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The black plaque.

Mercy is the first weakness.

“Whose rules?” I ask.

“Tonight?” he says. “Mine.”

8

NATHANIEL

Mine.

The word flashes through me so quickly I almost don’t recognize it as thought. But it’s there, the second Ella asks whether she’ll be expected to flirt—or something more—with Quenton Stanley.

I take one step back from her. “I apologize.”

Ella blinks. “For what?”

“My tone.”

Her fingers are curled slightly. Can she still feel my hand in hers? I can still feel hers.

Her palm was warm. Soft. And the instant we touched, something moved between us.

I saw the flicker in her eyes, the way her breath caught, the way she pulled her hand back as if the contact startled her.

As if it burned.

It burned me too, which isn’t acceptable.

I’m not Samson.

I don’t react first and think later. I don’t make decisions because a woman looks at me with beautiful blue eyes and a red mark on her cheek.

Samson can be the beast in the tower. Samson can be undone by a woman wandering too close to the locked room where he keeps his pain.

Not me.

I’m Nathaniel Vexley.

I keep a cool head.

Always.

That’s the entire point of my existence.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” I say. “Stanley can be difficult.”

“Difficult?”

“In a word, vile.”

She gulps.

I want to put her at ease, but I don’t have any more time. I should be finishing this lesson, sending her to wardrobe, and turning my attention back to the foundation. The gala is tonight. Stanley must be handled. The board must be appeased. My father’s machine must continue to operate smoothly.

That’s what matters.