Roy willed his whirring mind into sobriety as he half stumbled, half tiptoed, down the corridor after Elise Belmont.

He knew subtlety wasn't really his thing, and even less so when he was drunk, but right at this moment, he needed to embrace the true gravity of the situation. The direness, that Elise, or Alisa Orlov, could be the spy amongst his Selected.

Alisa herself had disappeared. He couldn't catch up to her now. Guard patrol around the Great Ballroom itself, where his party was being held, would be heavy, but the rest of the palace would be light in comparison, and not every corridor was installed with CCTV footage. She could be anywhere right now.

Which was why it was so important to Roy that he find Elise. If he couldn't find one, he was stuck with the other – determined to uncover her innocence or guilt.

Elise, too, looked like she was trying hard not to be seen. Each corner, she double-checked for guard patrols, before whizzing down with padded footsteps. Roy followed, crouching at each corner to make sure she didn't turn around to spot him. The alcohol made this particularly difficult, and he often spent more time trying to find his balance standing up again than actually following her. Sweat lashed down his back, and his mouth turned dry.

Far from the Selected's quarters, she rounded a staircase and began to climb. Roy watched her disappeared above the golden bannisters before tiptoeing behind. He nearly walked into a pot plant, and forced himself to crawl up the stairs to keep himself balanced and quiet.

When he emerged on the second floor, Roy peered around.

Swathes of pale green tulle breezed around another corner.

Where was she going?

There was almost nothing in this section of the palace, save for empty billiards rooms. If Elise wanted information or documents, she was in the entirely wrong place.

Then again, if she wanted a secluded area to meet with superiors… this was perfect.

He took a step forwards.

"Roy!"

Roy yelped – spinning and tripping on his own legs, and collapsing onto the floor. The impact felt distant, and he frenzied to stand, staring at the staircase.

Strawberry-blonde hair, crowned upon a pale head, greeted him first, and then the deep blue, near purple, eyes of Ambrosia Nichols. Moonlight seemed to soak into her, giving her a glow like fairy dust. Her dress flared at her waist in a turquoise shade like stolen shards of sea glass.

There was something about the way she held herself that spoke of confidence, of radiance. How she lifted her chin to peer down her nose, how her hands fitted in the nook of her waist, how her grin sparkled with mischief.

"Roy," she said again, near breathless. It was laced with a boom, like thunder racing down a knife edge. "Where are you going?"

It was the most he'd heard her say without some form of stutter or stammer. And each word she said staring directly at him, no shying. Even saying his name, without his title, felt strong and sturdy beneath her lips.

She was drunk, he realised.

The drunk Ambrosia was daring and brave. He could sense her presence like that of a Greek goddess.

He swept himself off, hoping she didn't see him fall over. "My party isn't very airy," he rambled, the alcohol still whizzing through his brain. "And I needed some air."

"Good. I needed to see you," she purred, "… alone."

His cheeks heated, those words alone enough to stir something in his gut.

She grinned – then, in her heels, strode over to him. Gently, she placed a hand on his chest. He could feel her warmth beneath his shirt, oozing with pleasure at her touch. And, just as gently, she pushed him to the wall.

Where… was this going?

Roy managed a shaky smirk, but he was too wound up inside, and too drunk to straighten it. In her heels, she was marginally taller than him. "Are you accosting me, Lady Ambrosia?"

The wall was cold against his back – a welcome feeling, as the rest of him burnt like sauna coals. Ambrosia kept a safe distance away, but there was hunger in her, by the lick of her sensuous lips, the sultry undertone of her voice. The gap between them was thick with electricity, and like magnetism, he could feel her pulling towards him.

"I might be," she crooned, closing that gap by a slow, teasing inch. "I've… wanted to do this for a long time, Roy."

He let out a low chuckle, but there were nerves tremoring his voice. "Pin me to a wall?"

And now, she pressed herself against his body, which sent sparks spritzing along his chest and arms, and adrenaline and lust surged through him with fury. But Roy held still, the rational conscience still present in his head demanding he remain steady.

Elise was still out there. And Alisa. Both potential spies. He couldn't be here… doing whatever this was.

Ambrosia leant forwards with a dangerous flicker of arrogance. With her head inclined below him, he felt her breath against his neck first, warm and sticky.

And then, she bit.

Passion roared in him, turned furious from the wet lash of her tongue, the clip of her teeth against him and Roy nearly buckled onto her. He tried to stifle the low groan that burst free from his throat, but it came out gurgled and pleading instead. She kissed his neck generously, desperately, as if a woman begging for air, and Roy let her, moaning softly, his mind completely swept from any and all problems.

Ambrosia broke off for a moment to press her wet lips to below his ear. "You like that?"

He could see gold spots against his half-lidded vision. "Er," was all he could manage.

