The boy with the halo. The one who played music like it was breathing. Hurt? I shake my head hard. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say quickly–maybe too quickly–because even through the mask I can feel the skepticism rolling off him. “Whitaker didn’t hurt, but he–”
A soft knock. The door opens just enough for Graves to slip inside with a tray: sliced meats, cheeses, crusty bread, a bowl of dark berries, a tall glass of chocolate milkshake with a long green straw poking out. He sets it on the bed beside me.
“For you,” he says gently. “Thought you might need a little sugar after such a long night.”
“Thank you, Graves.”
Graves glances between us–lingering on the King for a beat–then leaves without another word.
We’re alone again. I start building a small sandwich–ham, sharp cheddar, a thin slice of apple–fingers still unsteady. I don’t eat it. Instead I hold it out to him.
“For me?” He sounds almost confused.
I shrug, small. “You must be hungry.”
“I’m not,” he says, but he moves closer anyway, easing onto the edge of the bed. Our fingers brush as he takes it. He takes a slow bite, chewing thoughtfully. I wrap my lips around the straw, cold sweet chocolate flooding my mouth, soothing the raw edges inside me. He eats two more sandwiches in quick succession after that, clearly hungrier than he let on.
“Arianette,” he says when he’s finished, voice softer now. “Tell me more. Tell me about periwinkle.” I set the milkshake down, press my cold fingertips to my knees. “Is it the color?”
I nod. “Soothing purple. Warm like a blanket.”
“Why did you say it tonight? Over and over?”
“It helps me when I’m anxious.”
“And he taught you that? Whitaker?” He takes my hand–big, warm, steady–threading his fingers through mine. I nod in answer and he asks, “How do you know Whitaker?”
I shake my head, small and frantic. “Don’t. Don’t make me tell.”
His other hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking down my jaw in a gentle arc. “I’m not just your King, Arianette. I’m your husband. Your protector. I will keep you safe, but I can only do that if I know the truth.” His fingers tighten slightly, linking us more securely. “Where did you meet him?”
The answer sits heavy on my tongue, forbidden. Of all the murky things in my head, this one was never supposed to be spoken. His fingertips slide under my chin, tilting my face up. I look into the shadowed green of his eyes beneath the mask.
I take a deep breath.
“Mayfield.”
32
Timothy
“Mayfield.”
The word hangs between us, weighted like a bomb. It lands soft, but heavy, sinking into the quiet of the room until the fire’s crackle is the only sound left. I’ve never heard of it before–not in any context that matters. Not in council meetings, not in the ledgers Graves keeps, not whispered in the private rooms of Noir Sanctum or the other places in Forsyth where secrets usually pool. It means nothing to me, and that alone makes my skin crawl.
“What does that mean?” I ask, keeping my voice even. Tension has locked every muscle in her body; her shoulders are up around her ears, fingers curled tight around mine like she’s afraid I’ll pull away the second she lets go. Whatever she’s offering me right now feels like it costs her something vital. “What is Mayfield?”
She looks at me then,reallylooks, and there’s quiet skepticism in her eyes, like I’m supposed to know. Like if it’s tied to Forsyth, to thiscity I’ve ruled since before she was born, I should already have the map in my head. Her lips part, close, part again. She swallows hard.
I tighten my grip on her hand, not hard, just enough to remind her I’m still here. “Tell me, Arianette. So I can understand.”
She exhales, shakily. Pulls her knees closer to her chest, the oversized button-down swallowing her frame. The chocolate milkshake sits forgotten on the tray between us, condensation pooling on the glass. When she speaks again, her voice is small and careful, like she’s testing each word before it leaves her mouth.
“It was… a place. Or maybe not a place. A name they used.” She frowns, brow furrowing as if the memory is trying to slip away again. “Uncle Owen would take me to events. Fundraisers, holiday galas, things for campaigns. I’d dance. Sometimes sing. There was always music—piano, violin and always, the cello. I didn’t know him, or know anything about him, just that he’d smile at me backstage. Talked me through a panic attack before I performed in front of a large crowd. ‘Periwinkle,’ he said. ‘Focus on the word, the color, and how it makes you feel.’ I thought he was kind.”
