Before I can stop myself, I find myself drawn to his doorway, transfixed on the scene inside. Gil is perched in front of an unfinished sculpture, hair in careless waves. A strange piece of metal is woven through his fingers, crescent shaped and silver.

The metal from Ahmet. The one I left on Gil’s desk.

I can only see the side of his face, but his concentration is like stone. The metal moves like paper in his hands—an artist’s hands—as if it weighs nothing at all.

Gil controls the metal like it’s second nature, reshaping the edges, stretching the surface. Bringing a vision to life only he has the power to see. For a moment I’m sure the piece reminds me of something. Something I’ve seen before. Something dark and cold and…

My chest tightens.

It reminds me of my own pain.

Is that why I’m drawn to him? Because we both feel too much and carry scars and don’t always know how to deal with them?

I don’t think I’ve accepted what’s happened to me the way the others have. Deep down, maybe I’m even still fighting it.

Is Gil the same?

Beneath the warm lights of his room, I watch as metal becomes art within his careful hands. I watch a strand of wavy brown hair fall to his temple. I watch the curve of his neck as he leans in to inspect every imperfection of his sculpture.

And my traitorous heart aches and aches and aches.

I trace the gold-foiled words with my finger, the book heavy in my lap. I don’t know why I keep picking it up, day after day. Maybe I just want something that reminds me of home. Something that feels real.

I set the stolen copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on the bookshelf, next to the blank one that Gil was once transfixed by.

Is that why I took it in the first place? Because it reminded me of him?

The idea causes a visceral reaction deep in my core, and I turn away from the book bitterly.

Theo is in the doorway. His cheeks are flushed pink, and when he scratches at the back of his neck, I realize it’s because he’s nervous.

“What is it?” I ask, taking a step toward him.

“Sorry for just walking in,” he says, the jitters vivid in his green eyes. “I thought it was best if nobody saw me.”

I let my shoulders relax, face morphing into a smile. “We’re friends. We hang out all the time.”

“Yes, but—” He stiffens and lowers his voice. “It’s about our side project.”

A tremor of excitement builds in my hands. “What have you heard?”

“Prince Caelan and his guards have left for the border. Apparently it’s a custom when one of the princes returns to their own court.”