She pecked him gently across the nape of his neck, then, slowly, dragging her kisses upwards. "Good," she whispered.

And then he tasted it. Her breath.

It was as sweet as citrus fruits and wine. Wine. She leant closer, to capture his lips in her own, but the scent of heavy alcohol was all he needed to gently pry her fingers from his chest and push her away. The cold that attacked him was flinching.

"Ambrosia," he said, his voice quivering with that pleasure, slowly slipping away. "Ambrosia. You're drunk."

She lifted an eyebrow. "So?" She winked. "I'm still happy to make out with you."

"I'm flattered, and really into this, but…" he whispered, hoping not to shatter whatever confidence she had gained. "You should… sober up, if you want to do this with me. Before doing anything."

A pout crossed her. "Why? My drunk actions are just sober thoughts. I'd still want this when I'm not drunk."

"Doesn't mean this is okay." Each word felt like he was cutting her with a glass shard.

Her frowned turned to steel. "You've made out with tons of girls drunk."

It was true. "The difference is, they'd kiss me sober, too. You… wouldn't."

Ambrosia peeled her fingers from him, and the last of her clinging warmth floated away. Her frown was dipped in hurt, in rejection. "I… have a massive crush on you, Roy. I do want to kiss you when I'm sober," she clarified slowly, nearly desperately. "But I can't, because I chicken out even talking to you."

"Therein lies the problem," Roy said. "Overcome that first. Then… we'll see."

A slash of pain flickered sharply in her eyes. "I… I…"

Roy had very rarely been on the rejected side of a courtship – made worse by being the forefront of a Selection – but he could see the dashes of hope that had eddied in her when she ascended that staircase withering into wisps, as fragile as broken dreams.

He whispered, "I'm sorry." The words sobered him.

Ambrosia took a step back. "I…" Her hand trembled, and she lifted it to her face – which had suddenly turned pale. "I… I—"

Without warning, she sprinted to the nearest pot plant, fell to her knees and vomited, the noise echoing off the hallway.

Roy gawked. She… felt sick, this whole time? The drinks had probably gone through her system too quickly. Perhaps she'd never had a sip of alcohol in her life, and her body couldn't cope.

Well, it definitely wasn't his taste… right?

The sounds of her retching nearly made him want to hurl, too, so he quickly ran laps of the wing to find a maid. The maid followed him hurriedly, and when they returned to find that Ambrosia hadn't moved from the pot plant, and a nasty smell had arisen, the maid helped her find a bathroom.

As abruptly as it had started, it had ended.

Still, Roy couldn't calm his heart, hammering within his ribcage as if it was desperate for release. He knew he made the right decision, of course, but what if he didn't stop her? What would the fearsome, gallant Ambrosia have been like at kissing?

He probably would have been puked on, is one thing. He'd been on the doing end many times, but he didn't fancy trying the receiving.

Hopefully, she would be okay. Hopefully, she would forget this entirely by tomorrow morning. Ambrosia struggled to hold a conversation with him, and after that performance…

A thought rammed itself in its place. Elise.

On his jog to find a maid to help Ambrosia, he hadn't seen her. Or Alisa.

It was too late now. He'd never find them in the maze of corridors. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, would remain a secret for now.

But he was still alive. If the rebels really had planned an attack for tonight, now would be an ample opportunity to attack.

They were just at the bathroom. They had to be. When he would return to his party, they'd be there again. Fine.

Roy gathered his thoughts and made his way back to the Great Ballroom.

=#=#=#=

=#=#=#=

Roy's party continued fine in his absence, and, the moment he stepped through the door, he vaulted over the obstacle that was his drunken brain to count his remaining Selected.

And noticed, with seizing horror, that another girl were missing: Delia Colestrist.

He didn't know when she'd left, or why, but it was another puzzle piece in an unsolvable jigsaw. He tried asking Levinia if she'd seen Delia leave, but Levinia couldn't hear him – and nor, by the movement of her eager feet to the music, in her sparkling, diaphanous dress, did it seem like she wanted the prince ruining her vibe.

Deflated, Roy approached the bar for another drink. The bartender began to shake the cocktail maker with the apple vodka before Roy had even leant his head in his hands on the countertop.

What the hell was happening? He couldn't even fathom it. Now that the alcohol had run dry in his system, the same thoughts that had plagued him crowded back into his thoughts.

He shoved them away, snarling at no one, and snapped his fingers. "Hurry up."

The bartender squeaked. "Y-Yes, Your Highness!"

He didn't deserve the attitude from Roy, and Roy knew it, but he was trying desperately to keep his ravenous demons at bay.

Luna shuffled up to join him at the bar. "Whiskey sour, please," she said.

Roy shoved away his thoughts again – knowing that, like the tide, they would return – and chuckled. "Didn't take you as a whiskey girl."

