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)
He makes me feel seen by it.
And maybe—maybe that's better.
I close the app without pressing play.
For the first time in years, I don't need a door out.
I'm exactly where I want to be.
AMOS KARP WALKS TO his car alone.
The evening air is cool. The Chaleur estate looms behind him, all stone and shadow and centuries of secrets. He'd smiled his way through the interview, played his part, said all the right things.
But his jaw is tight as he slides into the driver's seat.
The new queen is a problem.
Problems can be solved.
Chapter Twelve
DEVYN HAS TO LEAVE.
I watch him pack a small bag and try not to feel like a clingy newlywed. Which I am. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Hartford,” he says without looking up. “Territory business. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“The investigation?”
He pauses. Just for a moment. “Among other things.”
I don’t push.
This is growth, Bailey. This is maturity. This is you, a grown woman, respecting your husband’s boundaries and trusting that he’ll tell you what you need to know.
I want to pester him with a thousand questions.
But I don’t. See? Growth.
“There’s a function tonight,” he continues. “Cross-territory. Diplomatic. I was supposed to host, but—”
“I’ll do it.”
The words are out before I’ve fully thought them through. But once they’re in the air, I don’t want to take them back. I’m his queen. This is what queens do, right? Host things. Smile at people. Not hide in their rooms reading books about transplanted lives.
Devyn looks at me. Really looks, with those golden eyes that see too much.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I lift my chin. “But I want to. I’m the Queen of the South. Might as well start acting like it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile—he doesn’t give those away easily—but something warm flickers behind his eyes.
Mrs. Lyme appears in the doorway, her face pinched with worry. “Sir, about the function—if the queen is to host alone, perhaps we should consider—”
“She’s not a child.” Devyn’s voice is dismissive. Final. “She can handle it.”
Mrs. Lyme’s mouth opens, then closes. She nods once and retreats.
I should feel bolstered by his confidence. And I do. Mostly.
But there’s a tiny, stupid part of me that wishes he’d been just a little more concerned. A little more reluctant to leave me alone with a room full of wolves.
Stop it, Bailey. He trusts you. That’s a good thing.
I straighten my shoulders. “I’m not a child. I can handle it.”
Devyn’s mouth curves. Just barely. “I know.”
He crosses the room to me. Cups my face in his hands. Studies me like he’s memorizing every detail—the shape of my eyes, the curve of my mouth, the single dimple that only shows when I really smile.
My pulse kicks up.
“Then why,” I manage, “do you look like you’re planning something?”
“I’m always planning something.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Tenth time. I’m still counting.
And then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not gentle. This kiss is thorough—his mouth slanting over mine, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it. He kisses me like he’s staking a claim. Like he’s leaving something behind for me to remember while he’s gone.
My toes curl in my shoes.
When he pulls back, I’ve forgotten my own name. My face is burning. My knees have apparently decided they’re not interested in supporting my weight anymore.
“Be safe,” he murmurs against my lips.
And then he’s gone, and I’m standing in the middle of the room with my hand pressed to my mouth and my heart doing something completely unreasonable in my chest.
What was I supposed to be doing again?
Right. Function. Hosting. Queen duties.
I can do this.
I’ve got this.
I am going to absolutely crush this.
THREE HOURS LATER, and I’m fairly certain the world is crushing me instead.
The grand ballroom of Chaleur Estate is filled with people I don’t know, all of them watching me with sharp eyes and sharper smiles. The chandeliers cast everything in warm amber—2700K, my photographer brain supplies automatically—the kind of light that should make everyone look soft and approachable. It doesn’t.
I’m wearing a midnight-blue gown that Mrs. Lyme selected for me. It’s beautiful. Elegant. The kind of dress that says I belong here.
I do not feel like I belong here.
The noble women circle me in slow orbits, their smiles showing teeth but never reaching their eyes. They remind me of a shoot I assisted once—a jewelry campaign where the models were positioned to look like they were at a party, but every angle was calculated, every gesture rehearsed. These women have the same practiced quality. The same awareness of exactly where the light hits their faces.
“So lovely to finally meet you, Your Majesty.”
“What a surprise your marriage was.”
“We’ve all been so curious about the new queen.”
Curious. Right. That’s one word for it.
I smile until my face aches. I make small talk about things I don’t understand. I try to remember names and titles and which territory each person represents, and I’m failing spectacularly at all of it.