The magic bubbles in me, anxious to be used. I let it flow to my palm, heating my skin so that when I grip the metal again it doesn’t sting. Manipulating metal is what I’m best at, and I know I can bend these bars. I push, but it holds, and I call on the magic in me, begging it. It roars in answer, and I push it against the bars, but something else pushes back—the same magic, but whereas mine feels like roses blooming from my hands, this one feels like vines of thorns, ripping my magic apart.

I stop. I’m panting. Roman’s still holding my hand. His other hand is pressed against the bar just above mine—our pinkies touching. I didn’t even know he was using magic too.

A bead of sweat trails down his face.

“This is one of the strongest spells I’ve ever felt,” he says. “He’s been feeding it for years.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “He has to take you out to kill you, right? He promised everyone a show.”

“I don’t believe that’s a positive,” he says calmly.

“We’ll strike him then.”

Roman grabs my other hand so he holds both through the bars. “I want you to run.”

“You said drinking magician blood makes you stronger. That’s how you can perform better than anyone else here?”

Roman tugs my hands until my shoulders bump against the freezing bars. “Ava, you need to listen. Running is your best option now.”

The wheels are turning in my brain, but I stop to look up at him. “You said running’s not an option.”

“That’s when I thought we could just bide our time after you won. Figure things out from the inside, but we can’t now.” He swallows. “I won’t be here to help you now. Your father clearly wants you dead.”

“Shut up. I’m thinking.” I shake my hands out of his.

His fingers latch around my throat so quickly I don’t even see it coming, but there’s no violence in it. They’re soft and firm. “Ava,” he growls. “You need to go.” His fangs drop below his lip, and he parts his mouth so I can see them, but I don’t even flinch. My brain doesn’t scream vampire. All it says is, this is Roman. This is the boy whose lips I want on my own. It doesn’t matter if there are fangs behind them. I lean forward, pressing my neck more firmly into his grip. His eyes widen and then melt.

Relief rushes into them, maybe happiness, but also grief. He thinks he’s losing me.

Not without a fight.

“You need to drink my blood.” I try to state it matter-of-factly. Like it’s no big deal to me. But even as I say the words, I feel a weird mix of disgust and desire.