He made a face but didn’t argue. By the time I’d slipped into the bathroom, the air was already steaming with the scent of his shower, water still pelting the tile like rain. I washed fast, letting the heat bake the knots from my neck, then wrapped myself in one of the guest robes and padded back into the bedroom.
The trunk was open now, and inside, layers of folded fabric—velvet, brocade, the deep, bruised colors of midnight and dried blood. On top, a note: “For the Queen Consort.”
The title made my stomach twist, but there was no time for reflection. Another knock, softer this time, preceded the entry of a different woman, younger and less rigid, her hair pinned in a severe twist and her eyes already tracking every detail. “I’m here to assist with the attire,” she said. “If you’d please?” She gestured toward a chair at the window, and I obeyed.
She set to work, fast but not unkind, her hands braiding and twisting my hair, pinning it with jet combs and metal sticks that shimmered in the early light. She lined my eyes, dusted powder over my cheeks, but left my lips bare—“To let your own color come through,” she said. The dress was a thing of weight and armor, black and deep green, the bodice boned and laced so tight I felt like I’d been trussed for the slaughter. She finished with a brooch, set high at my throat, the insignia unfamiliar but heavy with history.
Menace appeared at the door in his own finery: black suit, high-collared, with a sash of deep burgundy and the same insignia at his lapel. He looked every bit a king. If he were uncomfortable, you’d never know it. He made it work. He always did.
The attendant handed him a set of matching cufflinks, then stepped back. “You’re ready,” she said. “The guards will escort you to the antechamber.”
Menace offered his arm. I took it. The corridor outside was already lined with Council blue—guards at every third door, eyes forward, hands hovering over their sidearms.
We walked, and the mansion walked with us. The route wound through stone passages and up shallow stairs, every turn offering another view of the history of the territory. New paint had freshened up the corridors. Floors had been polished in honor of the occasion. Every servant and staffer we passed paused, eyes wide, then dipped their heads in deference—sometimes to me, sometimes to Menace, never to both at once.
On the last landing before the Council hall, we paused. Menace squeezed my hand, grounding me. “Ready?” he asked.
“I was born ready.” I truly was.
He grinned. “You are a queen.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
The doors to the antechamber were old, probably as old as the country itself, carved with the runes of every house that had ever held power here. The guards on either side swung them open, revealing a room that was massively large and probably had room for a thousand ghosts.
There was a hush when we entered. Not silence—nothing in this world was ever silent—but a hush like the air just before a tornado. Every seat was filled: Council members, envoys, the supernatural elite and their proxies. Vampires in tailored black, witches in blue or bone, and the occasional demon or angel in some fashion that defied all good sense. At the far end, on a dais a full story above the floor, stood the twelve thrones—ten occupied, two empty, the absences more terrifying than the presence of any living monster.
In the front row, Rafe watched us with an expression that was all amusement, no malice. Kazimir sat beside him, the white-haired vampire king, hands folded like he was praying for someone else’s soul.
Menace and I took our places before the dais. The Chairwoman of the Council rose, her robe a river of silver and shadow, her hair braided in a crown across her scalp. She banged the gavel.
“Let it be entered in the record: the former Midwest King, Dominic Madison has fallen; his line ended. In accordance with Council law, the victor and his chosen mate present themselves to be crowned.”
She gestured to the side, and two attendants approached: one with a velvet cushion bearing the crown—a circlet of black iron set with stones the color of wet hematoma—the other with a scroll of parchment. The script crawled across the page, ancient words in an alphabet I couldn’t read.
“Bridger Hardin, do you accept the mantle of King of the Midwest Territories?” the Chairwoman intoned.
Menace nodded, never breaking eye contact with her. “I do.”
“Do you bind yourself to the laws of the Council and the Goddess?”
“I do.”
She turned to me. “Savannah Calloway, do you accept the role of Queen Consort, and with it, the charge to protect this kingdom and all who dwell in it?”
I swallowed, felt the rawness of it in my throat, then nodded. “I do.”
She read the oaths, slow and steady, every word a weight. When she finished, the attendants brought the crowns forward. The Chairwoman lifted the black iron circlet, held it aloft so the room could see, then brought it down carefully onto Menace’s head.
He did not flinch. Not even when the metal settled over the wound left by last night’s violence. He looked every bit the king now, eyes cold, spine straight, the scars on his face a testimony instead of a flaw.
The Chairwoman picked up the smaller circlet, more delicate, rimmed in silver and green. She was turning to me when a hidden door at the back of the chamber exploded inward.
The noise was thunderous. The guards at the threshold went down in a heap, and through the smoke and splinters came my brother.
Chapter 31
Savannah
