"Sleep, Nathalie—don't listen to the servants." The man’s voice skimmed the dark like silk. His hand settled at the hollow of her throat, warm, anchoring. He drew her against him; she felt the steady press of a chest, not the brittle strength she'd learned to expect from Eleazar but something measured, careful. Fingertips mapped the side of her face the way a blind person reads a map. She smiled with her mouth. Her sight never held much; she had learned people by sound, smell, the way a sleeve moved. Tonight the man smelled of oil and cedar and something iron-sweet at the hem of his cloak. Not the cologne the prince favored—citrus and cedar, sharp, arranged for public rooms and court poets. This scent belonged to someone who worked with metal or horses, to someone who carried injuries close to his skin. "Don't tell anyone," he said, soft. "Especially not—" He broke off and kissed her temple. "—not at the banquet tomorrow." The name slipped from his lips like a promise. Banquet. Dawn. The word tasted like a distant bell. She fit her hand against his jaw. "You will be there," she said. The words were small. The need behind them wasn't. She had spent three years learning to be two things at once: Foley daughter and Foley's guest in the prince's bed. Night softened the edges. Day sharpened them. He laughed—no mirth, only a sound that seemed to