He didn't knock.
He didn't send a note.
He didn't appear on any schedule.
At 11:47 p.m. on the fifth night, my window opened from the outside.
I was half-asleep, curled under a mountain of blankets, when a gloved hand slid the latch and a shadow slipped into my room like smoke.
Damon.
All black. Hood up, silver eyes glowing in the dark like a cat's. No crown, no royal anything. Just darkness made into a person.
I sat up, heart kicking. "You know there are doors, right?"
He put one finger to his lips.
Then crooked it: come.
I should've told him to get lost.
Instead I was pulling on a robe and slippers before my brain caught up.
He led me through corridors I didn't know existed: servants' passages, fake walls, a staircase that spiraled down instead of up. We didn't meet a single soul. Either he'd planned it perfectly or the palace itself was scared of him.
Cold air hit my face. We were underground.
