“What is this? What is happening? Stop. Stop it now.”
A memory flashes–Hunter after the vigil, careful but direct, telling me she might need more help than we can give her.
No.
I shove the thought away. I refuse it outright. We are enough.Iam enough.
The cold seeps in fast, biting through silk and skin. Goosebumps race across her bare arms, her chest. Our coats are still inside, hanging neatly where they belong, but there’s no going back. Not now. Not like this.
I seize her hand and drag her along the side of the palace, our footsteps cracking against the cobblestone. She stumbles and nearly goes down.
“For Christ’s sake,” I snap, spinning back, scooping her up before she can fall. I pull her into my arms, her weight light and wrong against my chest.
She whispers constantly now, a soft, broken chant, like something she’s clinging to just to stay tethered. I’ve barely made it around the curve of the building when Kendrick rushes toward us, arms already lifting to help.
“No,” I bark. “I’ve got her.”
He checks himself instantly and pivots, running ahead to clear the way–past the line of waiting vehicles, past the other drivers pressed to the stone, cigarettes glowing as they watch.
They see everything.
The humiliation hits me full-force then, hot and suffocating, because this isn’t a stumble or a scene or a momentary weakness.
This is something else.
Something worse.
Something that’s happeningagain.
I get her into the car and sit with her, her body shuddering uncontrollably in my arms, her teeth chattering as she keeps whispering that same word, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. I listen, trying to make sense of it, trying tocontrolit, having no fucking clue what it means.
“Periwinkle.”
The back seatof the car feels smaller than it should. It’s not just the size of her dress, or the way my tie feels too tight. It’s the unchecked emotion filling up every single inch of space.
Traffic is a snarl outside the tinted windows–the Purple Palace valets stacked cars on top of one another, making it impossible to exit quickly. Kendrick’s hands are white on the wheel, but he hasn’t said a word about the holdup. He knows better.
Arianette is curled against the door, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s trying to disappear. Her breathing is all wrong–short, ragged hitches that sound like she’s drowning on dry land. Mascara tracks black rivers down her cheeks, lipstick smeared at one corner from where she’s been biting her lip bloody. She keeps whispering the same word over and over.
“Periwinkle.”
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what set her off in the solarium–something one of the Princes’ said? No, it started before then. A look from the Queen? The weight of the gown she’s wearing? The promise I made her keep earlier in the day?
I’m out of my fucking element. Women like her, fragile in ways that aren’t visible until they shatter, have never been my territory. The last time I tried to handle a woman–a wife–breaking like this, it was Amber. Twenty years ago. Screaming and clawing about the shadows in her head, the whispers of what they wanted her to do. I had her admitted. I did the same to my son after his little friend was murdered. Saint Mary’s, the place I lock away my troubles.
Is this the curse for taking on the mask all those years ago? Do all baronesses eventually crack under the crown we put on them? Feel too much, see too much, carry too much until the seams split? Will Arianette end up in a white room with soft walls, staring at nothing while they pump her full of whatever stops the screaming?
No.
Not her.
Not again.
Anger boils in my veins and I want nothing more than to shake her into compliance. Instead, I take a deep breath and steady myself before I do something different. I fight my nature and instincts by reaching across the seat, hesitant, palm sliding down the outside of her arm. Goosebumps rise under my fingers; she’s ice cold despite the heat flowing from the vents. She flinches at first, then leans into the touch like it’s the only tether she has.
“Kendrick,” I snap. “Turn up the heat. Full blast. I don’t want her going into shock.”
The vents roar to life, warm air flooding the cabin like a furnace. It doesn’t help. She’s still shaking hard enough that her teeth chatter. I curse under my breath and pull her toward me. I fight my instinct, giving her time to pull away if she needs to. She doesn’t. She collapses against my chest, face buried in the crook of my neck, fingers twisting into the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. Her breath is hot and wet against my skin, coming in little panicked puffs.
