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)
I catch the soldiers exchanging a look of absolute disbelief. I have a feeling...they’re wondering why Devyn hasn’t divorced me yet.
"The four territories," Devyn continues, pointing at the map. "North—Quinn Haydraugh. West—Skye Wyndham. East—Wolfe Sideris. And South."
"That's you."
"That's us."
Us. The word does something to my heart. Makes it flip over in my chest.
"Rhode Island and Connecticut," I say, proud of myself for remembering. "You control Rhode Island and Connecticut."
"We control Rhode Island and Connecticut."
There it is again. We. Us. Our.
"Good." He nods once. "You're learning."
Behind him, both soldiers look like they might pass out. I think...they’re not used to hearing Devyn compliment anyone, much less for something as basic as knowing which states are under his rule.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
"What about the other kings?" I ask. "Are they...like you?"
"No one is like me."
"That's not what I—"
"Quinn is ice. Doesn't speak unless necessary. Wolfe is..." He pauses. "Volatile. But honorable. Skye...is good at retrieving information. People underestimate him. They shouldn't."
"And you?" I can't help asking. "How would you describe yourself?"
He looks at me. That golden gaze, giving me nothing.
"Impatient," he says finally. "Demanding. Difficult to work with."
"You're not being difficult right now."
"I'm making an exception."
"For who?"
His mouth curves. Just barely. "Who do you think?"
I forget what I was going to say next.
He steps closer. Points at the map—I have no idea what he's pointing at, because his arm is brushing against mine and his scent is everywhere and my brain has apparently decided to stop functioning.
"The border here," he's saying, "is contested. We've had skirmishes with—" He stops. "Bailey."
"Hmm?"
"Are you listening?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Borders. Skirmishes. Very important."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Ninth time. I'm still counting.
"You're not listening.”
I smile weakly. “You’re distracting.”
“Unfortunately—”
Oh no. Is this it? Is he finally going to—
“So are you.”
—make me feel like I’m the luckiest woman alive to be married to someone like him who’s so good at...oh!
He’s suddenly kissing me, right there in the war room with two soldiers trying desperately to become invisible, and I forget about maps and borders and everything except the way his hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back and—
Someone clears their throat.
Devyn pulls back. Slowly. Like he's not remotely embarrassed to have been caught kissing his wife in the middle of a strategy session.
"Mr. Karp has arrived, Your Majesty."
The warmth in my chest turns to ice, and I end up shivering when I’m left with no choice but to meet him again. He looks exactly like I remember: handsome in a polished way—dark hair artfully tousled, jaw that could cut glass, eyes warm and sympathetic. The light from the window catches him like he's been professionally lit, every angle flattering, every shadow intentional. He enters the room like he belongs there, like every space he walks into reshapes itself to accommodate him.
My photographer's eye recognizes what he's doing. It's the same thing I've seen in a thousand headshots: the deliberate positioning, the calculated charm. The difference is, most people don't know they're doing it.
Amos knows exactly what he's doing.
Every instinct I have screams wrong.
"Your Majesty." He inclines his head to Devyn. Then turns to me, and his smile widens. "What a pleasure to see you again."
"Mr. Karp."
"I understand you were the last person to see Lady Abigail before her...disappearance." He settles into a chair across from us without being invited to sit. "I was hoping to ask you some questions. In private, ideally. Standard procedure."
"No."
Devyn doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't elaborate. Just: no.
Amos's smile flickers. "With respect, Your Majesty, it's protocol for witnesses to be interviewed without—"
"No."
Silence.
Amos looks at Devyn. Devyn looks back. Neither of them moves.
I watch the silent war play out between them—Amos's charm pressing against Devyn's absolute refusal, waves breaking against a cliff face. There's no contest. There was never going to be a contest.
"Of course." Amos's smile returns, but it's thinner now. Tighter at the edges. "I understand. You're protective of your wife. Admirable."
Devyn says nothing.
"Well then." Amos turns to me, leaning forward in his chair. "Your Majesty. Bailey. May I call you Bailey?"
"No," Devyn says.
"Back to Your Majesty then.” But his tone is as thin as his smile this time. “Can you walk me through what you saw that day? The day of the wedding?"
I take a breath. "I was in the chapel. I saw a woman in a wedding dress running toward the back. She looked at me—just for a second—and then she disappeared into a passage behind the altar."
"And you're certain it was Lady Abigail?"
“Yes.”
“But you never met her prior to that day.”
“I—"
Where is he going with this?
“It seems I’ve made you uncomfortable, Your Majesty.”
Devyn's hand lands on my knee under the table. Warm. Steadying. And it gives me strength to calm down.
“Shall we talk about something else?”
Something else?
“It must be so difficult for you. Thrust into this world without warning. Married to a man you barely knew. And now caught up in a murder investigation."