THE THIRD INCIDENThappens near the balcony.
I’ve stepped outside for air—just for a moment, just to breathe—when a familiar voice makes my skin crawl.
“You seem lonely without your husband.”
Amos Karp steps out of the shadows. Too close. Too familiar. His smile is the same as always—warm, sympathetic, wrong.
“I could keep you company,” he says. “If you’d like.”
Every instinct I have screamsrun.
“I’m fine, thank you.” My voice comes out steady. Good. “I was just—”
“The lady doesn’t need company.”
The voice is a low growl. Direct. Final.
A man steps between us—broader than the others, darker, with a scar cutting through one eyebrow. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer pleasantries. His weight is forward, shoulders loose, and there’s something feral in his stance. A predator waiting for an excuse.
Wolfe Sideris. King of the East.
“Move along, Karp.”
It’s not a suggestion.
Amos’s charm flickers. Just for a moment. Just enough for me to see the calculation underneath—cold, sharp, dangerous.
Then the mask slides back into place.
“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Your Majesty.”
He retreats.
Wolfe turns to me. His eyes scan my face once—checking, I realize, for any sign of harm—and then he nods. Just once.
And walks away.
Three.
Three kings. Three rescues.
This is...
Okay, this is getting a little weird. But it’s probably still a coincidence. A very strange, statistically improbable coincidence. Maybe all three kings just happen to have excellent timing and a strong sense of chivalry and—
“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”
The voice is bright. Cheerful. Completely unbothered by my shell-shocked expression.
I turn to find a young woman standing behind me. She’s maybe nineteen, with dark hair piled artfully on top of her head and eyes that sparkle with barely contained amusement. Her gown is a soft rose gold, and she carries herself with the easy confidence of someone who has never once doubted her place in the world.
“I’m Celine,” she says, extending her hand. “Quinn’s ward. Well, technically his ward. In practice, I’m his future wife. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I blink. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Quinn.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going to marry him. He’s just being difficult about it because he thinks he’s incapable of love or whatever. Men are so dramatic.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, that’s not important right now. What’s important is your royal babysitters.”
“My what?”
