Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
"Home," Devyn said. "Now."
The pilot didn't argue.
THE HELICOPTER LIFTED off, banking hard over the forest canopy, and Devyn stared out the window without seeing any of it.
His mind was at the estate. In the library, where his wife sat with shaking hands and haunted eyes. Where something had frightened her badly enough that Mrs. Lyme—unflappable, professional Mrs. Lyme—had broken protocol to call him.
What had Bailey seen?
What had she found?
He thought about the dreams. Abigail's dead face, her bloody hair, her empty eyes. The locked door that all four kings had seen in their sleep, waiting in the darkness beneath his home.
And he thought about Bailey.
His wife.
His queen.
The woman who'd appeared from nowhere, who claimed to know nothing, who looked at him with those violet eyes like she was trying to decide if he was her salvation or her doom.
She was changing him.
He could feel it happening—the way his thoughts drifted to her during meetings, the way his chest tightened when she smiled, the way he'd carried her to bed last night like she was something precious instead of something suspicious. She was working her way under his skin, into his blood, becoming necessary in a way that terrified him.
An obsession.
He'd had obsessions before. They always ended badly—for him or for someone else.
But this was different. This was worse. Because Bailey wasn't just an obsession. She was a weakness. A soft spot in armor he'd spent a decade making impenetrable. And in his world, weaknesses got exploited. Weaknesses got people killed.
The helicopter banked again, and Devyn closed his eyes.
If Abigail were to come back—
The thought surfaced unbidden, cold and sharp as a blade.
If Abigail were still alive. If she walked through his door tomorrow, whole and unharmed, with explanations for everything. If he could go back to the way things were supposed to be—the arranged marriage, the strategic alliance, the queen who made political sense instead of emotional chaos.
Could he give Bailey up?
Could he look at her—his wife, his obsession, the woman who'd somehow become necessary in a matter of days—and tell her it was over? Send her away? Watch her walk out of his life?
For the sake of eliminating weakness. Eliminating softness. Eliminating any vulnerability that enemies could exploit.
Could he do it?
The helicopter roared over the treetops, carrying him home to a wife with shaking hands and secrets she couldn't hide.
Devyn opened his eyes.
He didn't have an answer.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thing of all.
Chapter Nine
I CAN'T STOP SHAKING.
It's been hours since I came up from the passage. Hours since I stood in front of that ancient door and breathed in the unmistakable smell of decay. Hours since I climbed back up those fifty steps on legs that didn't want to hold me and pushed through the rose panel into the chapel.
I made it back to my room. Washed my hands. Changed my clothes. Went through all the motions of a normal morning, like I hadn't just discovered that something—someone—was rotting beneath my husband's estate.
But I can't stop shaking.
Breakfast was impossible. The croissants sat on the tray like accusations, and every time I tried to lift the coffee cup, it rattled against the saucer so loudly I was sure the whole house could hear.
Now I'm in the library, curled into a leather armchair that probably costs more than my old apartment's rent, and I'm holding a fresh cup of coffee that's gone cold because I can't bring myself to drink it.
My hands won't stop trembling.
I keep seeing that door. Smelling that smell. Thinking about Abigail—beautiful, angelic Abigail—fleeing down that passage on her wedding day.
But instead of finding safety...she found death.
The coffee cup rattles again, and I set it down on the side table before I drop it. My fingers are ice cold. My whole body feels wrong, like I'm watching myself from somewhere outside, unable to do anything but observe the slow unraveling.
"Your Majesty?"
I flinch so hard I nearly knock the coffee over.
Mrs. Lyme is standing in the doorway, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her expression professionally neutral. But something flickers behind her eyes as she takes in the sight of me—the untouched coffee, the shaking hands, whatever my face is doing right now.
"Is everything all right?" she asks. "You didn't eat breakfast. I could have something else prepared, if—"
"I'm fine." The words come out too fast. Too high. "Just tired. I didn't sleep well."
She doesn't believe me. I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way her gaze lingers on my trembling fingers.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Lyme. Truly.”
She hesitates. Then nods and withdraws, closing the door softly behind her.
I stare at the space where she stood and try to remember how to breathe.
What do I do?
Does 911 even work in a world where mafia billionaires are kings, what was black was white, and I still can’t rule out that my husband could still be the man who had gone insane and Abigail was running away from?