I heard Ellah long before I saw her. The sharp, quick rhythm of her footsteps on the stairs made my ears twitch, cutting through the low hum of music and conversation that drifted from the party below. My muscles tensed in anticipation. I bolted toward the open door, aiming to slam it shut before she could reach it, but at the last second, a streak of crimson shot past me.

  Ellah darted inside with an effortless slide, her tail lashing behind her as she spun with a victorious grin. The gust of air from her entrance snuffed out one of the smaller candles near the bedside, plunging a corner of the room into deeper shadow. I leaned back against the doorframe with a breathless laugh.

  “Too slow.” She teased, flicking her tail playfully. The air around us carried the fading traces of extinguished wax and sweet fruit—lingering from the fruit platter Jacobi had personally brought up earlier, an attempt at smoothing things over after our last conversation.

  I exhaled, shaking my head. “Nearly had you.”

  Ellah scoffed, plucking a grape from the platter with a flick of her wrist. “A poor bribe, Tesh’ilia,” she muttered, rolling it between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “Did he really think this would change anything about Marcelo?” Her voice carried something heavier than playfulness this time, something deliberate.

  I shook my head again, focusing on anything that would let me ignore Marcelo for even a few moments more. “Tesh’ilia doesn’t mean anything here.”

  Ellah’s expression didn’t change, but there was a sharpness in her gaze, something unwavering. “Doesn’t it? You fought for it. Bled for it. Earned it. They may call you Joy here, but that doesn’t make it who you are.”

  I huffed a short laugh, tilting my head. “Honestly, I think Jacobi regrets picking it, I’m not exactly a joy to him.”

  Tesh’ilia. The title was a reminder of something I had once taken pride in, something that had defined me. But pride didn’t serve me here. Titles didn’t mean anything when you had no say in what people called you.

  To Ellah, to any demon who knew me before, I was Tesh’ilia before anything else.

  But not to the humans in the house below.

  To them, I was only Joy. A name meant to soften, to make me more palatable to the crowd. A name without history, without weight. A name that made it easier to sell me in different ways.

  Ellah’s grin faltered the longer I stayed silent. “You know, Marcelo is here.”

  I rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. Her skin was warmer than mine, heated from movement, from tension. I could feel the coil of unease beneath her muscles, the slight tremor where she held herself too still. “No need to worry, little sister. I can handle myself with him.”

  Ellah snorted. “Please, if we were really siblings, I’d be the older one.”

  I smirked. “And yet, here you are. Hiding in my room and stealing my food again.”

  Ellah rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. I exhaled, letting the tension bleed out just a little before gesturing toward the bed. “Stay. Relax. Eat. Try not to make a mess.”

  Ellah sighed, sinking onto the bed with a grateful hum. “You do have the best blankets in the estate,” she muttered, plucking a piece of fruit from the platter before reaching for the book she’d left on my bedside table earlier.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I adjusted the sheer fabric of my dress as I lingered by the door, the pale lavender silk shimmering with every shift. Jacobi’s choice, of course. A reminder that I was both fighter and trophy. Strength wrapped in something delicate.

  The cold from the Garrthor gems at my throat had not faded. I ran my fingers over them, impressed that they still retained their chill against my skin.

  I hesitated, looking at Ellah curled against the blankets. She looked so at ease, already lost in the book. I envied that. But I couldn’t afford that. Not tonight. I turned, stepping into the hallway and shutting the door behind me.

  The air changed the moment I left my rooms. My space ended the second the door clicked shut.

  The estate’s corridors were neither warm nor cold, but they pressed in, the walls lined with deep wood paneling that absorbed sound. The sconces flickered with soft golden light, but the shadows ran deeper here, stretching long and uneven. I could hear the house itself, it’s wooden bones shifting, the faintest creak of settling stone.

  I walked slowly at first, dragging my claw tips against the ridges of the wood panels, feeling the divide between my space and his. My rooms, however limited, were mine. This? This was the liminal space where I became a piece of the Velez collection, a creature on display.

  Voices drifted up from the ballroom, indistinct murmurs that sharpened as I moved forward. I focused past them, searching for the sounds that mattered.

  Footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Wynford.

  A low hum of fingers tapping on polished wood. Jacobi.

  A slow inhale, too smooth, too controlled. My stomach clenched. Marcelo.

  He was here. My skin prickled, the hairs at my nape standing on end. I didn’t stop walking, didn’t let my steps falter, but the presence of him seeped into my awareness, foul and inescapable. He was waiting. Marcelo didn’t bother to hide in the shadows like a predator stalking its prey, he waited, knowing I could have to come to him.

  The final stretch of hallway led to the grand staircase, the music swelling as I neared the edge of the ballroom. My fingers curled briefly, claws pressing lightly into my palms before I released the tension. A deep breath. A final step forward.

  Time to perform.

  The ballroom sprawled beneath me, filled with men, women, and demons alike, bathed in golden candlelight. My gaze flickered across the crowd, mapping their positions, moods. The musicians’ tempo slowed, a deliberate change to catch the attention of the guests.

  Whispers rippled through the ballroom as I descended, slow, measured. I knew the weight of their eyes, the expectations woven into their hushed voices. I met none of their gazes directly, my focus locked on Jacobi as I waited for his acknowledgment.

  The tapping stopped. He turned and a small smile was already forming. His hand extended in invitation, a performance within a performance. I stepped forward, closing the last bit of distance, sliding my hand into his.

  The warmth of champagne clung to his skin, the scent light beneath the heavier musk of the room. He set an empty glass on a nearby table and reached for me with his free hand, fingers grazing over the purple gem-studded collar at my throat.

  His eyes traced the curve of my neck before lifting back to meet mine.

  “I’m glad to see you dressed appropriately for the party.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “It’s amusing that you’re surprised by that.”

  Jacobi’s lip’s quirked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he released my hand only to take the other, drawing me forward, guiding me deeper into the throng of watching eyes.

  The crowd parted for us. They wanted to see me up close, to catch glimpses of the marks on my skin, the collar around my throat.

  The game was always the same.

  For a time, I played my part. We moved through the party, pausing where necessary, allowing introductions, indulging in small talk that blurred together. I ate, drank, smiled at familiar faces. But my attention drifted toward the edges of the room, toward the darkened corridors leading away from the revelry.

  Across the room, I spotted Selwyn near a drinks table, already edging toward the shadows. He caught my gaze for the briefest moment, and I almost smiled. Always slipping away.

  I turned back to Jacobi, forcing a more deliberate expression. “Can I go and look around?” I kept my voice light, playful. “I’ll talk to people. Mingle. Like a good girl.”

  Jacobi tilted his head, considering. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Behave yourself.”

  I smirked, slipping into the crowd. Let them watch. For now, I was untethered.