The Fleeing Princess
“You’ve outplayed them all.”
Adrian raised his glass, lips curving in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Victory should have felt intoxicating. Instead, the crystal glass in his hand caught the candlelight, a deep red glow shimmering within—like blood, like the curve of a woman’s lips.
Like her.
Isabella Russo. Reckless, stubborn, impossibly alive.
He blinked, and all he could see was her stumbling out of that cell—skin pale as death, body broken, but eyes still blazing with defiance.
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