Intrigued, I slowly turned. Desire scorched every last sentient thought I had. The Prince of Lust was golden skinned, dark haired, and had a body Michelangelo probably used as inspiration for his sculptures. I didn’t just want him, I needed him. I craved his attention as much as I longed for his touch.

“Hello, Signorina di Carlo. You’re absolutely delicious, aren’t you?”

His voice was unearthly. Pleasure mixed with pain. I was enraptured and terrified. Ice prickled my arm. The same insistent feeling that kept haunting me. It dulled my emotions long enough for me to fully grasp the horror of what was happening. What he was doing.

Lust was using his influence on me. And it was worse than Envy by far. He made me feel so good, so happy, I forgot who I was. What I wanted. And what I hated above all. Or maybe I didn’t entirely forget my hatred, but I certainly didn’t care. Passionate flames razed my conscious thought, and I was once again gripped by pure animalistic need. I had a lust for life, for fun, for . . .

The demon prince circled me. He wore an unbuttoned, silver suit jacket—without a shirt—and matching trousers that hung so low on his hips, I could die. A circlet of flames sat on his head. His eyes were charcoal. Penetrating. In them I saw a bottomless pool of desire. I wanted to tear off my clothes and dive in.

I started moving toward him, but someone grabbed me around the waist. I stopped trying to escape, focusing instead on the warmth behind me. The solid frame. The power. I’d almost forgotten how much I wanted him.

Lust must have sensed my shifting emotions. He looked from me to his brother, his expression indescribable. He started speaking, but I was distracted by too many sensations. His voice, the warm breeze, the scent of Wrath, and the friction of his strong arms as he held me in place. Lust kept talking. My mind tried to focus on his words, not the shape of his lips.

He stepped close to where we stood. Wrath’s arms were bands of steel around me. “Do you know what that means, witch?” I drew my brows together. His smile was crafted of beautiful nightmares. “Go, dance. Enjoy the party. This is a practice round before the Feast of the Wolf.”

A familiar scent wafted toward me, beckoning. Lavender and white sage. Vittoria! She was here . . . if I left to go dancing I’d find—

Stop, the same voice whispered in the back of my head. It was a trick. Vittoria was dead.

“No.”

I was as startled by my refusal as Lust was. His expression turned from desire to fury.