The retreat to Kaia's bedchamber in the East Wing was executed with the speed and silence of a military evacuation.
The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, Prince Beckett sagged against it, burying his face in his hands. He let out a long, shaky breath that ruffled his chocolate-brown hair.
"My brother," Beckett whispered into his palms, "is a lunatic. A terrifying, ice-wielding, croquet-destroying lunatic."
Kaia collapsed onto the edge of her chaise lounge, her sea-foam green skirts pooling around her. Her heart was still racing, the phantom chill of the ice cube burning against her collarbone.
"You don't know the half of it, Beckett," she muttered, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks. "If the Empress hadn't sent Victoria into the pavilion, I think he would have ruined me right there on the refreshment table."