"Didn't take you as an idiot," she snapped with venom.

Roy drew back. "Whoa. Angry drunk?"

She met his gaze. Her dress was short, the hem coloured like piano keys, and her jacket was embroidered with baroque design. It was the perfect outfit for a night twirled away on the dance floor, and Roy could imagine her fitting right in at the Angeles clubs they'd never spoken to each other at.

"I'm not even tipsy, Roy," she muttered. "Having a party, after the Bonfire Ball? Are you crazy?"

He fixed her with a cold look. "I wanted to de-stress. Is that a crime?"

It bounced harmlessly over her equally icy exterior. "There are ways to de-stress that don't involve putting yourself at risk of another drugging."

He wiggled his glass. "I took all the precautions, Luney-Loo. Even had a poison checker. Relax." He nodded her head to his outfit, and a compliment stumbled from him before he could stop. "You look stunning today. Nice piano dress. Looks like music could lilt from the very fabric."

Even that didn't seem to warm her. "Thank you, but know that this isn't helping to repair your ties with the Selected after the Bonfire Ball incident." She drew her shoulders up. "After I heard Katrina's message, it's pretty clear to me you don't care anymore."

Vexed, Roy hissed, "As much as I don't care to have this conversation anymore."

Luna's eyebrows lifted. "But Roy—"

Prickles of light snatched his attention, and he swung to face the open doors, eager for mental respite. Was it Alisa, Elise, or Delia? Or maybe all three? And they hadn't been contacting their rebel friends?

His eyes locked immediately with Alex Windsor. His hair, which was usually coiffed to form that sloping shape on his head, seemed to fall flat from the day's hard work, and his suit and woolly jumper were creased. Not as creased, though, as the anger lines on his face.

Roy groaned. Why? What part of not invited did Barney not convey to Alex?

He didn't hear Alex yelling his name as the doors shut, but he could see it, with each sharp spit of his mouth. Downing his drink, and ignoring Luna besides him, Roy slid over to meet Alex halfway between the doors and the bar.

"I'm not sure you got the memo, cousin, but I don't like you. Please leave." Roy said, the insult unleashing a deep writhe of anger within him. "Don't let the door hit you on the butt on the way out."

Alex bore his teeth. "And you didn't even have the guts to tell me yourself that we weren't invited to… whatever this is." He glanced around fleetingly, his disgust growing each second. "Everyone in the palace seems to have an invite. So where was mine?"

Roy narrowed his eyes, which caused his balance to waver. "Nonsense. Barney and Leeza aren't invited, either. And, unlike you," Roy tapped on his temple, "it seems to have got through their thick, thick skulls."

Alex's eyes passed to the glass in Roy's hand, and he sneered. "Big talk from someone who doesn't know their own limit. Do you enjoy drinking so much you can't even walk anymore, Fitz?"

If he knew about the drugging, no doubt, he'd be swallowing his words like lead. But Roy commanded a smirk onto his face, and pointed to the door – his arm wobbled. "The door. That'a way."

But the twin crossed his arms. "No. You know, since I'm here, perhaps I'll stay for a while. Watch the scene." He lowered his head, so that not even the crystal light of the disco ball could wash away the shadows on his cheeks. "You may be Prince Regent, but you don't have the power to remove me forcibly."

Roy knew too well that Alex would take out his camera phone and snap a photo of him walking into a wall, or something equally as stupid, the minute he turned around.

About to retort, Chiara stomped her way over. Her face was flushed crimson – Roy couldn't tell if it was because of alcohol or her general rage – and it clashed with a simple, deep green dress that hugged her hips.

With a glass in one hand, and an accusing finger pointing at Alex, she yelled. "Idiota, you're not invited!"

He turned to her, nostrils flaring. "How dare you refer to me as that term!" he bellowed right back, straightening his back. "I am Alexander Windsor, heir to the throne of the United Kingdom Common—"

Chiara snorted and tossed her drink at him.

The liquid splashed against his suit with an accompanied yelp from Alex, seeping into his woolly jumper and trousers. The smell arose in an instant, something fruity and balmy – citrus and saccharine cherry.

She glared at him. "That's for the Bonfire Ball, when you threw your drink at Prince Roy!" Her voice carried across the room. "That's right, we saw! And we don't forgive!"

Alex clamped his mouth shut, but his cheeks bloated the most furious scarlet Roy had ever seen, and it took him a serious amount of willpower to stop bursting out with laughter.

Alex's hands clenched to fists, and his arms shook. "How— How dare—" he began, but cut himself off. "You will regret this!"

He shot a pure look of loathing Roy's way, before spinning on his heel and marching out of the ballroom with as much dignity as he had left. The drink dribbled from the hem of his jacket, leaving a trail of droplets in his wake. Roy released his tension, that same throaty sound of raw laughter exploding from him in a fit of giggles.

