Kaia woke with the distinct sensation that a small, angry dwarf was mining for coal inside her skull.
She groaned, rolling over and burying her face in the silk pillow. The scent of lavender sachet hit her nose—prim, proper, and nauseating. It was a sharp contrast to the phantom scent clinging to her memory: tobacco, sandalwood, and musk.
Oh, gods.
Memory rushed back like a slap. The gardens. The stone plinth. The man with the golden hair and the mouth of a beautiful, starving wolf.
She sat up too quickly. The room spun. She clutched her head, trying to piece together the fragments of her dignity. She had let a stranger—a masked stranger—touch her in ways that would have sent her mother into an early grave. She had let him worship her.
And she had liked it.
"Idiot," she hissed, swinging her legs out of bed. "Reckless, stupid, whiskey-soaked idiot."
She stumbled toward the pile of clothes she had discarded on the floor in the dark hours of the morning. The pale blue muslin dress was wrinkled, stained with grass at the hem. It looked like a crime scene.
She grabbed the corset. The laces were a tangled mess. She grabbed the stockings. One was torn.
And then she reached for the gloves.
There was the left one. Pristine white silk.
She looked for the right one. She checked under the dress. She checked under the bed. She checked the pockets of her petticoats.
Nothing.
Kaia sank onto the floor, clutching the single left glove to her chest.
"I left it," she whispered, horror dawning cold and sharp in her chest. "I left my glove with a man whose name I don't even know."
The door handle rattled.
Kaia scrambled up, shoving the ruined dress and the single glove under the bed just as the door swung open.
Lady Victoria stood there, looking like she had been awake for hours. She was already dressed in a crisp morning gown of dove-grey silk, every silver hair pinned into place. She looked at Kaia—disheveled, pale, and clearly hungover—with a mixture of pity and disdain.
"Mother is asking why you aren't at breakfast," Victoria said, stepping into the room. "I told her you had a migraine. The punch at the masquerade was notoriously sugary."
"Yes," Kaia croaked. "The sugar. That was definitely it."
Victoria walked over to the window and threw the curtains open. Sunlight assaulted the room. Kaia flinched.
"You look terrible," Victoria noted helpfully. "Did you at least behave yourself after I lost track of you? I didn't see you for the last three waltzes."
"I was... getting air," Kaia lied. "In the library. Reading. Very boring."
Victoria sighed, adjusting the high lace choker at her neck. "Well, try to look alive. We have fittings for the season later. You can't meet your future husband looking like a corpse."
Husband. The word made Kaia's stomach turn. Prince Beckett. The kind, gentle Prince she was supposed to marry.
A flash of silver eyes and a demanding hand played in her mind. Spread your legs.
Kaia swallowed hard. "Right. Alive. I can do that."
If Kaia felt like death, Prince Aeron Valdamar felt like he had been reborn.
He stood by the window of his royal chambers, staring out at the sprawling gardens where the frost still clung to the hedges. He wasn't wearing his usual stiff cravat or his heavy velvet coat. He was in his shirtsleeves, the collar open, revealing the strong column of his throat.
In his hand, he held a small, white silk glove.
It was delicate. So small it barely covered his palm. He ran his thumb over the fabric, remembering the way her skin had felt beneath it. Soft. Hot.
"My Lord?"
Caspian's voice broke the reverie. The valet stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with tea and a very large bottle of mint water. He took one look at the Prince—who was usually staring at state papers with dead eyes by this hour—and stopped.
Aeron turned. He wasn't scowling. He wasn't sighing. He looked... focused. Predatory.
"Caspian," Aeron said, his voice smooth. "Cancel my morning meeting with the Treasurer."
Caspian blinked, his hazel eyes darting around the room as if expecting an assassin. "Sir? The Treasurer is very... persistent. He wants to discuss the wool tax."
"Let him count sheep. I have a hunt to organize."
Caspian's eyes dropped to the object in Aeron's hand. He squinted. "Is that... a lady's glove?"
"It is."
"And may I ask... why you are holding it like it is the Crown Jewels?"
Aeron smirked. It wasn't his public smile—the polite, distant curve of lips that charmed duchesses. It was the smile of the man who had knelt in the dirt last night.
"Because, Caspian, this glove belongs to the only interesting thing that has happened in this palace in a decade." He walked over to the desk and placed the glove down gently. "I don't know her name. I don't know her face. She was masked."
Caspian paled, the tray rattling slightly in his hands. "My Lord... please tell me you didn't."
"I did."
"With a stranger?" Caspian's voice rose an octave. "In the gardens? During the Victory Masquerade?"
"She had silver hair," Aeron mused, ignoring his valet's mounting panic. "Like moonlight. And eyes like ice that melted when I touched her."
"That narrows it down to half the aristocracy of the North," Caspian said, putting the tray down with a clatter. "My Lord, if the Empress finds out you were... fraternizing... with an unknown noblewoman in the shrubbery..."
"She won't find out," Aeron said sharply. "Because you are going to help me find her."
"I am?" Caspian squeaked.
"She has a mark," Aeron said, his gaze drifting back to the window, his expression softening into something darker, hungrier. "A small, heart-shaped birthmark. On her hip."
Caspian choked on air. "Her hip? Sir! How am I supposed to look for that? Shall I ask every debutante to lift her skirts at tea time?"
Aeron turned back, his expression icy and serious. "No. But you will find out who was wearing a pale blue dress. Who disappeared during the waltzes. Who fits the description."
He picked up the glove again, tucking it into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
"Find her, Caspian. Before I tear this kingdom apart looking for her myself."
Caspian groaned, pulling a small, battered notebook from his pocket. He flipped past pages of scribbled lies ("Prince holds late-night prayer vigil," "Prince allergic to confetti") and started a new page.
Find the girl with the silver hair and the compromised virtue.
"I hate my job," Caspian whispered.
"No you don't," Aeron replied, pouring himself a glass of water. "Now, where is that mint? I smell like sin."