He did nothing.

The door rattled violently, and Margaret had no doubt—before she could even think to hide, it would shatter, and her father would find her.

At such a young vampiress age, she lacked the skill to teleport or melt into the shadows like the shadow vampires. How was she supposed to escape?

Worst of all, her father could be terrifying when angered—not at her, never at her—but still, how could she hope to calm him? Most times, only her mother could reach him when he fell into such rages.

There was no doubt: if he found her, he would blame everything on Dante. Yet, this was not Dante's fault.

"Princess," he called.

Though his voice sounded as lifeless as the night itself, it struck her heart sharply. It didn't just make her heart leap—it pulled at her, reached for her, made her wonder if she should answer.

"You should hide. Isn't that what a normal person would do?"

She glared at him, but he sat comfortably, watching her. Nothing in his expression betrayed his thoughts—if he even had any. How could she blame him for sitting there in that brown robe, offering no help, when he didn't feel what she felt?

Margaret clasped her hands, only now realizing they had been trembling. As much as the shadow vampire was without emotions, it didn't mean he was incapable of sex—though he felt no desire. That alone made it dangerous to be alone with him in a room.

A low growl rumbled from outside, followed by her father's impatient roar: "Move aside!"

The next moment, a sharp crack split the air as the door broke from its hinges and crashed flat onto the floor.

Fear crept into Margaret's heart, and she didn't realize when she jumped and moved to Dante's side—who, despite everything, didn't seem the least bit bothered that his door had been broken.

Her father stepped inside—the King of Ravencreast, the strongest and bravest vampire she knew. No, he didn't harm humans by feeding on their blood; no normal vampire did. A single cup was enough. What vampires truly craved was the blood of their mates, which made them stronger—another reason her father was so determined for her to marry. 

The ones who harmed humans by draining them were the rogues. Long ago, they had hidden in the shadows, back when Luci had gone into exile and the Mountain Spirit ruled. But now that the Mountain Spirit was gone, the rogues had returned. That was why the shadow vampires now existed in greater numbers than ever—and why they were needed.

After the death of Jackson, the leader assigned directly to the king, Dante—once part of Jackson's crew—had risen to take command. Though the shadow vampires roamed the caves and kept to the shadows, the king had ensured they still served the throne, not just their own kind.

Her father was also one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His dark raven hair had been trimmed short, only making him look even sharper. His face was hard, taut with strength, his eyes a swirling mix of blood-red and black from the power he carried. And most magnificent of all were his wings—wings that only appeared when he chose to summon them.

There was no doubt he was powerful enough to protect them all—and he took that duty seriously—though sometimes, he forgot that Margaret could protect herself too.

Just like now, he shot daggers at Dante, then briefly glanced at her with a frown.

"Margaret, sweetheart," he said—not shouting, never shouting. His voice stayed calm, even with the tension cutting through every word. That was one of the things she loved most about him: no matter how upset he grew with her, he never raised his voice.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to finish dressing for the ball."

Her hands clasped tightly at her sides. Somehow, even though she loved her father deeply, she still wanted to stay here, close to Dante. 

"I never asked for the ball, and you know that," she said, her chest heaving. 

Seeing her distress, his face softened. 

"My princess, you know we are only doing what's best for you."

"Marriage isn't what I want. Not now—not when I can barely hone my powers." 

She cast a brief glance at Dante; his dark gaze was locked onto hers, and she wondered what he was thinking.

Her father shot Dante a look, quick but sharp, before returning his attention to her. She knew he was furious enough to tear Dante apart, but he would never do it while she was here. He loved her too much to reveal that monstrous side in front of her. Yet she had seen it—those moments he thought she hadn't—and she feared what he might do to Dante if she ever left them alone.

"This is the last place you should be, my dear. I don't want you to get hurt," he said, concern threading his voice.

"Dante didn't hurt me," she said firmly.

There was a shift in King Draven's eyes. He didn't like the sound of her words—just as he had feared when he heard the princess was missing. He had thought she had escaped the castle, but he had tracked her scent and followed it here. 

Of course, he knew the shadow vampire hadn't harmed her, not with how adamantly she defended him. Still, that could easily be because she simply didn't want to attend the ball.

He didn't trust the shadow vampires—especially after what had happened to Louisiana, the Mountain Spirit. 

The thought unsettled him, a reminder of the growing vulnerability spreading through the realm, both among humans and supernaturals. Even with his wife, himself, and the shadow vampires combined, it wasn't enough. Until the Mountain Spirit was found, true peace remained out of reach.

"Come here, my dear," he called in the softest, most coaxing voice he could muster.

But Margaret didn't move. Now he saw that she was trembling.

He sighed and stepped toward her. He and Sebastian had often shared drinks and clashed their glasses, laughing and lamenting the same thing: being a father to daughters was no easy task. It wasn't enough to coax their wives; they had to do the same for their girls too.

Margaret didn't back away as he approached. Before she could speak, he wrapped his arms around her. She melted into his embrace, and the tears she hadn't meant to shed began to fall.

"I do not want to be at the ball," she whispered.

"I know, my sweet, I know," he said, gently rubbing her hair.

"Father, please," she begged, her voice cracking.

"Alright," he said softly, leaning back to smile at her. Seeing she was sniffing, he brushed her cheek, wiping away her tears with his fingers. 

"It's fine if you don't go. I'll talk to your mother and explain that you're too upset about it, so she won't pressure you."

Margaret's eyes widened. She searched his face, looking for any hint of doubt, but his gaze remained genuine.

"Oh, Father," she sobbed, the tears spilling again. "I really don't have to go? Is that alright?"

"Of course it is," he murmured, gently rubbing her shoulder. "Now, don't cry, my sweet. We'll never force you to do anything you don't want to."

Margaret nodded. She had never truly told her parents how upset she was about the ball. Of course, she had said she didn't want to go—but she had never shown them how deeply it affected her. All her frustration had remained a silent rant inside her mind. She had been so convinced they wouldn't care that she hadn't realized how much they truly did. They cared enough to see past her anger and fear, and now she realized she had only been too scared—too hurt—to trust that.

"I'll never run away again. I'll never make you worry," she said, pouting. "Are you angry with me?"

"Oh no, my sweet," he sighed, pulling her a little closer. "Never."

Margaret glanced briefly at Dante. His gaze was fixed on the open windows, bathed in moonlight.

"He did nothing," she said quietly to her father.

Draven's eyes flicked to Dante. The king wanted to do more than just glare; part of him ached to unleash his anger. But seeing the lingering sadness finally wash away from his daughter's face, he forced himself to stay calm.

"I'll go with you," Draven said, even though every fiber of him still bristled at the thought of letting the shadow vampire go.

Margaret relaxed, mouthing thank you, the last traces of fear fading from her eyes, and that was all he ever wanted.

He took her hand gently and led her outside, not sparing a glance at the broken door. But just before stepping out, Draven looked back at Dante.

Their eyes met, and with a single sharp nod, Draven made it clear: they would have a conversation later.