The week following the ballroom apocalypse was a masterclass in psychological warfare.
While the Lions paced the hallways like caged beasts and the Duke watched me with a dark, silent intrigue, I focused my attention on the one creature who had dared to think she could lead me to my ruin.
Beatrice.
Oh, so fair and innocent, Beatrice thought it was over after she had spiked my drink and retreated to the shadows. She seemed to forget that in a game of love and war, I don't play fair.
The laundry corridor was damp, smelling of lye and steam—a fittingly industrial place for a disposal. Beatrice had been scuttling through the shadows like the vermin she was, clutching a pitcher of water as if it were a shield.
When I stepped out from behind the heavy linens, she gasped, the pitcher rattling against her chest.
"L-Lady Lyssa," she stammered, her eyes wide, searching for a weapon in my hands.