Chiara grinned and dusted herself off. "What an idiota." Then, her laser gaze zeroed on Roy, and she slapped his arm. "Don't think you're off the hook, though! A party is something only an idiota would have!"

It wasn't meant to hurt, the slap to his arm – but he yelped anyway between the laughs. "I'm sorry, but his face—" He laughed again. "So worth it."

Chiara cracked a grin then, allowing giggles to slip by her. Other girls who had been watching, like Skye and Avianna, hooted with laughter, swept up by the moment. Roy would never forget that face of Alex's. So long as he lived. Revenge was spicy, and served by Chiara Romani-Carriedo.

"Thanks, Chiara," he said, with a grin. "Always willing to do what no one else will."

She snorted. "Someone had to slap him from the dream world he was in."

He turned, nearly bumping into Ferelith. She flinched, but she stood so close, so strategically in the way, that it appeared she was standing there for a reason. Her pastel pink dress, that kissed her knees in gentle waves, was nearly devoured by the darkness of the room. Her hair had been styled down with tucking plaits, and white flowers bloomed from the strands. Her appearance was opposite entirely to Ambrosia's strong presence, despite their similar shyness, but yet still a new perspective on an ethereal goddess.

Ferelith wrung her hands together. "Y-Your Highness," she greeted.

He felt a yearning sensation trickle over him, and the desire to sweep her into his arms along with it. "Lady Ferelith. You look beautiful, as always."

A flush crept onto her cheeks. "T-Thank you. Erm…" It was hard to hear her over the music. "I… I was wondering… if you'd like to dance…?"

His interest piqued. He'd never taken Ferelith as someone who would go out of her way to ask. With no drink in her hand, Roy couldn't figure out whether it was heat of the moment, or drink coursing through her skin, that gave her such a boost of confidence.

A bouncy song captivated the speakers, and Roy offered his arm. "I'd be so honoured to dance that I might fall flat on my face."

She let out a giggle, looping her arm with his, and they melted onto the dance floor. Unlike his dance with Lilly, where they had been mostly separated, Roy and Ferelith clung to one another, and he gently spun her across the floor like a petal in the wind. He wasn't exactly on time – and he could have sworn he stepped on her foot at one point – but Ferelith was smiling, so he was happy to dance, too.

"O-Oh," she said, suddenly – his hands were on her waist, hers braced against his chest. "Y-You also look handsome today. I… forgot to say that earlier. Sorry."

Pleasure brimmed through him, pulsating through his heart, and he winked. "No need to be sorry. I do adore a delayed compliment."

She might have giggled, but it was consumed by the music. And when the song ended, so to, did their dancing slow to a stop. Ferelith's blush had never truly disappeared, but it seemed to shine from her face as she stepped away and focused on the parquet flooring again.

"Yo, yo, yo!" said a voice – the DJ. His bright blue hair swished as he moved. "I wanna' throw a shout out to my boy, Prince Roy, for the sick party he's dishing!"

Roy didn't even know who this man was. Rocket – or was it Skull?

"Your dancing is top quality, my man, my ladies," the DJ continued, scratching some of his records. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Then, realisation slapped Roy.

The twerk-off.

He still owed Maeve a twerk-off, promised so long ago, at their first meeting.

Confidence roared through him as the alcohol settled. He bowed his head towards Ferelith – who shied a curtsy – and sauntered up to the microphone on stage.

"Hello, ladies, friends." His eyes pranced over every person in the room – his Selected, the other party-goers he hadn't bothered speaking too, the dancers, the bartenders. "Prince Roy is here – and I completely, totally forgot about something that needs to be done. Like, it really needs to be done. Or else the world will end, kind of need."

A pall of seriousness, of anticipation, descended on the room. Roy quickly counted the Selected again, and along with Ambrosia, those vital three girls were missing. Where had they gone?

The question slipped out of his grasp as he refocused on the task – clashing his gaze with Maeve; it was hard to miss her mass of curls. He pointed at her dramatically. "I believe I owe a twerk-off to Lady Maeve Reynolds!"

Gasps flittered amongst the Selected, as if they'd all forgotten too, and remembering had been just as shocking. A round of challenging oohs followed. Maeve's laugh flowed above them all, and she pointed right back.

"I'd nearly forgotten," she said. "If it's a challenge you want, Your Royalness, it's a challenge you'll get!"

Roy's laugh thundered from the speakers. "Then it's settled." His mind raced too fast for his tongue. "But let's make this interesting. How about we add a bet?"

A tense, charged silence.

"What do you suggest?" Maeve yelled, lifting an eyebrow.

"If I win the popular vote, you…"

He roved his eyes over her, thinking of some form of punishment, some way to make this the most intense dance-off to ever occur – and he settled on her hair. The frizz had died over the night, but there was still enough curl to make it look like an explosion.

