A train.

Somewhere between Gazda and Varos.

Leighton reacted first. One hand moved to shove Viera back, towards the still crowded train car and away from the guards, while the other made to clear the crowd. He shoved people aside, shouldering other passengers and urging Viera away—as if there were someplace they could possibly go.

People screamed and yelled. Behind them, guards were shouting orders. She couldn't understand them, couldn't think past the terror rising in her chest. There had to be something she could do.

They made it to the end of the line, had just stumbled forward and tore away from the still reeling crowd when two men stepped onto the train, trapping them from the other end. Her heart plummeted. She tried to back away but there was nowhere to go. Everyone in the line had turned to watch and they were barricaded inside the train car.

Viera looked at Leighton. His gaze was straight ahead, locked on the two men, as he shook his head. No. No, he wouldn't accept this. This wasn't how it ended for them. Leighton forced himself to focus. Both men were around his height and build, broad shoulders and arms corded with well-earned muscle. The first man, the one closest to them, smiled widely. As if he knew Leighton was sizing them up—deciding the odds if he tried to fight their way out.

He said, "I wouldn't if I were you."

She heard Leighton's knuckles pop as his hand tightened into a fist.

The man looked to Viera then, his smile widening. It was a predatory stare—the one he cast over her body. It lingered against her skin like a crude caress. He was handsome, with perfectly styled blond hair, sharp angular cheekbones, and full lips—lips that he ran his tongue over as he watched her.

Contemplating.

He tested her name, pronouncing each syllable slowly. As if that too were a way of tasting her. "Viera Kevlar."

She did not like it. Did not like how he smiled at her as he held out a hand, beckoning for her to step closer. Viera did not move an inch, but Leighton did. He stepped forward, his arm moving to push her back, so he was angled in front of her.

The man tsked and shook his head. "Mr. Seidel," he said, addressing Leighton, "you are under arrest for attempted manslaughter and theft." The man's smile only grew as confusion bloomed across Leighton's face.

Leighton shook his head. "I've never—"

The man continued speaking, "Miss Kevlar, you will be transported back to Gazda where you will announce yourself into the Culling."

She looked at him, taking in the lack of guard uniform and the arrogant way he stood—his feet shoulder width apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked as if he owned the world, owned her. As if she were a misbehaving pet.

Viera forced herself to stand a bit straighter. It took work to keep her voice steady as she said, "With what authority?"

The man nodded as if he'd expected the question, welcomed it, even. "With the authority of The Crown, of course."

Leighton spat on the floor between them. "The Crown can go to hell. And you with it."

The man's smile only grew, those dark brown eyes sparkling with malice. "Oh," he sighed and shook his head. "Mr. Seidel, I'm afraid that was a mistake."

Guards grabbed Leighton from behind.

People started screaming again, darting like frightened mice, as Leighton whirled on the men, his fists flying. He shoved Viera back, away from the fighting. Next to her, Leighton struggled, twisting and kicking at the guards as they took hold of his arms and wrists. There were too many of them. And while he managed to get a few hits, he was overtaken in seconds.

Viera saw the movement too late, reacted too slowly, as she was pulled back towards the opposite end of the train car, the blond man's arms secured tightly around her waist. She screamed Leighton's name, clawing at the hand that moved to cover her mouth. The man's voice was a growl at her ear. "You are making things worse for him."

Still, she screamed.

She kicked and hit and fought until Leighton was gone, hauled from the train by too many guards. The world was spinning. At some point, she began begging. Begging the goddess. Begging this complete stranger.

Funny, that in all her life she had never begged for anything and yet, in two days, she had been almost brought to her knees with pleading. She didn't know what else to do. Viera couldn't understand why the goddess would choose her and then ignore every one of her prayers.

She was still fighting, still screaming, as she was passed off to an awaiting guard—then surrounded by them. They were not gentle as they herded her from the train and into the station. Behind her, the man walked, his hands in his pockets, his smile still confident and unworried.

Off in the distance, she could hear someone yelling her name—Leighton was yelling her name. Viera tried to turn and look for him, but the guards pulled her further, deeper. People stopped and gawked, children were pointing.

"Look! That's a goddess-touched girl!"

"Where are they taking her?"

"She could be the next queen..."

"Is she being arrested?"

"Who was that boy with her?"

"Someone said she ran away."

