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)
Did they not realize this man could be the murderer of his daughter?
But no. One look at that sharp jaw and those golden eyes, and apparently all sense fled from their minds. They were staring at Devyn Chaleur like he was some kind of dark angel descended from the heavens, not a potential killer who had arrived uninvited to—
“Baron.” Devyn’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade. “A word. In private.”
It wasn’t a request.
Patrick’s jaw tightened. He gestured sharply at his staff—a silent command to disperse—but even as they scattered, he caught several of them stealing one last glance at the king.
Unbelievable.
They sat in Patrick’s private study. No guards. No witnesses. Just two men and the ghost of a murdered girl between them.
The older man had expected threats. Interrogation. Perhaps even violence.
What he had not expected was the silence. Devyn simply sat across from him and waited, those golden eyes patient and watchful, giving nothing away.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Until the baron found himself speaking just to fill it. “I wasn’t a good father to her.”
The words cracked on their way out. His hands—once steady enough to sign treaties and command troops—trembled where they rested on his desk.
“I was cold. Distant. I treated her like an asset to be managed, not a daughter to be loved.” He looked up, and his eyes were wet. “When she submitted her name as a candidate for your bride, I didn’t ask if it was what she wanted. I just saw the opportunity. The alliance. The power.”
Devyn said nothing. He watched. Listened. Assessed.
A month ago, he would have seen only a broken man trying to deflect blame. Would have dismissed the confession as strategic weakness.
But Bailey had changed things. Changed him. Made him see that people could be more than their worst moments, that grief could twist even the strongest men into shapes they didn’t recognize.
“At the Court,” Devyn said quietly, “you accused me of murder.”
The older man flinched. “I know.”
“You know our laws. Speaking against the king carries a sentence.”
“I know.” Patrick’s voice had started shaking. “I was mad with grief. I wanted someone to blame. Someone to punish. And you were—” He stopped. Swallowed. “You were easy to hate.”
The silence stretched between them.
“I could have you thrown in the dungeons,” Devyn said. “Executed. Our laws are clear.”
Abigail’s father closed his eyes. Nodded once. Accepting.
“But I will show you mercy. This once.”
Patrick’s eyes flew open, his body jerking in shock.
“In return,” Devyn continued, his voice cold and precise, “you will never speak of me or my wife again. Not publicly. Not privately. Not at all. You will mourn your daughter in silence. You will support the investigation. And you will trust that I will find whoever did this and make them pay.”
Patrick could only stare. Disbelief first, and then—slowly—the first fragile stirrings of hope.
“You—” His voice broke. “You would spare me?”
“I give you my word. Justice will be served for Abigail’s death.” Devyn held his gaze. “If you know anything that might aid in finding her killer, speak now.”
“There were rumors,” Patrick said slowly, heavily. “Before she submitted her name as one of your bridal candidates. Before any of this.”
Devyn went still.
“Rumors of her being seen with a man. Someone inappropriate. Someone she should not have been associating with.” The older man’s jaw tightened. “I dismissed them at the time. Thought it was gossip, jealousy from other families who wanted their daughters chosen instead.”
“A name?”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I never had the chance to investigate. And then she was gone, and I assumed—” He stopped. “I assumed the rumors were irrelevant. That she had simply run from you.”
A man. Someone inappropriate. Someone who watched her too closely.
He stood. “If you remember anything else—any detail, no matter how small—you will contact me directly.”
“You have my word, Your Majesty.” The baron rose as well, still pale, still shaken, but steadier than before. “And...thank you. For sparing my life.”
THE REPORTS KEPT COMING.
Devyn sat in his Hartford safe house, surrounded by documents about a murder investigation that was going nowhere, and read update after update about his wife.
The diplomatic function had been a success. Lady Celine was telling everyone who would listen about the three kings who had watched over the new queen. The staff had warmed to her—not just warmed, but actively adored her. The cook had saved her chocolate torte. The gardener had started cutting flowers for her room each morning without being asked.
The territory was talking.
About the king who called his brothers to protect his bride.
About the queen who smiled through humiliation and won hearts anyway.
About Bailey.
She was becoming visible.
And every report that confirmed it made his jaw tighten another degree.
He shoved back from the desk and walked to the window. Hartford spread out below him—city lights glittering against the dark, a world that didn't know it was being ruled from the shadows. A world that didn't know a killer walked free among them.