He grinned wickedly. "You have to cut your hair short."

"Ooh!" screeched the eager crowd – Roy could definitely discern Skye and Avianna's voices.

Maeve instinctively wrapped a lock around her finger, but her grin was equal in wickedness. "Oh, I'm attached to my hair – literally and figuratively. Good thing I don't have to worry about cutting it because I won't lose."

"Big words," Roy taunted. "Care to prove them?"

"Only if," Maeve paused, soaking in the tension, "you agree that, if you lose, you cut your hair short."

Thick gasps ruptured the crowd, all staring at Roy with desperate eyes.

Likewise, Roy was also fond of his hair. He could feel it, slicked with sweat, in a ponytail over his back. Personally, he always thought he looked better with long hair…

But he wasn't about to refuse the challenge, the defiance in Maeve's eyes.

"Deal."

The crowd boomed with cheer.

Skye bellowed. "Twerk-off! Twerk-off!" and the crowd began to chant along.

Roy descended the stage with a swagger in his step. Now he had a true reason, and stakes apart from his dignity, not to lose. His hair bounced on his back like a river of ink, and it occurred to him, that if he did lose the twerk-off, so to would he lose a trait he was so infamous for. His long hair had been a part of him ever since he'd decided to grow it out: tabloids focused on it for months.

The tabloids would rave if he cut his hair.

But today would not be that day.

Maeve was way taller than Roy, so when he stepped up to her to give a challenging glare, and an extended hand to show good will, he had to lift his head. There was an intimidating, excited glower right back at him. Maeve did not let down.

"Good luck," she said.

Their hands clashed. Her palms were sweaty, but her hold was strong. She was a worthy opponent.

"Likewise," said Roy.

Skye skidded onto the floor. Her dress fluttered out behind her as she splayed her arms dramatically, a stolen microphone in one of her hands. "We are here to witness the greatest battle to ever occur in the century of the palace: the fight for dignity, the fight for class, and, most importantly, the fight to keep their hair. Guys, gals, and pals, it's time for…" she paused, "the twerk-off!"

The crowd gathered in a circle around the competitors, leaving enough space to go wild with dance moves. Cheers erupted from them. Avianna bounced on the spot, pumping her fist. Ferelith had turned deathly pale, a ghost amongst her peers. Levinia yelled things, but Roy couldn't discern them, and Chiara stomped her feet furiously as if trying to create her own stampede.

Skye's skills as announcer came to light, as she frolicked across the circle with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. "It's time to see who can twerk, and who's the jerk with too much faith in their dancing skills." She pointed at Roy. "Show us what you have! Give us a beat, DJ!"

DJ Skull obliged, and a hip-hop tune Roy didn't recognise blasted through the speakers.

He bobbed his head until the tune enraptured him. He grabbed Regina's drink, downed it, and handed the glass back to her. Time to shine.

Time seemed to blur. He squatted and moved his hips, letting the music flow through him like liquid fire. The crowd roared, and lights and colour blurred around him. He threw his arms to the ground and twerked towards the ceiling, towards his audience for variety. Roy had no idea how he was doing, but the crowd egged him on, drinking his wonderful and terrible dancing.

He shook his butt like he'd never shook it before.

The music stopped, and roars and cheers erupted. Roy stood upright, flashing a grin, pushing down the fatigue grappling him and odd clenching of his stomach.

"Epic!" Avianna yelled.

"Excellent work, Your Highness!" screamed Regina.

Even Eulalia was shouting and signing all at once, next to Lilly, whose eyes had grown to the size of golf balls in awe-married-horror.

"That was Prince Roy, everyone!" Skye said, pointing at him. "The first time you can ever say a prince has twerked!"

Roy soaked in their praise, bowing with hand twirls in each direction.

"But will it," Skye continued, her breaths hot against the microphone, "be enough to destroy Maeve Reynolds?!"

Maeve had crossed her arms, watching with a guilty smile.

"Not bad, Your Highness. Not bad, at all. You did better than I expected." She stole one step in her giant heels – one step, enough to shoot a clamber of that intimidation down his spine, and a shot of worry for his hair. "But I'm afraid it won't be enough!"

"It's time!" Skye said. "Show us your moves, Maeve!"

Maeve gave him one last, pitiful look before she began to twerk.

It was magnificent.

She moved with such excellence. Each thrust of her hips in time to the beat was co-ordinated with a swing of her explosive hair, adding to the radiance of her performance. She stomped her feet, twisted her body with such finesse and elegance, and the crowd consumed it.

Amongst the competition gliding through Roy, did that worry spike.

Maeve was damn good at twerking.

And when the music stopped, Maeve rose and bowed, and the crowd went wild.

