GIDEON

Gideon tugged at the jacket of his stolen uniform. The forest green fabric was stiff, as if it hadn’t been broken in.

The poor guard he’d taken it from was currently unconscious and tied up in a supply closet on the third floor of Larkmont Palace. Four other guards hadn’t been so lucky. Their bodies were floating in the frigid waters of the fjord.

He’d had no choice.

Gideon was deep in enemy territory. If discovered, he’d be better off dead.

His thoughts were a dark contrast to the bright ballroom he stood in. Musical instruments hummed as they warmed up, preparing for the private recital that was about to start. Chandeliers winked overhead as servants wove between the glittering guests in Prince Soren’s ballroom, offering one last round of refreshments before the music started.

As Gideon stood along the wall, watching the room like the other guards, his gaze fixed on his mark: the beautiful girl in the golden dress.

Rune Winters.

Prince Soren stood beside her, his palm pressed to the small of Rune’s back. The Umbrian prince wore a tailored suit, his family’s silver crest stitched into the cape slung stylishly over one shoulder, and his hungry gaze roamed down the dress Rune wore, inviting his rich friends to do the same.

Gideon’s blood burned as he watched them.

It was a beautiful gown—he couldn’t deny it. Made by some fancy designer, it likely cost a small fortune. But it wasn’t Rune. Gold didn’t suit her, and the cut was severe. The plunging V neckline ended a few inches above her belly button in front and at the base of her spine in back, sending a powerful message:

Look at her. She’s mine.