That evening, Samantha headed toward a nondescript door that was tucked into the downstairs hallway like an architect's afterthought. It might not look impressive, but this was the Door of Sighs, the royal family's private entrance to the grand ballroom: so named because generations of princesses had lingered there when they were too young to attend, and sighed romantically as they watched the dancing.

Her head was pressed against his chest and she could hear the erratic beat of his heart, its pulse matching her own. She felt it too—the exhilaration, and underneath it the thin electrifying undercurrent of fear, at the forbiddenness of what they were about to do.

Everywhere I go, you catch up to me. Everywhere I run, I keep seeing you. Every time, you happen to me, all over again.

Mariel shook her head. “No, it’s just . . . Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something unexpected.” Eris laughed. “Good luck with that,” she said. “Even I haven’t figured me out, and I’ve been trying for eighteen years.

She was maddening and stubborn and tormented and deeply flawed, but so was he; and maybe the important thing wasn’t finding someone without flaws, but just someone whose flaws complemented your own.

Maybe that was just the way love went—it was something that happened *to* you, and the best preparation you could hope for was the chance to take a deep breath before the wave of it crashed above you and you were in over your head.