"And that has been the twerk-off!" Skye said, easing the crowd. "And it's time… to vote!" She gestured to Roy. "Who thinks our prince's prancing was up to par?!"

The roar was so loud, it could have destroyed the walls of the ballroom. Roy grinned. No loss for him, today.

Skye gestured to Maeve. "And what about our leading lady? Who thinks Maeve's skills soared?!"

But the roar for Maeve topped his – strong enough, surely, to destroy the walls of the palace. It could have found Alex and Barney, in whatever hole they were skulking in.

Oh, god, Roy thought to himself – his sober voice shattering through his drunken conscience. My hair!

Skye threw out her arms in Maeve's direction. "The people have spoken! The winner of the twerk-off is… Maeve Reynolds!"

Maeve jumped in the air, pumping her fist. "Yahoooooo!"

"Which means…" an evil glint caught Skye's eye, "that Prince Roy has to get a haircut!" She began to chant, "Haircut! Haircut!"

The crowd echoed, "Haircut! Haircut!" like hive mind.

Someone pulled a chair from the side tables and threw it into the empty circle, and Maeve gestured to the chair with a gleaming, satisfied grin.

He stuffed his rational voice away. "A deal is a deal."

The loss punctured him, but he didn't let it show as he sat down. From somewhere else, Roy spotted the silver sparkle of a pair of scissors.

"Haircut! Haircut!" the crowd yelled.

"Shall I cut his hair?" Maeve asked.

The crowd roared with delight.

"Shall I?" Maeve teased.

The crowd demanded the deal be seen through to the end.

She quickly leant down, and Roy could feel her breath on his ear. "Are you sure?"

The rational part of him whizzed back and bubbled with delight. She'd asked. Even with all this pressure, all this command from the people, Maeve was still willing to make sure he was okay with it.

Again, he punched that voice away. "I'm okay with it, don't worry." Then, he grinned with a dismissive flicker and said, louder for the crowd to hear, "Do your worst, Lady Maeve."

He didn't see it, but he heard the sharp, cold snip – and the release of weight on the back of his head. He heard the endless gasps, laughter, and satisfaction of the cheering crowd, and he heard Maeve, excited, brandishing the win.

My hair, the rational voice in him squeaked. You're so gonna' regret this in the morning.

But he was too far gone to care. About his hair. His duties. Anything.

Jittery and frenzied, he ran a hand over the back of his head.

Short, spiked hairs greeted him, weaving between his fingers like tufts of spring grass, freshly cut. It was such a shock to his hands, the new texture, that he flinched as he continued to run his hand up and down his head, until he copied with his other. It was an uneven chop, and his hair at the sides was longer than the other, but still stark.

He stood up, nearly piling onto the chair, and stumbled to the bar, his hands still locked in this new, foreign hairstyle. The bartender concocted another beverage for him, and he drank hungrily, not caring that he was downing too fast.

And then another hand, warm and slender, swept through his new hair.

"It suits you," said Riley, nearly whispering. "Needs to be neatened up."

He turned to face her. Her halter-neck top was veined with blue and red, and her skirt flowed down her figure like milk and honey, silky and smooth. She hadn't removed his hand, and his gut stirred with longing – the same longing that he'd experienced with Ambrosia.

He grinned guiltily. "I thought I looked hot whatever my hair looked like?"

"Mmm. Don't get cocky," she slurred. She'd obviously been drinking, too.

He stood up, inches taller than her, and pressed her hand to his head to keep her from taking it back, locking her warmth with her. "Too late."

Desire pillaging his other thoughts, feelings, emotions, he leant down to kiss her on the lips.

Riley didn't flinch, melting into the kiss as easily as he had, and somehow, their arms found one another – Roy's, around her waist, Riley's, around his shoulders. They stumbled to the wall and kissed, breath and heat clashing and mixing. The music pounded through his skin, his lungs, and his heart throbbed faster and faster than the beat.

Memories flooded back to him, and he realised how badly he'd yearned for attention like this – the contact, the passion. It was the best way to find another world, another universe, where it was just him and a woman. Together.

Riley broke off, biting her lower lip. "We should take this somewhere more… private…"

"Don't have to tell me twice," he mumbled into her cheeks, peppering her feverishly hot skin with wet kisses.

She dragged him out by collar, and Roy followed willingly. The light from the chandeliers burnt, but he shut his eyes, being dragged by Riley to a more secluded corridor to make out against the wall.

Riley pulled him close, squishing their bodies together. "I've missed this," she said, clawing the back of Roy's neck to remove any gap between them, plastering her lips onto his once more.

Blood roared in Roy's ears, and his grip on her waist tightened. He broke off for a moment, and her taste lingered in his mouth. "Same." Smirk. "You're a lot better at kissing than I remember."

She cocked a coy smile. "I seem to recall teaching you how to make out."

