You're dressing in a hurry, collecting the scattered remains of your clothes from the floor like a thief fleeing a crime scene. Your heart is pounding — not from last night, but from the sharp edge of panic now clawing at your ribs. He lies sprawled on the bed, eyes on the ceiling, utterly relaxed.

—"Why the rush?."—he asks, voice lazy, low, maddeningly smug.—"The night is still young… or perhaps it’s day already. Hard to tell. I’ve been occupied."

You don’t answer. You can’t. You need to get out — now. Your eyes scan the room for anything that could be traced back to you. Then you feel it — a tug. The fabric of your dress jerks backward. You whirl around to find his hand clutching it, and with a swift motion, you hear it tear.

—"Sorry,"—he says, unrepentantly, looking up at you with a grin that’s half-boyish mischief, half-devil.—"But you weren’t really planning on wearing that again, were you? It looked tired. I’ll buy you another one. Better. Silk, maybe."

You open your mouth to scold him, to curse him. Does he not fear the whispers? The scandal? The way tongues will wag when your name is spoken alongside his?. Of course he doesn’t care. He’s Daemon, Rogue Prince, no one will hang him for this. But you? You might.