POV: Ferdinand King

"Touching," came a voice from the shadows, dry as autumn leaves and sharp with barely controlled anger.

We sprang apart as Prospero materialized from between the trees like a wraith given form. Miranda's father moved with the kind of predatory grace that set every survival instinct I possessed on high alert, his dark eyes fixed on me with an expression that promised unpleasant consequences for my presumption.

"Papa," Miranda gasped, scrambling to her feet with ...