Walker’s black eyes fill with sadness and empathy. “You’re from different realms. He’s a Prince. Your fighting skills are critical to the smooth functioning of the Arena.” He points to Armageddon’s seat in the Arena. “And you live in a realm that’s essentially ruled by the King of Hell. Not a stable situation.” He sighs. “Match or not, the chances of you two having a future together are slim.”

Says you. I grimace. He’s doing that Walker-thing where he acts like he’s answering my question. “Why hasn’t he been in touch?”

Walker eyes me for a long minute, then speaks. “Since you left, Lincoln’s been in non-stop negotiations with the House of Acca. They want war. The Prince is the only person the Earl listens to.”

A cold shiver whirls up my body. Here comes the bad news. “And why’s that?”

Walker folds his arms into his loopy sleeves with an air of finality. “Until you came along, Lincoln and Adair were about to be betrothed.”

Reality slams into me like a fist. What did I think was happening with Adair cooing over Lincoln all the time? Choosing him to be angelbound? Not to mention all that weird muscle grabbing. They were getting engaged.

No, that can’t be right. Shaking my head from side to side, I kick the wall, hard. I remember Adair singing at the Winter feast. She said Lincoln was her love; he almost barfed. “Lincoln doesn’t seem to think he has to marry her.”

“Perhaps he’s right.” Walker frowns. “But there’s far too much stacked against you both. Believe me, I’ve no joy in saying this. You need to move on now, before your feelings grow too deep.”

I roll my eyes. “Please. I kissed the guy once, that’s all.”

Walker’s eyebrows almost jet off his head. “You kissed someone?” His mouth hangs open. “You. Myla Lewis.” He sighs. “I see my warning comes too late.”

I cross my arms over my chest. He needs to calm down. “Look, I appreciate your playing older brother and all, but you’re worrying about nothing. If Lincoln were really that into me, he’d find a way to get in touch.” Case closed.

Walker slips his hand into the folds of his robe. “He already has.” He sets a silver envelope onto my palm. My name is written on it in black ink.

My heart kicks in my chest as I tear open the letter and pull out a card. It reads ‘Tomorrow, the Ryder mansion ballroom, 4 PM. Dress casually. Lincoln.’ I grin and shake my hips in a little happy dance.

Walker rolls his eyes. “Never play poker, Myla.”

I fix him with a half-frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”