Certainly. Here's Chapter 8
"Put on the mask, little rabbit. It's the only thing they respect."
Eloise stared at the porcelain thing in her hands—white as bone, lips painted crimson, eyes hollowed out like a skull trying to flirt. The velvet ribbons dangled uselessly from her fingers as the candlelight flickered in her reflection.
She hated it.
And still, she tied it on.
The dress was worse. Black silk with blood-red embroidery curling like thorns around her ribcage and hips, sleeves too tight, hem too long. It wasn't hers—obviously. It had been left on her bed in a box with no note, no explanation. The bodice gaped at her chest, like it had been sewn for someone with more confidence. The shoes pinched. The mask didn't sit right. And she couldn't breathe properly.
"This is a joke," she muttered.
Behind her, Cecilia adjusted a pair of gold cuffs around her own wrists. "It's theater," she said, bored. "You play your part or you get torn apart. The sooner you accept that, the better."
Eloise turned to her. "Do you still play?"
Cecilia met her gaze in the mirror. "No. I changed the script."
The Crimson Court's ballroom bled opulence.
Every inch of the space glowed—walls paneled in dark cherrywood, chandeliers dripping with bloodstone crystals, music thrumming low like a pulse beneath the polished obsidian floor. The air smelled like wine, wax, and something floral Eloise couldn't name. Laughter echoed off the ceiling. It didn't reach the eyes of those laughing.
Every guest wore a mask. Red and black. Feathers. Gold. Horns. Beads. Fangs. Some grotesque, others delicate. But no one was truly hidden. Eyes betrayed everything.
Eloise felt their gazes immediately.
The human.
The misfit.
The weak one.
She tried to stand taller. Failed. Her shoulder caught the edge of a passing bride's gown. The woman gave her a withering glare from behind a fox-shaped mask.
"Do try not to step on royalty, dear," the woman said.
Eloise opened her mouth to apologize—but the woman was already gone.
She tried again to fix her mask. It tilted left every time she exhaled. Her stomach twisted, arms too stiff, breath too shallow. She hated being seen. She hated being invisible even more.
A server with coal-colored eyes passed by with a tray of blood-filled flutes. She didn't take one.
"You look like you're about to faint."
Eloise turned. A tall girl—no, a woman—stood beside her, face hidden behind a mask shaped like a moth. Her voice was silk wrapped in frost.
"I'm fine," Eloise lied.
"Of course you are." The moth woman tilted her head. "You're wearing the wrong dress, you know. That one belonged to Bride Forty-One. She... didn't make it."
Eloise blinked. "What?"
The woman offered a mock-sympathetic smile and drifted away into the crowd.
"Right," Eloise whispered to herself. "Normal. Very normal."
She moved through the ballroom like a ghost. Around her, the other brides glittered like lethal butterflies. They kissed cheeks, offered veiled insults in velvet voices. Laughter curled in the corners of the room like smoke. Some of them had been here before—knew the rhythm of the rituals, the danger wrapped in politeness. Eloise didn't. She felt like a cracked dish in a cabinet of crystal.
"Don't drink anything you didn't see poured," Cecilia's voice echoed in her mind. "Don't let anyone dance you into the dark. And for gods' sake, don't bleed."
Easier said than done.
She made it to a column and leaned against it, trying to look mysterious and not like she was having a slow, public breakdown. The mask scratched her cheek. The bodice was slipping. Her feet ached. And still—no sign of the Prince.
"Eloise, isn't it?" a voice purred.
She turned. A woman in a red serpentine gown stood before her, mask shaped like a coiled dragon. Beautiful. Dangerous. And clearly amused.
"Yes," Eloise said carefully.
"I'm Bride Nine," the woman said. "Clarissa's friend. She sends her love."
A lie. Eloise smiled tightly. "How kind."
The woman stepped closer. "We were just wondering something, actually. A game, really. We were betting what you are. You don't seem quite... bride material."
A soft ring of laughter floated from behind her. Several brides had gathered. Eloise hadn't noticed.
"Is it your first court?" someone said behind a laced half-mask.
"She can't even wear her mask straight," another added.
"She looks like a rat someone dressed up for sacrifice," said a third.
Eloise flushed. Her nails bit into her palm.
Bride Nine stepped even closer, voice low. "You don't belong here, girl. The Prince won't pick you. But you might entertain him for a week or two—if you're lucky."
The crowd snickered.
"I—"
"She's not wrong."
The new voice cut through the mirth like a blade.
Every head turned.
He stepped forward from the crowd like he hadn't been there at all. Tall, lean, dressed in ink-black robes embroidered with silver thread. His mask was plain—faceless, unadorned—yet somehow more imposing than the rest.
Eyes like storm glass locked onto Bride Nine. "But you don't get to decide that. Neither do I."
Bride Nine straightened. "Lord Dorian—"
"Lady Nine," he said coolly, "you'll remember the Prince favors unpredictability. Or have you forgotten what happened to Bride Six?"
Silence rippled across the floor.
Dorian turned to Eloise. He offered his hand.
"Walk with me."
Eloise hesitated. Every eye was on her.
She took it.
His fingers were cool and strong as they led her away from the knot of brides, past the towering doors into a quieter corridor.
They walked in silence. Only the sound of her breath and distant music. He didn't let go of her hand until they reached a small balcony.
The air outside was sharp with frost and night-blooming vines.
Eloise finally found her voice. "Why did you do that?"
He shrugged. "Because someone had to."
She studied him. "Who are you?"
"Lord Dorian Valeblood. Son of the Eastern House. Former contender for the throne."
"You were almost Prince?"
He smiled faintly. "A long time ago. Before the last one woke."
Eloise leaned against the stone railing. "Why help me?"
"You're interesting."
"That's it?"
"No," he said. "But it's a start."
Eloise looked back at the ballroom through the arched doorway. "They want me to fail."
"They want to feed off your fear."
"Well, it's working."
"You'll survive," Dorian said. "But only if you stop apologizing for being here."
Eloise looked at him. "I didn't ask to be here."
"No one ever does."
He stepped closer, his voice low. "But you're not the only one wearing the wrong mask."
Then, just as suddenly, he turned and walked back into the firelit corridor, his silhouette dissolving into the shadows.
Eloise stood alone on the balcony. Her mask slipped again. She didn't fix it.
She'd been humiliated. Underdressed. Laughed at.
But she was still standing.
And someone had defended her.
For the first time since she'd arrived, a spark lit behind her ribs. Not trust. Not hope. Not yet.
But something close.
Behind her, the ballroom pulsed with power and wine and danger. The game was real. And it had just begun.