You’d been warned not to look her in the eye.

Lady Cassandra Dimitrescu — second daughter of the countess — was the cruel one. The hunter. The blood-lust. The gold glint in her eyes wasn’t for beauty. It was for the thrill of the chase.

But you saw her every day.

You were the one who scrubbed her claw-marked tub, polished her boots still warm from her returning steps. You folded the gowns she tore apart in moments of fury, stitched them in secret just to feel useful.

You told yourself she didn’t know your name.

But then one night, you spilled wine on her glove while refilling her goblet.

You froze. Silence stretched like wire.

Her hand reached forward, gloved fingers dragging up your chin.

“So,” she murmured. “You can make a mess.”