“You think I cannot feel it?” he says softly. “You think I do not sense it when you are working your spells?”
“I have done nothing,” I insist.
His gaze is no longer searching. It is certain. “You belong to me,” he says. “Not merely in ceremony. In truth.”
The ring burns again. This time I see it—a thin fracture along the newer band, the metal that was added in the tavern. It is faint, but it is there, splitting along the seam where old and new were fused.
The reinforcement is weakening.
My heart is pounding loudly; I am sure I can feel the crack in it widening.
Charles releases my wrist. “You will not make a spectacle of me,” he says, voice still controlled. “Not after what I have given you.”
“I have made no spectacle,” I answer.
His restraint vanishes. He turns abruptly and drives his fist into the stone wall beside us. The sound is sickening, bone against masonry. I flinch, and he does it again.
When he pulls his hand back, the skin across his knuckles has split. Blood wells quickly, bright against the gray corridor.He bends over, and I think he might be crying. But then I realize: he is laughing. It is not loud at first, not even hysterical, just wrong.
The sound builds until it becomes something almost unrecognizable. His shoulders shake. His eyes—Devil’s mercy, his eyes—look as they did on the battlefield, when victory tipped into slaughter and he could not tell the difference.
I take a careful step back. “Charles,” I say softly. “We should not quarrel like this. The parade is in two days. The court watches everything. If there are rumors—”
He stops laughing. “Rumors?” he repeats.
“I will stay away from any man who offends you,” I say quickly. “If that is what you need. We have more important things to think of than suspicion.”
He stares at me as though I have spoken in another language. “You think this is aboutneed?” he asks.
Before I can answer, he pulls a dagger from his belt. For a heartbeat I think he means to threaten me, but he presses the blade to his own throat.
“Charles,” I breathe.
“One more betrayal,” he says calmly, “and I will spill my blood at your feet. Let the court see what their Queen has done.”
The corridor feels too narrow.
“Put it down,” I say. “Please.”
“You will come with me,” he says. “To the chapel.” He does not lower the dagger. “If you try to run, I will not miss.”
There is no choice. “I will come.”
We walk through the corridors together—his hand gripping my arm, the dagger never far from his skin. Servants freeze as we pass. A pair of guards exchange uncertain glances butdo not intervene.
Rowan stands at the far end of the western hall. His gaze flicks from Charles’s bloodied hand to my face.
I shake my head once, tears burn in my eyes.
He turns and runs in the other direction.
We reach the chapel doors. Charles throws them open so hard they crash against the walls.
“Out,” he bellows.
The few priests and attendants inside scatter without protest. The echo of the doors closing behind us feels final. He drags me forward, all the way to the altar.
“Kneel,” he commands.
