“I will play your games. I will let you parade me on your arm tonight and show the world that Octavia Morrow didn’t die. But I won’t let you treat me like some insipid little toy you think you can kick around if it misbehaves. Make whatever threats against Garrett you can, but I promise you this… If you hurt him, I will kill you. I will cut your heart out of your chest while you lie helplessly like this on the ground, and I will burn it.”

Grabbing a handful of her skirts, Perry spun on her heel, her bare feet sinking into the plush Turkish red carpets.

“Octav-ia.”

The word was strangled but clearer than it ought to be, considering the paralysis.

She turned.

The duke struggled to roll onto his side, fury painted across his face. His CV levels must have been staggeringly high for him to be moving already, a fact she wouldn’t forget.

“My name is Perry.” She’d never been Octavia; she’d never truly understood her.

“If you ever…do this to me again… I shall give you to Hague.”

Perry stared at him, seeing the bodies again. Those poor young girls in the cellar of the duke’s mansion, bound by iron collars to the walls. Missing…things. But still alive.

“It’s amazing what the body can survive, Miss Octavia…” Hague’s voice whispered in her memory as he injected something into her arm. “This won’t hurt at all.”

A little shiver worked its way down her spine, the blackness draining out of her vision as she stared down at the Moncrieff. All of her newfound confidence evaporated at the thought of the monster, her breath coming sharply.

“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew all along what kind of monster he was.”

The duke struggled to his hands and knees, listing dangerously. “The price is worth the gain.”

Again that cellar flashed through her mind. Helpless. Unable to move, while Hague jerked the bright light closer to her face and then started cutting. Forcing the craving virus he’d injected her with to heal her, until her skin was unblemished and the table was covered in blood.

It helped the virus to “bloom,” he’d told her. In normal circumstances, it could take weeks or even months for the full infection to set in. However, if her body was healing the damage, then it couldn’t fight off the virus.

And once she was infected…the virus would heal any wound Hague inflicted on her. He could experiment with creating functioning mechanical organs to his heart’s delight.

Perry jerked out of the memory. Some things were never meant to be relived. “You bastard.” There was a familiar hollow feeling in her chest. She fought to breathe through it, feeling the hot rush of one of her bouts of hysteria latch onto her lungs.

Moncrieff bared his teeth, straining to push himself upright. “You wouldn’t understand. Knowledge is power. And Hague can do things no one else can.”

“But the price—”

“Sacrifice for the greater good,” he taunted her. “Those improved iron lungs they’re outfitting coal miners with—who do you think came up with the design? He’s a genius.”

“He’s a monster.”

The blackness was bleeding back into her. She let it, fighting to breathe. Darkness stirring within. Perry took a step toward him. She was shaking so violently she could hardly walk, but if she killed him, right here, right now, then no other girl would have to suffer for his cause. She’d be able to breathe again. She could find Hague. She could…she could…kill him…somehow…

“You deserve to die,” she said, sliding the knife from the inner lining of her corset.

The Moncrieff barked a laugh. “Probably.” He met her eyes. “Hague knows how to reverse the effects of the craving.”

Everything in her went still. Everything. The world froze to almost crystalline precision. “That’s impossible.”

“I assure you it’s not. He’s created a device for me—why the hell do you think I keep him alive?” His eyes narrowed. “High CV levels, my dear?”

Suddenly her lungs opened up and Perry fought to stay upright, not to curl up into a ball, shaking. A cure. A way to reverse the effects of the virus. A blaze of hope swirled through her that made her dizzy.

If he knew what she wanted the information for, he’d only have one more thing to hold over her head.

“It’s something every blue blood fears,” she managed to say. She could save Garrett. All she needed was the technology. He’d never have to be afraid to touch her again. Wouldn’t sit there with that icily calm expression on his face as he outlined what would happen when he was…gone. He’d live. For years.

Which meant she couldn’t kill Hague. Or the duke. Yet.

No more girls, though. It had to be soon. She’d have to find out what Hague knew and then she could destroy him.

“Precisely. And I control it.”

The realization triggered another in her mind. “That’s why your exile ended early, isn’t it? You gave the technology to the prince consort in return for a seat on the Council.”

The Moncrieff dragged himself to his feet. “I can own the empire with what I know.”

He could own her.

Just how far would she go to save Garrett? She knew the answer only too well. There was nothing she wouldn’t sacrifice to save the man she loved. “I want that information.”

The Moncrieff’s gaze narrowed on her. “It’s him, isn’t it? Not you.” A smile crept over his lips. “That’s why you came back. What will you give me for the information?”

The world seemed to narrow in around her. “What do you want?”

“Complete and utter surrender.”

A moment to reconsider. To walk away. Then Perry whispered, “I want your word that no more girls shall be harmed.”

A brief nod. Her head lowered in defeat. “You have my surrender.”

***

The guests began arriving shortly after dusk fell, a line of steam carriages stretching back for miles. Everyone who was anyone seemed to be attending, despite the inclement weather. No doubt they were all afire about the Moncrieff’s return and the promise of a night he’d avowed would be like nothing they’d ever seen.

Perry watched through the window. The abigail had returned to repair her attire, and she now wore midnight blue silk with elegant silver embroidery stitched across sections of her bustle. The poor abigail trembled as she replaced Perry’s hairpiece with a fresh one, fumbling with the gloves until Perry had taken pity on her and put them on herself.

Now she was alone, silently tracing patterns on the glass with her silk gloves. The Moncrieff would send for her when the ball was in full swing. He intended everyone to be there to witness her resurrection from the dead.

After tonight, there would be no going back. She had given her word to the duke. All she had to do was get through tonight and tomorrow morning, and he would give her what she wanted at the opening of the exhibition tomorrow. He’d promised. Garrett would never have to fear the Fade again.