"I seem to recall you not getting enough of me."

A barked laugh. Riley fiddled with Roy's hair and spoke in a low voice, charged with flirtatiousness. "Well, you're not wrong there…"

He still remembered those days on the tour bus, when she'd wanted to go further, and he hadn't. He could feel the desire tearing through him now, and the idle thought of them creeping back to his or her bedroom teasing him, but if there was one thing that rational vestige of Roy could do, it was grant him willpower.

Then, he felt his stomach twist. Ignoring it, he focused on Riley. Smoking hot Riley, who was as desperate to savour him as much as he wanted to savour her.

He gently pinned her hands to the wall and captured her lips again. Riley lifted onto her tiptoes, embracing him, his tongue, with eagerness. Two souls, melding to become one, for just a flicker in time.

Footsteps behind wrenched Roy off her, and he turned.

Persephone froze – her heels curved around her toes, and her hands were suspended in midair, as if she had been trying to creep away as swiftly and silently as possible. Her dress looked like a night sky, doused in navy and sparkle.

She straightened immediately and waved. "Oh, no, you two go back to… that." A flash of hurt crossed her. "I was just… going to the bathroom."

Before Roy could respond, she hightailed it down the corridor.

Roy watched her figure disappear behind the corner. There was definitely a nearer ladies room, so why was she down here…? He peeled himself from Riley – she let out a tiny whimper at the cold, at the lost moment – and he glanced down the corridors.

His stomach lurched again, and turmoil began to brew within him. Like a rising sea of lava, brushing his insides, threatening.

Roy drove it down, and he faced Riley. "Okay, four of you have left the party since it began. I counted. Where is everyone going?"

Riley paled, and she broke eye contact for the first time tonight – instead, sweeping her skirt down from the wrinkles Roy's wandering hands had created. "I… er…"

Slight anger bubbled in his blood. "You're not telling me something."

Riley pried a wry smile, but she still didn't look at him. "I'm a private person, when it comes down to it, Roy."

Paranoia and anger and worry flushed out his lust. "It's not funny. Where are they all going?"

That churning yanked within him, and he recognised it – nausea.

He'd drank too fast, danced too quickly.

Grounding his teeth together, he sprinted after Persephone.

Riley called out, "Roy! Wait!" but he didn't stop, swerving around the corner.

They couldn't all be spies, right?

Persephone had slowed to a walk, thankfully, and she just disappeared around another corner. Roy forced his leaden feet into motion, ignoring the sudden dryness of his mouth. He banked around the corner, coming into the Women's Room hallway – the door was propped open, and Persephone walked in, the attendants were nowhere to be seen.

Noise and music wafted in soft cadence from the room as he neared. Cheery, vibrant pop beats and musical numbers, unlike the low rumble of the party music. Roy slowed, and when he reached the doors, the cosy, warm light like a sunset's glow spilling onto the carpet, he marched around the corner.

The white furniture had been pushed back into a rough semi-circle shape, the wide spaces decorated with thick, lush duvets, polka dot pillows, and plump beanbags. There were stacks of magazines and old books, and a fire roared in the mantelpiece, its warmth bleeding into the room.

And there was Elise, Alisa, Delia and Persephone. Elise and Alisa had changed into their pyjamas – Elise in a white nightdress, patterned with pink flowers, and Alisa in a white t-shirt and matching shorts with a Dachshund dog pattern. They removed the silver cloches from trays of finger sandwiches and miniature tarts on the coffee table. Delia was fluffing the pillows.

And then, just behind the sofas – Katrina.

Raking through his memory, he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed before; he hadn't seen Katrina at all at his party tonight. And she didn't appear to have made any effort, either, as her face was stripped of make-up, and her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, covering the straps of her satin crop top. She had a giant bag of marshmallows in one hand, and a fire poker in the other.

She froze – utterly froze – when she spotted Roy at the door. Elise, Delia and Alisa shot up to stand, and Persephone twirled around – all, taking that same shock, same undercurrent of fear.

The sleepover. They were still having the sleepover.

The one he wasn't invited to. The one he wasn't even told about.

Fracture turned to fissure within him. It wasn't even the sleepover, the fun, the laughs, that he would miss – it was just that the Selected girls seemed to be in their own world. Their complete independence from him these last few days tore a hole in his heart so large it could breathe.

Persephone's eyes widened to saucer shapes. "You… followed me…?"

Katrina immediately crossed her arms, somehow managed with all the baggage in her hands. "You had a haircut?"

Riley nearly crashed into Roy from behind, and when he turned to her, searching for answers in her eyes, she blanched nearly as pale as her skirt.

"We…" she trailed off, before mustering courage. "We were going to sleep in here tonight, all of us. After your party. I know you asked Katrina to cancel."

