He is a danger, one you must stay away from.
The words nagged at her, and if she were wise enough, she would have listened.
Perhaps it was wrong to come here after all. She should have just stayed back at the ball. Should have, even though it hurt, passed through this phase, this marriage, and just gotten over with it.
She should not have come here, seeking semblance from the one she must not have.
Suddenly, she sniffed back the tears and moved away from him. She stared at his face, but there was no reaction—he only looked at her blankly.
She remembered what Uncle Josiah had told her about Jackson. He had come to the mountain spirit, and he had learnt how to feel and even cared for her.
She could not do this to Dante.
The world might think of them as creatures who are dangerous, who should be kept away, but all she saw as she looked at him was someone who needed to be hugged.
Yet, she could not give him that.
Could not hurt him.
How is it that she cared for someone on just the first day of meeting?
It should be wrong, yet it felt right.
Dante did not move. Her tears had stopped, and that made him not go to her. She is fine now, there is no reason to stop her tears—yet he wanted to know who had caused them. Because he was meant to protect her, to protect the crown.
"Princess Margaret," he said, standing so still, his hands at his side...
His lips parted to say more, but he found himself stopping at just the mention of her name.
"I should never have come to bother you," she sighed, moving back so she rested on the wall. Her gaze swept toward the moon...
The moon comes with peace, and she could feel its powers.
Since her mother was the Moon Goddess, she was yet to be blessed with those powers. Yet, she could feel the tip of it.
Now she wondered if they would listen to her plea—
And not make her life more miserable.
"If we become close, if you help me to dry my tears…"
She turned to him. His dark eyes pierced into hers, and a chill ran through her.
"You will get burnt by my light, and I will never let that happen, Dante."
Dante nodded, inching back until he sat on the settee. He rested casually, his gaze drifting over her blue ball dress.
"Then you will marry the prince of Brookewood?"
Margaret closed her eyes. She didn't want to be reminded of her reality—but she knew she could never run from it.
"Yes," she whispered, the word stabbing pain into her chest.
Tomorrow, the preparations would begin.
A nightmare turned reality.
She hadn't come here only to lash out at Dante for not appearing at the ball.She had come because she wanted more.
Because she felt safe in his presence... without even realizing it.
But the reminder of what they were brought her to a stop.
"This will become an abrupt stop. I will never have to come here." She looked away from him, her gaze settling on the grey wall behind him.
"We shall never cross paths again, and will only focus on our task."
She wanted to laugh at herself.
The way she said task, she was almost sounding like him.
Dante said nothing. He only stared at her.
"I should go," she said, and he nodded.
Margaret's shoulders slumped as she moved toward the door.
She paused briefly and glanced back at him, but he remained seated, watching her—making no move to stop her.
Heavens…
Why wouldn't he show just a little interest?
Something. Anything.
Even a flicker could have given her a bit of hope.
But hope was dangerous.
Hope ruins everything.
"I only have a favor," she said softly.
Dante tilted his head. "Go on, Princess."
A shiver ran down her spine. She knew what she was about to ask—"Can you look into the Prince? I need to be certain that I'm in safe hands."
Dante nodded. She didn't even need to ask—he was already on it.
The shadow vampires had carried whispers through the darkness, and even before the Princess arrived, he had known what had happened at the ball.
"Very well," he said.
She smiled—bitterly—and turned to leave.
And then something pinched at his heart. Hollow and sudden. He didn't understand what it was, not fully. But he craved her presence.
And now that she had gone..
He wished she were still there.
Margaret shut the door behind her and leaned back against it. The cold wood pressed into her spine. Her shoulders trembled as the silence wrapped around her—and the weight crashed in.
She began to sob.
It came in waves—quiet and desperate—until her breath turned ragged and her chest ached.
"I don't want to marry him," she murmured through a cracked voice.
"I don't want to…"
She pushed away from the door, away from the stillness of his hallway, and made her way down the corridor toward her chambers.
The castle was quiet.
The ball had long ended. The music was gone. The voices had faded. Only the faint echo of her footsteps remained.
Her room greeted her with silence as she stepped inside.
Stillness wrapped around her like a heavy cloak.
Her eyes dropped to the marble floor—the smooth surface catching the moonlight—and the soft blue rug beneath her feet.
She stood there, unmoving. Caught between duty and despair.
Then she moved to where her sword hung on the wall.
Her fingers curled around the hilt, cool metal meeting her skin. Without hesitation, she turned toward the window.
In one swift motion, she jumped—three stories down.
The wind lashed against her face, her dress whipping around her legs. She landed hard, knees bent, a soft thud muffled by the earth beneath her boots.
Her fangs shot out, sharp and ready, as she narrowed her gaze toward the thick forest.