“I’d rather not discuss this with you, and I think they’re calling everyone for dinner—” you start, trying to get away from me. Your gown flows around you while I toss a golden apple in my hands. “Oh no, Little Fox. We have unfinished business.” I drop my apple and take your neck, cupping your pulse with my cold palm. “Jacks—” You gasp. “What are you doing?” And, you think, what did I just call you? My other hand slides into your hair, mussing the waves. The touch is as inappropriate and intimate as the too-familiar nickname I’ve just given you. A hundred tongues are all suddenly talking about the scandalous way I am holding you right under the prince’s balcony. “Jacks, I told you I’d kiss three other people, not you,” you say. “Then why aren’t you pulling away?” I taunt. “I can’t fight you—you’re a Fate.” “Liar. I’m not hurting you or kissing you.” I move the hand at your neck to toy with your racing pulse, softly dragging my fingers up and down over the frantic beat-beat-beat, making your heart pound even faster. “I think this excites you.” “You’re delusional!” You finally pull away. Your heart is racing, but it’s not from excitement, you’re sure. Although, maybe, there was just a tiny hint of it, but you can’t fathom why. I laugh under my breath. “Relax, Little Fox. I’m not trying to ruin you.” I steal your wrist and tug you closer in a mockery of a dance. You step back, and I stalk forward until your thighs meet the hard table. “What are you doing, Jacks?” “I’m trying to make you more interesting.” I lean in closer. I don’t touch you anywhere other than your wrist, but someone watching from afar might think we’re on the verge of kissing from the intentional way I angle my body and cant my head. Only you can see that my eyes are dead. “You think too highly of yourself,” you hiss. “If you’re lucky,” I murmur, “Apollo is watching, and he’s already jealous.” “I don’t want to make him jealous.” “You should. It will make your job so much easier, since Apollo is the first person I want you to kiss.” In one of my preternaturally quick moves, I drop your wrist, pull a jeweled dagger from my boot, and prick the tip of my ring finger. Dark red blood glitters with impossible flecks of gold, and your eyes widen. You try to lean away, but I move faster. I bring my hand up to your mouth and mark the seam of your lips with my blood. Metallic and sweet. Incredibly sweet. You want to hate the taste, but it’s more like a feeling than a flavour: the last perfect moment before a dream ends, drops of sunshine falling like rain, lost wishes that had been found. I can tell you want to lick the blood off your lips. “No.” I lift my hand quickly, closing your lips with my fingers. “Don’t lick it, you need to let the blood sink into your lips or the magic won’t work.”