A thousand things she’d wanted to say over the years to Garrett. A thousand times she’d bitten her tongue, forced herself not to admit the depth of her feelings to him. All that time she’d wasted.

A rap at the door broke her thoughts, jerking her away from the window. “Yes?”

The door opened and the duke stood there, imposing in black. There was no sign of their earlier struggle in the hallway. His cheeks were flush with color, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. Here was the moment he’d waited nine years for.

“It’s time,” he said, extending his arm.

Perry smoothed her skirts, a delaying tactic she’d once used when she’d been a debutante to ease the tangle of her tongue and her shyness. “Of course.”

She took his arm and swept out into the hallway.

Music echoed through the halls, an elegant, restrained waltz that mingled with the soft hush of laughter and conversation.

“Tonight will be a success.” Excitement burned through the duke. “And after tomorrow’s showing of the device at the exhibition, the entire Echelon will be bowing at my feet.”

It was as if he were alone, speaking solely for his own benefit.

The music grew louder. It itched along her skin, marching her inevitably to the next chapter of her life. The gilded doors opened at the end of the hallway, the laughter and conversation swelling.

The ballroom stretched out below them, the floors so polished that it seemed as if twice as many dancers circled the room as were actually there. Mirrors lined every available surface, and the riot of color was almost painful to the eyes.

Moncrieff led her to the top of the stairs. It took a moment for people to begin to notice them, curious eyes turning their way and whispers starting. A smile stretched over the duke’s mouth, his predatory eyes surveying the room.

Once he had captured everyone’s attention, he glanced at her. “Shall we?”

They began the descent, conversation slowly dying as people began to realize who she was. Faces paled, gasps echoing in the room. The entire waltz ground to a halt as debutantes strained to see what all the fuss was about.

Perry hated every moment of it. This was a world she’d never truly understood.

“Who is she?”

“What is going on, Gerald?”

“Hush. By gods, that’s Octavia Morrow!”

Not a single person moved. Fans fluttered to a halt and the orchestra finally gave up. Silence reigned, except for the underlying whispers that choked the room.

Then a man near the foot of the stairs stepped forward, clad in strictly tailored black. The silk of his lapels gleamed under the candelabra, and a ruby stickpin winked in the snowy white cravat at his throat.

Barrons, the Duke of Caine’s heir.

He bowed slightly, his dark eyes showing no surprise at all. “Octavia. You are well?”

That sent the room into another flurry of whispers, for the use of her name presumed that he knew her and well. The question he was asking, however, had nothing to do with anyone else. She had at least one ally here tonight.

Suddenly she didn’t feel so alone. “It’s good to see you, my lord.”

“A friend sent me,” he replied quietly.

Garrett.

At her side, the duke stiffened. “As you can see, she’s perfectly well. And alive,” he added, in a slightly louder voice before he swept her past Barrons and into the crowd.

The following hour was a nightmare. Perry could barely function as the duke introduced her to lords and ladies she only half remembered, and some she’d never met. The excuse for her absence—her amnesia—seemed to satisfy some of them, but their ravenous curiosity was insatiable as they hounded her with question after question, which the duke smoothly negotiated. She could feel the itch start deep within, the darker side of her nature threatening to emerge.

“I need something to drink,” Perry whispered to the duke.

“In a moment—”

“Now.” She dug her nails into his arm and he shot her a sharp glance, taking in the bleeding blackness of her eyes.

“As you wish,” he demurred, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

A passing debutante gasped as she saw Perry’s eyes, and suddenly everyone was looking at her again. Seeing the signs of the craving virus upon her. She didn’t care. She needed blood, needed to get out of this crush for a moment.

Several servant drones circled through the crowd, champagne glasses littering the trays they carried on their heads. The small machines were easy to track, for an exhale of steam followed them throughout the crowd. Perry snatched a glass of blud-wein but the duke intercepted it before it touched her lips.

She turned to snarl at him, but he smiled and sipped it himself. “Only from me, Octavia.”

The thought curdled her stomach, but the hunger was burning in her throat. She needed blood. She’d never been so close to lashing out before, never understood just how hard it had been for Garrett in the last month.

“I could have been lenient,” he continued. “If you hadn’t disobeyed me this afternoon. Consider this your punishment. Come.”

Eyes tracked them as they swept through the ballroom. The scent of warm flesh and perfume filled the air, along with the underlying hint of blood. Several thralls wore diamond collars to hide the healing slash marks on their throats, but Perry could still smell the blood, and it drove her further into the grip of the hunger.

The crowd parted, a dark form materializing in the midst of a dozen white-gowned debutantes. The duke stiffened at her side and Perry’s heart leaped as Lynch forced them to stop.

“Your Grace,” Lynch said, inclining his head toward the duke at her side.

Rosalind was with him, wearing an exquisite gown of crushed violet silk with mink fur at the collar. Piles of coppery hair were melded into an elegant chignon, and her gloves concealed her mechanical hand. The eyes that examined the Moncrieff were cold and hard as she sipped at her champagne. Eyeing him as one would an adversary.

“Your Grace.” Moncrieff sounded surprised. “How…interesting to see you here.”

Which meant Lynch hadn’t been invited. The Moncrieff had wanted to separate Perry from all of her friends.

“An interesting night all round,” Lynch replied, with the faintest of smiles. He was tall enough to rival the duke in height and he stared into Moncrieff’s eyes, letting him know that he wasn’t at all intimidated. Lynch had been the original Nighthawk, used to dealing with murderers, madmen, and the Council of Dukes. His gaze flickered to her.

“Breathe,” he told her and the iron band around her lungs suddenly vanished.