Page 73 of Prince of the Palisades

“Thanks for telling me,” he whispers, still chewing his lip in that unsure way, like his brain’s firing off a million other questions.

“We don’t have to,” I quickly add. “Youdon’t have to. Ever. If it’s something you’re ready for, talk about it with that person first. Consent is important. Communicate. Be clear.”

Wow, I didn’t mean to sound like one of those online guides Papa showed me when we had The Talk. But it’s true. I want Reiss to feel safe with whoever.

He relaxes, one side of his mouth rising.

“Cool. I want that,” he says. “Eventually. Not now.”

I smile, then nod.

“Right now…” He’s close again. Breath ghosting my lips. Hands smoothing from my hips to my back, lower. I gasp at his boldness. “I kind of want to make out before Ajani shows up to crash the party.”

“We have an interesting history with parties,” I say playfully.

“God, shut up. No one talks like that.”

My retort dies when his mouth crashes onto mine. It’s fine. Who cares about words, anyway?

Grace’s party is at a rooftop club her dad rented out. As promised, a step-and-repeat awaits guests once they’ve cleared the bouncers crosschecking the invite list. Flashes pop across my vision. Photographers shout my name. I slip into prince mode—shoulders straight, back stiff, smiling and nodding regally.

As best as I can in my costume, that is. Despite Reiss’s very…convincingoutfit suggestion, I went simple: the original Black Panther suit from the Marvel films, minus the mask.

Warmth sidles up to my side. More shouting. Not my name, this time.

“Léon! Over here!”

“This way, Léon! Nice! Closer to the prince!”

Without hesitation, Léon follows directions. He tosses an arm around my shoulders. Flaunts a well-trained grin that’s all fangs. For tonight, he’s gone fullTwilight—dark skinny jeans, red contact lenses, black V-neck T-shirt withI Suckin adripping blood font. The finishing touch: glitter smeared across his skin.

“I hate this,” I say through my teeth, still smiling.

“Cheer up, Spare.” He half-turns his head for another photo. “This is the easy part. The fun hasn’t even started yet.”

“The fu—”

I’m cut off by another photographer: “Prince Jadon! Are you and Léon friends again?”

I blink, throat gone dry, but Léon quickly steps in.

“Thebestof friends,” he assures the crowd, making a show of grabbing my hand before tugging me farther down the carpet. “Shall we?”

Ajani and Léon’s bodyguards lead us inside. It’s all low lighting and velvet booths and glow-in-the-dark bars serving nonalcoholic drinks. Golden Medusa heads are carved into the walls. The DJ transitions from Zayn to K-pop. Sweat and body sprays and the salty ocean air from the open balcony doors waft around us.

From behind a roped-off section with green sofas, Grace spots us. She’s dressed as an angel with a white silk minidress and LED light-up wings. Her smile is small and guarded.

“You look great,” I say, by way of greeting.

“My hero,” she says, winking.

On the walk here, I’ve accumulated history’s worst wedgie. Still, I manage a grin, waving at the others.

Nathan’s werewolf look is completed by yellow contacts and pointed ears, claw shreds along his T-shirt. Morgan’s all goth: hair in a braided crown, black tulle lace dress, severedhand perched on her shoulder. On Grace’s other side, Kaden hasn’t put in any effort: he’s wearing aTrick or Treatshirt that has an arrow pointing from the “Treat” to his crotch.

Over the music, Léon clears his throat.

“Everyone,” I say, “this is Léon.”

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