And then I can’t hold on to it anymore. It crashes from me like a wave falling away from a rock, leaving me utterly empty, even though I know it will come back. I almost stagger. Instead, I knock the steps back into hiding as Willow opens the box, and I step forward.

My gray pants are streaked with blood. My arms run with it.

Nadine hands me a white, wet cloth, and I wipe the blood away, revealing smooth, unmarked skin. I toss the cloth out into the audience. It lands at Ethan’s feet.

I smile at him.

He actually nods with respect.

The audience batters their hands for me.

But I don’t have time for the rush of winning. Jumping off the stage, I push my way through the crowd until I’m standing right beside Lucius as he talks to a magician wearing an all-golden suit with golden eyelashes to match. I know he should be able to see me in his peripheral, but he doesn’t even glance over in my direction.

It’s a power move. He wants me to feel small. Maybe he wants me to feel awkward enough to go away. I don’t. I set my feet and cross my arms and wait until the other magician leaves.

“Yes?” he says as he surveys the milling crowd without looking at me.

“We need to talk.”

“Agreed.” He turns his head and grabs my shoulder, pulling me a step closer to him as a wall of ice rises on all sides of us.

I jump in surprise. His expression is smug, as if he liked startling me. I want to step away from his touch, but the walls of ice are too close. I shake as the temperature drops around me.

My fingers go numb.

He watches me as if he’s waiting to see if I’ll crack from the cold.

I bite my lip to keep my teeth from chattering.

He nods and lets go of my shoulder and rests his palm against the wall of ice. It shatters at his touch, cascading around us in sharp, cold flecks that nip my bare arms. We’re alone now—in a small white room with his rose-icicle throne on a platform in the center.

He crunches through the ice on his way to the throne, and I follow behind him until he’s placed himself on it, staring down at me.

Another display of power.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” I don’t see a point in leading gently. He doesn’t seem like the type to appreciate it.

His eyes are calculating as he assesses me. “Yes. The question is, my dear child, do you know who I am?”

“I know you had a thing with my mother.”

“A thing.” His lips curl in disgust.