Graham moved to it. He pushed the door open. And stopped dead in his tracks.
There, at the center of the room, stood the king’s bed. The piece of furniture was an opulent monstrosity of masculine vanity. The headboard was forged from deer antlers, their gnarled tines splayed like a crown of bone, polished smooth but still cruel in their curve. The sheets looked obscenely soft, like they'd been made to cradle a newborn babe. The fabric was the kind that whispered wealth with every shift and wrinkle. Cotton so fine and tightly woven it had to be counted in the thousands.
It hit Graham like a punch to the gut. Raveena had told the truth. She’d never had Charming—or even her late husband—in her bed.
The one place she let herself rest each night. The one place she let down her guard. She had only ever welcomed him in there.
“I expected a servant. But I suppose the queen's dog escapes his leash every now and again.”
Prince Charming stepped out from the side chamber, drying his hands on a monogrammed cloth that was wrapped around his waist. He rested his fists on his hips, feet akimbo, like he owned the damn place. The boy wore a smirk, half-lidded and lazy. His hair was tousled artfully, as if he'd just finished another preening in the mirror.
Graham’s hand dropped to his dagger, excited for the chance to carve more than one bruise into that pretty face.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Your Majesty, perhaps now is the time to revisit the treaty we discussed?—”
“My daughter is of age and would make a fine addition to your council?—”
“I’ve already begun embroidering a swaddling blanket—just in case…”
Raveena kept walking. Her spine was straight, her mouth neutral, her eyes the glinting gray of a glacier. She made no promises. No denials. She simply nodded or offered a low hum of acknowledgment and let the crush of silk and whispers part before her like mist.
Inside, however, her thoughts spun. The moment Charming had made his proclamation, the women had turned like vines to sunlight. Desperate to graft themselves to what they assumed would be the next axis of power.
It was predictable. It was tedious. It was… disappointing.
There was no sport in their moves. No strategy. Just desperation and court polish.
Snow’s disappearance had brought a flicker of challenge. That move hadn’t been in Raveena's game book. It hadn’t evenfelt like one of the court’s ploys. Which meant it was something else entirely.
Raveena wanted to puzzle it out. Not Charming. Definitely not with these simpering diplomats following hot on her trail. She wanted Graham.
Graham, with his sharp mind, his grounded instincts. She wanted to feel his voice low in her ear while he pointed out clues others missed. Wanted his hands wrapped around her waist as they conspired over theories in the quiet of her chambers.
She was almost there. She was nearly free from the melee, just feet from the tall frostwood doors, when Lady Charming swept into her path like a silken scythe.
“My dear,” Lady Charming said, smiling so tightly her teeth clicked. “You must be overwhelmed. Such attention, and now my son’s beautiful declaration.”
Raveena tilted her head, expression still placid. “Declaration?”
Lady Charming’s smile grew pinched. “He’s chosen wisely. You’ll bring strength to the line. Of course, you’ll accept his proposal.”
Raveena let one brow arch. “Will I?”
Lady Charming blinked. “Of course. It’s the only path that lets you keep that crown on your head.”
“Is it?” Raveena asked, her voice velvet-wrapped steel.
The older woman’s mouth parted. Raveena moved past her before the retort could find breath. She didn’t get far.
A girl stood at the edge of the hallway—a young woman, perhaps just past her debut. Her gown was modest but expertly tailored. Her bearing was straight-backed, as though she had been raised in the presence of royalty. She didn’t curtsy. She didn’t smile.
Raveena was certain she'd never seen her in the Frost Court. But something about the girl held her attention. The stillness of her. The weight behind her gaze. A queen-in-waiting, no doubt.
The girl stepped forward and dipped her head. “Queen Raveena. I’m Princess Aurora."
Yes, she knew this girl. Aurora was the betrothed of Prince Phillip of the Forest Kingdom. Or at least she had been. Raveena's spies in the Coastal Kingdom had sent her a missive that the sea, forest, and coast kingdoms were playing a rousing game of musical thrones. When the music stopped, no one was with the bride or groom that had been prescribed to them. And now one of the players was here in her court.
