White walls rise around me, startling in their simplicity. They are cut through by darker ribs of stone, pale surfaces interrupted by slim black columns like strokes of ink across a page. The walls are plain in places, washed white as linen, yet the eye keeps catching on richness: veins of colored marble stitched together into patterns. A low gilt barrier gleams ahead, catching what little light filters down from above.
Then I lift my gaze, and the space unfolds.
The building is not large—not in the way I expected a king’s chapel to be—but it draws upward with such grace that I feel small and unimportant. The dome above is breathtaking, precise as a cut jewel, its weight borne on massive piers that rise like tree trunks. Gallery upon gallery circles overhead; walkways and arches interlock like a puzzle.
The sounds return slowly: there are my footsteps, the whisper of fabric against the stone floor, and the distant murmur of a priest’s voice.
I draw a breath and lift my eyes up to the altar.
The moment our eyes meet, the world seems to narrow around us.
I am sure he can’t see much of my face behind the veil, and yet it seems like he is staring straight into my soul.
He’s above me—up the steps, his height—and I have to look up, further than I expected. My body registers it before my mind does: the tilt of my head, the stretch of my throat, the way I get almost dizzy staring up at him.
It isn’t just that he’s handsome, though he is, it’s thepresencehe carries, a force that reaches for me before I can stop it. I feel its pull, guiding my steps, urging me forward. Somehow I can’t feel the pain in my rib cage anymore.
The tilt of my head makes the veil shift against my skin, and suddenly the air beneath it feels too close, too heavy. My breath quickens, shallow and hot, trapped in the small, enclosed space around my face.
Sweat is beading along my upper lip. My heartbeat pounds louder, faster, climbing up my throat.
I feel small beneath his gaze. When I finally stand before him, he reaches up and slowly lifts the veil from my face.
He studies me slowly, taking me in, and I can see it in his expression—satisfaction, approval, and something darker, more intense. His eyes linger, and the knowledge that he wants me sends a rush of excitement through my veins that makes my legs feel unsteady.
This is it. I was made for him. This is love.
I want to reach up and press my hand to my heart. To stop it from beating so violently. To stop it from cracking and splitting open. But a queen shows no weakness. Of course I’m nervous. Of course my heart is racing.
This is my wedding day—this is love.
Another tooth engages.
Click.
Chapter 3
Everything around me is blurry.
It might be the alcohol, rushing through my veins like horses on a hunt. Maybe it’s the dizzying movement of Aileen spinning me around in circles on the dance floor. It might very well be the way Charles looks at me across the room, talking to his advisers, but never quite taking his eyes off me. We have barely spoken a word to each other and yet, I belong to him, utterly and completely. His ring on my finger, his name on my lips, his essence wrapped around me in an eternal embrace.
The King’s hall is ablaze with candlelight.
Stone pillars rise toward a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow, their pale surfaces glowing gold where the flames catch, then sinking back into darkness again. Hundreds of candles line the walls and tables, their wax weeping slowly in the heat, the air thick with the smell of tallow and smoke. The light flickers constantly, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
The windows stand open, tall and narrow, cut deep into the stone. Beyond them, the night hums with life. There are people in the streets below—laughter and music, the rough joy of celebration carries upward in waves. Their voices drift into the hall like a distant tide, joyful and unrestrained.
Inside, the heat is relentless. Silk and velvet cling to damp skin; wine flows freely, adding its sharp, sweet tang to the air. There is the smell of sweat beneath the perfumes and spilled beer, of bodies packed too closely together. The warmth presses in from all sides, and the open windows offer no relief—outside, the air is just as heavy.
I twirl again, my dress flaring, momentarily cutting off my view of Charles. When I turn back, he is gone.
A shiver glides down my back, not unpleasant, but…unfamiliar.
I pretend to keep dancing, but my eyes are searching for him in the crowd. My gaze catches on a couple up on the balcony. The man’s back is turned to me, but I can see two hands with bright red nails digging into his back, pulling him closer.
I know what they are doing.
I might be innocent in all the ways that matter physically, but I am no fool. Growing up in a rural castle meant listening to the maids talk and asking my own questions in return. But seeing the carnal lust between this man and his lady is exhilarating. The way he presses himself into her, his head buried in the crook of her neck, her hands flexing on his ass, pulling him closer still.