Words began to blend together and she stopped being able to hear his voice amid all the others. Cameras and reporters crowded the gate. The man trailing her began to slow his steps. He paused and spoke to a few of them.

The world was a blur of flashing cameras and screaming people. She thought the universe might implode, just cease to function. Her lips tasted of salt water.

Perhaps she had ocean eyes after all.

Then it was silent and she found herself locked in a small room—a closet turned office. They sat her in a metal chair in front of a desk piled with papers. It smelled of sweat and burned coffee. The guards did not leave her alone, a few flanked the inside and outside of the door behind her and two stood on either side of her chair, just far enough back that she couldn't see them without turning her head.

One of them offered her a cup of water. She just held it in her hands, looking down at it. It sloshed over her fingers, the shaking in her body so violent she couldn't stop it—couldn't begin to know how to gain control of herself again. That darkness swirled in her gut, a cold caress that sent a different sort of fear through her.

"Well..." the man from the train strolled into the room.

She jumped at the sound of his voice, spilling what remained of the water all over the front of her shirt—Leighton's shirt. Viera let the paper cup fall to the floor, watched it roll across the floor and bump into the boot of one of the guards.

The man rounded the desk, letting the wide expanse of it separate them. When she did not look at him, he leaned his palms against the top of it and moved forward into her space. He was so close; his breath stirred the dark curls around her face.

He waited until she turned her gaze up to him, met his eyes, then he said, "You're prettier than I thought you'd be." His smile turned feral. "You don't photograph well."

"Who are you?" It was all she could think to ask. Those were the only words that would form when the rest of the world was screaming, when everything was shattering around her—when this boy was smiling.

He lowered himself into the chair opposite hers and said. "Crown Prince Malcolm Reinald Kaius Warwick."

She blinked at him.

"Now is usually when people would bow or—"

"I'm not going to bow to you."

He laughed. "No, no. I would be shocked if you did."

Silence fell.

Viera's voice was dry, aching, as she asked, "Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

She closed her eyes, trying to momentarily gather herself. "You know why I'm here," she breathed. "You know exactly what I was doing."

"Yes, well, I hope it was worth it."

When Viera's eyes remained closed, pressed tight against the burning there, he slammed a hand into the table. The sound was loud enough to make her jump. Her eyes opened to his wide, pleased smile. The prince said, "You'll look at me when I'm talking to you."

"Why are you here?" she asked again.

He pursed his lips, glanced at the guards standing at attention, and said, "I was just finishing a military inspection on the border when I heard there was a runaway Culling girl. Only one train left Gazda last night and we had a tip from a street urchin that you were on it." He shrugged. "I arrived here about an hour ago. We put out signals to the train to stop at this station and," he gestured to Viera, "you know what happened after that."

Her voice shook as she said, "You could have just let me go."

"And ruin the goddess's will for your life?" He tsked. "What's the fun in that?"

"Leighton—"

"As I said, your friend is being transported back to Gazda where he will stand trial for attempted murder and theft."

Her throat burned. "He would never hurt—"

"We have it on good authority that he broke into your family's estate, attacked your father and ran away with you. Your father was very gravely injured when he ran for the guard. And as his daughter, you are his property—stolen. That sounds like attempted murder and theft to me." He chewed his bottom lip between his teeth before he said, "But then, I'm the prince, so it sounds like whatever the hell I say it is."

Bile rose in her throat. "He didn't—"

"It doesn't really matter, does it? If he lives or dies, it is of no consequence to me. And you, darling, have bigger problems." Something in the way he said it made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

She forced herself to speak, to try to explain that what had happened with her father was her fault. Viera swallowed and said, "But Leighton was not even there, I fought with my father, I—"

"Do you know what the punishment for stealing is, Miss Kevlar?"

She did.

She'd seen it enacted time and time again.

He placed his hand on the desk between them. "A finger." He wiggled his for effect. "Of course, if the offense is great enough," he smiled and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "It could be a whole hand. Hell, I could have his tongue removed for what he said to me on the train just now."

Ice-cold dread choked her. Viera shook her head. "Please."

"You know," he said quietly. "I once had this dog, beautiful creature. She was black with brown and white spots. I loved that thing. My mother called her Lucie. She was a runner, that dog." He smiled at the thought. "When I was in my early teens, my father would take me out to the forests near the palace and we would hunt stag. Often times I would take Lucie with us. On one occasion, Lucie ran off and didn't come back. At first, I was worried, afraid for my favorite pet. I called and called for that dog. Finally, my father made me leave and return home, even though we couldn't find Lucie. A few weeks passed and we received news from a hunting party that the prince's dog had been found. They asked if we wanted her returned." He paused, eyebrows raised waiting for her to speak, to ask him what happened next.

