“Ah, me, yes, I become the target of every Capulet assassin and ham-fisted fool seeking their favor,” I said. “Tell me again how great my good fortune might be, Rosaline. I fail to properly appreciate it.”

She laughed a little, and covered her mouth with one hand, as if afraid someone might hear her inappropriate merriment. She ought to be in mourning, I thought; she must feel guilt for that, too, for knowing relief that her brother would never torment her again. “I am sorry,” she said. “I should have guessed such a rose came with thorns.”

“Poisoned thorns, and poisoned wine and poisoned meat. I shall have no peace from my great fortune, I promise you.” I hesitated, then said, “And it is the last time the Prince of Shadows may walk the night. From now on, I will be only Benvolio Montague.”

“Only?” Her voice was unexpectedly warm now. “That is a great deal, you know.”

“A half-breed heir is hardly what my uncle dreamed of,” I said. “It is not so much as you think. The color of my eyes never lets them forget what I am.”

That startled her, as if she had never considered such a thing, and I liked her for it. “Your eyes are beautiful,” she said, and it was an honest and unconsidered thought, one she immediately regretted, from the way she looked away. “I mean to say, they do you credit, and—”

I stood up. She did, too, in reflexive defense, and her gaze darted to the dagger discarded near the bed.

“No,” I said. “I will not hurt you.”

“Will you not?” She licked her lips. I wished she had not; I wished I could stop admiring the shine of them in the flickering light. “It is what men do, hurt women.”

“Not all is pain,” I said. This was not how I had meant to bend the conversation, but it seemed to travel so on its own. “Did you see pain when you peeked in the curtains of your cousin’s bed?”

She looked away, color rising in her cheeks. “I do not think so.”

“Then what is it you fear?”

“Drowning. Losing myself. Being . . . being controlled.”

“Both may surrender in this battle,” I said, and somehow I had moved closer to her, fatally close. “And both may win. I know this.”

“From experience.”

I smiled a little. “I’m no child,” I said. “And men are expected to know a few things.”

Her lips parted, and her eyes widened, and I wanted . . . I wanted so badly just then to kiss her, to taste the sweet darkness of her, but to do it would be to drown, as Romeo drowned. I was not quite ready to trade my soul for it.

But oh, so very nearly.