don’t even realize someone is near until a hand brushes against my arm.
I jerk, a sharp inhale tearing through my throat as I snap my head up—
—and meet Brionan’s eyes. Amber. Unreadable.
His grip tightens just enough to keep me grounded, his face a mask of calm certainty.
Like he expected this.
Like he’s waiting for me to accept my fate.
His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn’t even know was there.
I flinch.
“Morning, princess.”
His voice is too smooth, too assured, like he’s savoring the title on his tongue. His warm eyes bore into mine, searching, measuring—like he’s looking for the moment I’d break.
Not happening.
I rip my arm from his grip, jerking away until my head hits the wall behind me. A dull pain flares at the impact, but I barely register it. My body coils like a spring, every muscle locked with defiance.
“I’m no princess,” I grit out, my voice hard, unwavering. “You have the wrong girl.”
His smirk deepens and his eyes grow cold, amusement flickering there. “That’s where you’re wrong, darling.”
The way he says it—so confident, so infuriatingly certain—makes me want to slap the smirk clean off his face.
Instead, he stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves before extending a hand toward me. Like a gentleman. Like I’m supposed to accept.
“Come,” he says, voice dripping with mock civility. “You must be hungry.”
I stare at his hand like it might poison me. Like touching him will somehow seal my fate.
I push myself up without his help, yanking my robe tighter around me, as if that alone can guard me from whatever the hell I’ve been thrown into.
His smirk twitches—just a little. He expected my reaction.
“Should’ve figured as much,” he mutters under his breath, almost amused. “Follow me.”
And just like that, he turns his back on me.
Not waiting. Not checking if I’ll actually follow. He already knows I will.
And I almost—almost—stay rooted to the spot just to prove him wrong. But then, like a traitor, my stomach twists and lets out a low, humiliating growl.
Fucking perfect.
I let out a slow, irritated sigh and trail behind him, my bare feet silent against the long, velvet rug.
I hate that I have to follow. I hate that I have no plan—yet.
I hate him.
As I walk, I force my brain to focus, cataloging every detail—the layout of the halls, the positions of doors, how many sconces flicker against the walls. An escape route. There has to be one.
I swallow down the bitterness climbing my throat. “I thought your name was Brian,” I say hollowly, needing to hear him admit it—to own his deception.
“Brionan is my fae name,” he says smoothly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Brian was my human name. You can call me whichever—I’ll answer.”
The casual way he shrugs off the lie, like it was never meant to be deception, infuriates me.
I roll my eyes, arms crossing tightly over my chest. The tiger in me is awake and nothing will tame her.
“Darling, you were always meant to be in Maeloria.” His voice is low, smooth—dangerous in its certainty.
I don’t react. I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I watch him as he moves, really watch him.
Brionan doesn’t just walk—he glides, a predator prowling toward its next meal. His all-black suit is perfectly tailored, stitched with dark red embroidery that flickers in the candlelight like veins of molten lava. His hair is slicked back, but not neatly—more like he’s been running his fingers through it, over and over, as if something’s been gnawing at him.
He reaches the lavish buffet table without hesitation, the spread so excessive it looks like something out of a fantasy painting. Trays of gleaming fruit, meats glistening with rich sauces, pastries dusted in fine sugar. It smells intoxicating, overwhelming—a sharp contrast to the storm raging inside me.
Then, he catches me staring. And smirks.
“I knew you were hungry,” he muses, his voice laced with mock amusement. “But I didn’t know it was for me.” He presses a hand to his chest, expression smug. Smug and knowing.
My cheeks burn.
Not because I was actually admiring him—gods, no. But because he’s mocking me, twisting the moment into something he can control.
I exhale sharply, rolling my eyes so hard I half expect them to get stuck. “You wish.”
Brionan only chuckles, the sound warm, rich—but completely devoid of true warmth.
I snatch a plate, forcing myself to focus on the food, on anything other than the irritation bubbling under my skin.
He thinks he’s already won.
Let him think that.
For now.