Viera whispered, "And did you want her back?"

"Oh, yes," Malcolm said. "I wanted her back very much." He smiled and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the desk as he continued, "When she arrived at the palace, she was so excited to see me. Her tail was wagging and she was whining for attention. She was well fed, it seemed as if someone else had been taking care of her while she was away. And I was pleased to have her back—she belonged to me, after all. But as time passed, I just kept thinking about how she'd left. How she had run away. I couldn't get it out of my head. So, do you know what I did, Viera?"

She shook her head.

"I locked her in a cage and let her starve to death." He fell back into his chair, clasping his hands together. "Let me tell you the moral of that story, Viera darling, because I fear you're too stupid to figure it out for yourself: I am no one's second choice—I am the only choice. If you do not want the Culling, if you do not want the crown or me, so be it. But do not expect to get to run away and be with someone else. That mark on your body means you're mine, until you stop breathing and your body is ash, you belong to me. And I will lock you up and starve you like the creature you are before I allow you to run away."

She could not breathe. There was a high-pitched ringing in her ears. "I am not your property and I will not join the Culling."

Malcolm sighed. "You are and you will. You will go to the palace and you will smile and perform just like all the other girls. The real question is, what will happen to your little friend?"

Viera leaned forward, her hands hitting the desk with a force that surprised even her. The guards at her sides tensed, stepped forward as if they thought she might lunge for the prince. Her voice was low, a quiet sort of threat as she said, "If you so much as touch him, I will—"

The prince met the eyes of one of the guards near the door. "He'll have thirty lashes."

Viera thought she might be sick. She turned in her chair to look at the guard, and then she turned back to Malcolm. "You can't."

The prince smiled. "I can."

She shook her head, her voice too loud in the small office as she said, "There are nine other girls."

"Yes, but the goddess promised me ten." He looked to the guard again, "Make it forty."

Viera's throat tightened. "He hasn't done anything wrong—"

"He stole my goddess-given property," Malcolm shrugged. "You'll have to forgive me, Viera. I have never been very good at sharing."

She spoke through gritted teeth, "I am not your property."

"Fifty."

"He has done nothing wrong. You can't just—"

"Sixty and his tongue."

She had to press a hand to her mouth to keep from gagging—to keep from speaking again. She closed her eyes. This was not about her agreeing to go to the Culling. He would make her go—the guards would make her go. She had seen enough of her father and men like him to understand what Malcolm wanted.

All her life, her father had boasted about what a wonderful husband this boy would be for her. He had praised the prince—sung his accolades to the rafters as if that would make Viera forget Leighton, forget her own dreams. But she would not forget. She had heard the other whispers too, the ones volleyed about in the pubs and whispered around sewing circles.

The prince was volatile—prone to sadistic behavior. Viera had heard how he liked to torture his own private guards, make them stay awake for days at a time and then have them beaten or imprisoned when they fell asleep on the job. There were numerous reports of him beating his past lovers. She had heard the gossip, but she hadn't wanted to believe it was true.

Still, she should have known what to say. Years of living in her father's shadow, years of flinching every time he got too close to her—and she still didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to quell this man's fury. Viera found herself at a loss for words. How could she save herself from this?

How could she save Leighton?

When she opened her eyes again, the prince was grinning. This was a man who had starved his dog for wandering away—starved the dog when it had been returned to him after weeks of being lost. And she was supposed to either marry him—have to forever share his bed—or be executed in an arena.

Her fingers shook and her mouth watered with nausea as she asked, "How—What can I do to keep you from hurting him?"

She watched him consider it, felt his eyes sweep along her body and linger too long in places. His tongue ran across his bottom lip as his gaze fell on her chest, on her still damp shirt. The very thought of his hands on her—She might really be sick.

It took everything in her to remain still and allow him to look. For Leighton. She could do this, she go with this vicious man for Leighton.

Malcolm chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating. Then he said, "I think you can begin by begging for my forgiveness."

The air quivered in her lungs and her face heated. Still, she said, "Please, Your Highness. Please forgi—"

"I think it would be better if you were on your knees."