Roy could feel that anger bubbling, roiling within him – though he knew it was misplaced, and undeserved. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"You didn't seem to want to be interrupted," muttered Katrina. "And I tried finding your ginger valet-butler man, but he wasn't around to pass the message. So I didn't."

Riley and Persephone frowned, and Persephone said, "I haven't seen Rudy in a while, come to think of it."

Rage and hurt married within him, and he could feel it, rushing in his skin. To clasp some semblance of his power, his authority, back, which was crumbling beneath him, he said hoarsely, "I fired him yesterday."

Silence dragged on. Roy didn't look up, but he didn't need to – Riley stood in front of him and stomped her toes.

"You did what?" she hissed. "Why the hell would you fire Rudy?"

He bore his teeth, and his stomach thrashed inside him. "Because he was being an asshole. That's why."

Katrina barked a cackle. "Oh, like how you were an asshole to me, earlier today?"

Roy tried not to let the insult twist through his gut, but it writhed like a snake feeding on prey. He clenched his fists. "You don't get to question my decisions."

Alarm slapped Riley on the face, and she flinched – a very different face to the one she pulled mere minutes ago in the corridor. "Rudy is a cynic, but not an asshole. I can't…" She crossed her arms and drew a long breath, the prospect still shivering through her with no way in. "I can't believe you'd do that. He's only ever had your interests at heart. If he was being blunt with you, it's probably because there was a problem with you, not him."

Roy turned to her, voice cracking. "The problem— the problem was him, not me." He threw out his arms. "We're not talking about Rudy, here. We're talking about the fact that I told you to cancel your slumber party and you didn't. You're undermining my authority."

Persephone, too, looked like she'd taken a punch to the gut. Roy knew about her friendship with Rudy – an unusual mixture of happenstance and funny coincidence. She stepped towards, not away, from Roy. "You're stressed. That's what Rudy told me."

"I'm fine," Roy pressed.

"Are you sure?" Elise squeaked from behind, clutching her hands. "You were really… off, in that maze. You know, we can help you…"

Elise. Roy had followed her, and lost her in the labyrinth of hallways… but she'd travelled the complete opposite direction to the Women's Room. Bathroom, his ass. Where had she been going? Setting up for this sleepover? Seeking her rebel superiors? He couldn't even focus on that, or the spy, now, his brain kindling into ember.

"I am fine," he snapped. "I am fine, and I wish people would stop asking—"

"This isn't about the damn sleepover, Fitzroy, and you know it," Katrina cut across.

Wrath and rage and agony collided into one being, one feeling, within him. Tightening his muscles, seizing his organs – the churning of his stomach coming to head. He faced her, glaring, missing the swish of his hair. "Damn it, I—" he felt his voice break, but he started again. "I am fine!"

Ignoring him, Katrina spoke in a low voice this time, with a whisper of tenderness. "You can't handle the pressure."

The pressure.

In time, his title would transform from Prince into King. King Roy Schreave. His parents would be gone, and the world would turn to him. Wild, irresponsible him.

Illéa will destroy itself under your rule!

Their needing stares, there admiration, their hope – it shattered within him. His heart became a wild sea, stormy and unyielding with no master but itself, and suddenly, when that fissure broke the final piece within him, he pivoted on his heel, staggered to the nearest ornamental vase and vomited inside.

And when he'd heaved out every last drop of alcohol, and the nearest guards had helped him back to his room, the tears stained his cheeks more than the vomit on his tongue, and his sobs could fragment the glass of his windows.


A/N: Poor Roy... is it time to face the music? Not the most pleasant chapter I've ever written, but certainly the most emotional. Wild ride, this one was... and the twerking scene, omfg! XD I have had this party planned since the twerk-off's conception in Maeve's intro chapter, so it's nice to finally see it come to fruition, and I hope you enjoyed it!

Would just like to mark a milestone: this story has overtaken my giant Harry Potter/ Percy Jackson crossover, When Wand and Sword Collide, in number of words. It's crazy, because I never thought I'd attempt a large fanfic ever again, but I'm proud I have, and I'm proud it's this fandom I'm writing for. You're all so lovely, and the community is so fun. Big thanks to everyone for your continued support and encouragement!

And now for some bad news: I don't think I'll be able to update next week. Apologies, everyone, but uni is literally sucking my life away, and I haven't even started writing next chapter, lol. I think you have enough here to stomach for the time being, and I might update Select Few, so we'll see. I will most likely have something for you in two weeks, though. You can check my Pinterest for sneak peaks ;) Greenwithawesom is my username!

So, what did you think of everyone? Where did Elise go? Maeve's dancing? Roy's new haircut? Drunk Ambrosia? Chiara throwing her drink at Alex? Roy and Riley? Sooo many things to talk about, lol. Reviews much loved, and favourites and follows also deserving of infinite hugs!

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA