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I DO FEEL LIKE A PRINCESS.

All I'm missing is the crown.

One of Angel's tailors speaks in Italian, firing out rapid commands as she surveys my body. This is likely the eighth dress I've tried on and it's a pale lilac that hugs my body and drips to the floor. It's beautiful, but the tailor―Berina―doesn't seem to approve.

Another dress is brought over, this one a deep, rich blue, and I try it on. I learned about seven dresses ago that I don't have privacy. Berina watches me, unabashed, as the lilac dress drops to the floor and pools at my feet. I tug on the blue dress and admire the way it froths around me, like a tidal wave rising from the ground.

Another series of rapid-fire commands from Berina, and the other tailors go scurrying off.

I twirl in the mirror, the dress sifting around me like an ocean. I love it.

But it seems like it's not the right one. I'm half ready to just throw myself onto the floor and insist on wearing pyjamas, but then I think of Angel's worshipping look. It's been a while since I've dressed up, since I've even been clean, and honestly? I want to look beautiful. I want to feel beautiful―even if it's only for tonight.

So I unzip out of the blue dress, because Berina must be seeing some flaw that I'm not.

As an attendant takes it away, I see Berina give me a sympathetic look. Her dark eyes are soft like chocolate as she says in broken English, "It's beautiful. You are beautiful. But is not you, this dress. Is not your look."

Finally, what must be an eternity later, I slip into this soft black thing of a dress. I am already sighing, ready to take it off, until I actually catch myself in the mirror.

And gasp.

And stare.

And stare, and stare, and stare.

Holy . . .

Yes, this is the dress. This is definitely the dress.

Berina barks out more orders, but she doesn't tell me to take off the dress. Instead, she gives me an approving look. This time, makeup and hair specialists come in and demand that I close my eyes and straighten my posture.

By the time they're done with me, it's almost time to leave.

I know Angel and the others are waiting downstairs. I've taken the longest, and it isn't even my fault. Every time I insisted we'd be late, Berina would pat my back and say that, "Beauty takes time."

So as I'm hurrying through the corridors, trying not to stumble as my heels click against the marble tile, I realize I haven't even seen myself in the mirror yet. I don't know what I look like.

I pause at the top of the stairs. I can see Angel down below, and my breath catches. She is dressed in a red suit. The blazer is casually open, and covering her torso is a black translucent lace top. Her heels are high and thick, and her black hair is up for once, twisted into an elegantly messy bun. God, does she look gorgeous. And fuckable. And beautiful. Her red mouth curves into a dark grin when she sees me, and I descend the stairs.

With every step, I feel more confident. Angel's eyes trail me lazily, a cocky smile playing at her lips as she holds out her arm for me. With a dangerous look of my own, I put my hand through her arm, my gloved fingers brushing her bare skin.

Then, as we make our way onto the driveway, she whispers something into my ear that makes my toes curl.

I'm still thinking about it, dazed, when Dominic says, "Meet you there."

I snap out of it. "We're not going with you?"

Dominic shakes his head and Angel winks at me. "No," Angel says, her voice deep and throaty. Sexy. "We're taking the motorcycle."

My heart starts to pound, but my thoughts are still on the words she breathed against my neck before.

In one smooth motion, Angel puts her slender hands against my waist and lifts me onto the back of the motorcycle. She guns the engine, and the reverberation through the engine sends heat racing through my blood. And especially between my legs.

I lean forward and tuck my arms around Angel's waist, nestling my head on her shoulder. With a backwards glance, she revvs the motorcycle once more. And then we're off into the night.

The last time I rode her motorcycle, it was daytime. Morning breeze whipped through my hair and sun shone down on the cobblestone streets. Now, though―now, I have no words. The night sky is as soft as velvet above us, the stars glittering like specks of glistening paint. For the first time in two weeks, I feel heartsick for art. I haven't drawn or painted anything since I've been with Angel, and suddenly I want to sketch her. The way her hair shines, the way her eyes crinkle, the way her mouth moves.

The city shimmers around us, lit with windows and lamps and light, like we've created our own personal kingdom of stars down here in Italy. The cobblestone is glossy with shadow and the night wind now is crisp and cool against my cheeks. I feel free. I feel endless.

Angel's skin is hot, and I can feel her heartbeat, moving fast. I wish I could kiss her right now. This feeling, I love it―I love this. I never want it to end.

Too soon, we arrive at the steps of the Museum.

Angel gets off the motorcycle and lifts me down. Her hands tingle around my waist, and I want her to keep touching me.

"One last thing," she says, a dark, secret smile on her lips. And she pulls out a black, lacy mask. "For the ball, my princess."

I blush, knowing she can't see it. I take the mask and place it over my face, wondering what I look like.

From the way Angel is staring, reverent, I might as well be some goddess. An unearthly creature, spun from twilight and stardust.

"Tu sei bella," Angel says. You are beautiful.

"You're not so bad yourself," I reply. Actually, she's stunning: her lips are that signature red, her hazel eyes are fiery, and she looks like she could be royalty. There is power in every dancing touch, every playful smile of hers.

Then for a moment, she looks ashamed. But it passes so quickly I must have imagined it.

The inside of the Museum is lit, and it buzzes with the heat of so many people dancing, swaying, swirling. Tonight feels magical.

As we move towards the center of the crowd, making our way to the heart of the dance, I see Vittoria.

Even with a mask, that tall, lean frame and willowy dress gives her away.

"Wait," I whisper to Angel. "I have to see Vittoria."

I push through the people and find my way to her. Her long neck is visible with her dark hair tied up, and I tap her shoulder from behind. She swings around, and I can tell she's already had too much to drink.

"Hey," I say, lowering my voice. "Is he still there?"

By he, I mean Nathan. My stepbrother, who attacked Vittoria and I in our dorm only hours earlier. We left him tied up in the bathroom and Vittoria gave him a good hit on the head, but I still worry now.

Vittoria hiccups.

Once we got released from jail, Vittoria separated from us and went back to the dorm. Even though I told her to come back with us, she refused. Said she needed something. She promised she'd meet us later, and here she is. But she's incredibly drunk.

I'm surprised, too. She told me once that Europeans drink from a very early age, so they have a very high tolerance. That means she must have drank a lot in order to be so lightheaded and bubbly as she is right now.

"You look . . . so beautiful, Cade," Vittoria says, clutching her drink to her chest. "I always wanted you to dress up, remember?"

"Of course I remember," I say soothingly. "Your dresses were very pretty."

"I'm glad," Vittoria hiccups, "I'm glad you dressed up tonight. Your girl must think you are . . . very beautiful."

I don't even protest the "my girl" part. I say, "She does."

"That is . . . good, very . . . good," Vittoria says, her eyes almost sliding closed. She hiccups, which seems to startle her awake, and then she takes a swig of her drink.

Suddenly I get the feeling something is wrong.

"Vittoria," I say, "You never answered my question. Where's Nathan?"

She gives me a little chirping laugh, and I practically rip the glass out of her hand and slam it onto the table. I'm not mad, I'm afraid.

"Where is he?"

"Gone," Vittoria says with a little laugh. "Gone! Poof! Just like that."

Shit. Bitch. Motherfucker. Not good, not good, not good―

"Okay," I say, trying to calm myself. "Okay, here, I need you to stay here. Don't leave the party. Don't go to the bathroom. Just stay in the middle of the dance. Blend in. Can you do that for me?"

Vittoria nods sternly, then breaks out into laughter.

I grab her shoulders. "Please. Can you you? Can I trust you?"

This time, she says, "Si, of course."

"Stay safe," I say, and then I peck her cheek and take off. I need to warn Angel, I need to tell her . . .

Throughout the crowd, I see a flash of red disappear down a hallway. I run after her, my heels clicking on the tile, my breath coming in pants. The hallway is empty and I turn the corner, slowing down. Where is she?

This doesn't feel right. No, this doesn't feel right at all. I start to back away, and then two warm, large hands land on my shoulders.

"Going somewhere, Cady?"

I turn around. Nathan's blue eyes are looking down at me through his scarlet-coloured mask. I choke down my fear and say, "Get the hell out of my way." My voice is even, calm, but I tremble a little.

Nathan doesn't miss it―the little quiver in my lip. He says, "I don't think so, princess. How about we have a little chat? I wanted to talk earlier, but you didn't seem to be home."

Then I notice the bruise on his temple. This is revenge. We knocked him out and tied him up; I almost laugh at the absurdity. Of course he wants revenge. Of course he wants me to pay. And pay I will.

I know exactly what Nathan's price will be.

>>>

Alright, so here's a little cliffhanger for y'all. I won't reveal more, and I won't keep talking either, because you guys probably want to get to the next chapter. By all means, see you soon!

From the moon and back,
Sarai

PS. I love you so much! You guys are crazy for making this happen. Chasing Her wouldn't be here without all of your support.