Cleaned up frat boys escort us to the solarium at the back of the palace. Once upon a time, when things were less fraught, this had been Miranda Ashby’s private garden, enclosed in glass and steel. It hasn’t been long since the bones were found here, years of chosen princesses, poisoned and discarded, buried beneath beauty and denial.
With Arianette’s arm linked with the crook of my elbow, I lead herdown the center aisle. Every eye turns to watch us enter. Understandable. It’s our first big event since the wedding.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. The solarium looks like something torn from a fairytale that bled into reality. Winter plants crowd the space, lush and carefully curated, poinsettias blazing red against deep green leaves. Fairy lights spill from the ceiling in impossible quantities, bathing everything in artificial warmth. The glass traps it all inside–heat, breath, secrets. Rufus’ legacy still breathes through the walls, no matter how many lights they string or flowers they plant.
Ahead is the throne, cushioned in soft green velvet. We find our seats among the rest of the elite. My son is here, as well as the other Dukes and Lords, but they aren’t the ones that have my attention. I force myself to ignore the eyes watching us, the questions and criticisms of my young bride to a man they think is much older than I am. Clive Kayes would be thirty years my senior. A disturbing gap in age, even for the most open-minded. It’s only one more burden that I must carry, because these people will never know the truth about my identity. Not as long as I’m alive.
All around us, the lights dim, and the ceremony begins with the low, aching pull of a cello. Whitaker plays from the far end of the space, his body curled around the instrument like it’s an extension of himself. His blond hair is immaculate, catching the light as it sways with each draw of the bow. The sound vibrates through the glass, through the floor, arching through the hollow in my chest, as I deal with the truth that this man’s powerful gift comes from the very woman who tried to kill him, and that without the blood on my hands, this new life, the new baby and the reason we are all here, would never exist.
I don’t miss Arianette’s fingers twitching once in her lap.
As their brother plays, Lex and Pace situate themselves near the throne, their eyes cast back. The princes murmur, shifting in their seats, glancing toward the entrance in expectation.
Arianette’s shoulders lift with a shallow breath she doesn’t finish and a look back tells me the Princess waits at the far end of the solarium.She’s draped in a deep emerald green meant to suggest purity, renewal and rebirth. More lies. All of it. We know what crowns cost in this city.
The music swells, filling the enclosed space. I feel Arianette lean almost imperceptibly toward me, not touching, just orienting herself like she needs something solid nearby.
Verity’s red hair catches the light as she walks down the aisle, the color rich and alive against the glass and greenery. Holding Justice in her arms, there’s a careful strength to her stride, her body acclimating to being a new mother. She meets Lex and Pace at the base of the throne.
The cello pulls higher, tighter, the bow dragging emotion out of the strings. Next to me, Arianette rises slightly, like she’s trying to get a better look at the front of the solarium. I wrap my fingers around her hip and settle her back down. I look at her face, and even though I can’t fully see her eyes behind the veil, I know she can see mine, and the message is clear:behave.
Whitaker’s song tapers off, long and melodic, the final note hanging in the solarium like breath held too long. Silence presses in on all sides.
Arianette exhales too fast, like she’s been holding it.
Whitaker sets the cello back on its stand with reverence before joining his brothers and Verity, sliding seamlessly into place beside her as if this has always been where he belonged.
Arianette’s movement starts again, this time her knee bouncing under the black satin, the liquid sheen catching the fairy lights. The rhythm is wrong–too quick, too frantic.
Annoyance flares in my chest, and I clamp my hand down on her thigh.
It’s not hard, just enough to still her, but the contact ignites a tremor that ripples up her spine. I feel it under my palm. Her muscles lock, breath catching like I’ve startled prey instead of steadied her.
“Control yourself,” I say.
She nods, quick and shaky, and forces herself into stillness. Her gaze stays fixed forward, unblinking. Good. If she can’t even sitthrough a ceremony without unraveling, she’s not ready, just as I feared. All that bravado in my room earlier today was nothing but a charade.
I do my best to refocus on the family at the front of the room, looking back just in time to see Whitaker lean down and make a show of giving Verity a long, lust-filled kiss.
For Christ’s sake.
Her hand curls tighter around her own wrist, nails pressing crescent moons into skin.
“Comeon,” my son groans from the audience. “Get a room.”
Whitaker pulls away with a scowl and glares at Remy. “How about you come over here and make me?”
Remy shoots to his feet, smirking. “Maybe I will.”
“Hey!” Verity snaps. “In your seat, right now! And you.” She turns on Whitaker with an exasperated look. “Behave.”
Wicker sniffs, looking away. “He started it.”
As uncouth and humiliating as this behavior is during a ceremony, I can’t help the brief warmth that spreads through my chest at the sight of them—messy and loud, like real brothers. The woman next to me seems caught in some battle with herself that I don’t understand.
Clearing his throat, Lex steps forward, pulling a book from beneath his arm. “I’d like to say I know how to do this, that there was a book in the library that laid it all out, but,” he holds up the PNZ pledge book before tossing it aside, “there isn’t one. There’s no easy way to claim a legacy.”
A row over, Killian coughs, and in the corner of my vision, I see Lavinia take Sy’s hand.
