"Or maybe they had a tic?" said Lars, a thin reed of a man who was wicked with a bow and arrow. "Or they were drunk.”
“Very drunk,” Corin agreed with a satisfied grunt.
Graham smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You weren’t with us,” Corin continued, narrowing his gaze. “Which means you were either in the castle... or in the queen.”
A round of rough laughter followed. No one even pretended to whisper. The affair between Graham and Raveena had never been a secret. In the Snow Kingdom, noblewomen bedded who they pleased. Love was fleeting, loyalty negotiable. But marriage—that was something else entirely.
Women only married princes. Men with armies. Men with land. Men with crowns to be seized and power to be folded into the snow-laced branches of her lineage. Men who could be used.
Graham? He was a good way to pass the night. A warm mouth, a stronger hand. A moment’s pleasure.
“The Winter Games are starting soon,” said one of the younger soldiers as he sharpened a blade by the fire. “First time in years we’ve made it back in time to compete.”
“Be good to put my axe to something that doesn’t scream,” someone muttered.
“You going to join the games, Graham?” Corin asked, tossing him a flask. “Or are you too busy climbing up royal skirts?”
Graham caught the flask and took a long sip. The mead burned sweet and sharp down his throat. “I’ll think on it.”
He had more pressing matters to plan. Not one, but two murders danced at the edge of his thoughts. Raveena's if she married Charming. Charming if he stood in Graham’s way of getting Raveena back. Snow if she demanded his loyalty over his heart.
“So,” another voice piped up, “everyone’s saying Charming will propose during the Assembly. Big royal spectacle. Kiss in the snow. Real heartstring shit.”
“Then what?” Corin asked. “Queen Raveena’s out of a crown. What’s she going to do without a throne?”
The question silenced the laughter. Everyone turned to Graham. Graham didn’t answer.
It was something he hadn't considered. Raveena without a crown on her head? What if it was gone and she had no kingdom left to rule, no reason to chase power or bind herself to a prince?
What if she looked up and finally saw—him? No throne. No pawns. Just him.
Maybe then she would come away with Graham. To the land she’d promised him if he took care of her snowy problem. He could build something for her, something lasting.
Maybe she could be his. Really his.
Maybe he didn’t need to kill anyone.
Maybe he just needed to remove the crown out of their way.
Graham took another sip from the flask, slower this time, gaze fixed on the flames licking at the logs in the hearth.
Maybe it was the crown that was her cage. And if he simply knocked it from her head, he'd set her free.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The flames in the hearth cast long shadows that danced along the frost-veined walls of the bedchamber. Outside, the wind hissed like a stubborn child that would not be put to bed. Within the castle’s walls, there was only stillness, the hush of a place held in breath.
Raveena sat at her vanity, cloaked in that silence. The soft whisper of bristles through her hair was the only sound. Each stroke soothed her, steadied her. She had spent the entire day sharpening her mind into a blade. First in the Winter Assembly, parrying threats and dissent with a diplomat’s smile, and then in her own court, smoothing over the fractures of a kingdom still healing from war the inhabitants had wanted no part of. A war she'd had no interest in until her lover stormed off with his blade in hand because he needed to cleave through something, or rather someone, and a troll was better than committing regicide.
Today, she had maneuvered every conversation, every glance, every pause to achieve her endgame. Just as she'd done for the last three years to ensure the troll wars ended swiftly with as little blood on the Snow Kingdom's hands as possible. If she'd left the war efforts to the young forest prince, the fighting would still be going on and Graham would still be beyond her reach.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. The hour was late. The minute hand took its time going around the clock's face.
She lowered her brush and exhaled slowly. The silk robe she wore slid open as she shifted. The firelight kissed the line of her collarbone, the dip of her waist, the soft expanse of thigh. Her gaze dropped, and there—just above the bend of her leg—was the mark.
The bite was still red, tender. She bit her lip, regarding the shape of him etched into her flesh. With a fingertip, Raveena traced the edge of the bruise, feeling the ache stir again—not just between her legs but deeper, beneath skin and blood and bone.
