The only way to protect her was to make her invisible again.
Make her hate him.
Make everyone think she meant nothing.
Remove the target from her back by removing her from his side.
He hated it. Hated every part of this plan that was forming in his mind. Hated that he'd let himself care enough for it to matter. Hated that he'd been so stupid, so reckless, letting her in when he knew better.
He'd spent his whole life building walls. Learning not to care. Turning himself into something cold and sharp and untouchable because caring was weakness and weakness got people killed.
And then Bailey had appeared in his chapel, confused and terrified and impossibly soft, and she'd looked at him like he might be worth trusting.
And he'd let her in.
Stupid. Reckless. The most dangerous thing he'd ever done.
Because now he had something to lose.
And losing her—watching her body carried out of a dungeon the way Abigail's had been, knowing he could have prevented it, knowing he'd been too distracted by the way she smiled at him to see the danger closing in—
No.
He would not be the Baron. Weeping over someone he'd failed to protect. Begging for vengeance because he'd been too blind to see the threat until it was too late.
He would not stand over Bailey's grave.
He knew what he had to do.
It would destroy her.
It would destroy him.
But she would be alive.
Devyn turned from the window.
He had calls to make. Orders to give. A stage to set.
And a heart to break.
Chapter Fourteen
I WANT TO MAKE HIMproud.
That’s the thought that gets me out of bed each morning while Devyn is away. Not just survive until he gets back. Not just don’t mess anything up. But actually, genuinely make him proud.
I want to see his almost-smile. The one where the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes crinkle just slightly and he looks at me like I’ve surprised him. Like I’m a puzzle he wasn’t expecting to enjoy solving.
I want to make him laugh again. That real laugh, the one from the blanket incident, the one that transformed his whole face and made my heart do something completely irresponsible.
So I throw myself into being the best queen I can be.
I learn the staff’s names. Not just Mrs. Lyme, but everyone. Thomas the gardener, who has three grandchildren and grows prize-winning dahlias. Arlene the cook, whose chocolate torte recipe has been in her family for four generations. Connie and Josie, the maids who always work together and finish each other’s sentences.
I ask about their lives. Their families. Their hobbies. I remember the details and ask follow-up questions the next day.
And slowly, the distance closes.
