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CHAPTER ONE

Revna

The morning light streaming through Everly's guest room window feels like a rude awakening.

I'm still wearing the red sweater from last night, still have his cologne on my skin, and the sapphire ring sits on the nightstand like a beautiful threat.

Dalla's curled in the bed across from mine, mascara smudged under her eyes, still in her clubbing dress.

We look like what we are—two girls who went looking for normal and found our futures instead.

"Stop staring at me," she mumbles without opening her eyes. "It's creepy."

"How did you know I was staring?"

"Twin thing." She cracks one eye open. "Also, you breathe louder when you're overthinking."

Before I can respond, the sound of car doors slamming outside makes us both freeze.

It's too early for visitors, too precise to be neighborhood noise.

I whisper, creeping to the window, "Stay here."

A black town car idles in Everly's driveway.

The driver—muscle in an expensive suit—is already walking back to his vehicle, leaving my car keys on the porch.

"Motherfucker actually did it," I breathe.

Dalla's beside me now, peering through the curtains. "Did what?"

"Doran said my car would be delivered in the morning." I check my phone: 7:23 AM. "He's a man of his word, I'll give him that."

Everly appears in the doorway, an almost two-year-old Boden on her hip, looking impossibly put-together for someone with two kids and a third on the way.

Her blonde curls are pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing one of Regnor's old t-shirts that stretches over her belly.

"Coffee's ready. And looks like your car's back."

We stumble after her to the kitchen, still in yesterday's clothes, feeling every minute of lost sleep.

Eira's already at the table, syrup in her hair and in her princess pajamas, chattering about pancakes to her stuffed wolf.

"Aunt Rev!" Eira launches herself at my legs with sticky hands. "Mama says you're getting married! Are you gonna wear a princess dress?"

I smooth her wild curls, so much like her mother's. "Something like that, baby."

"Can I be in the wedding? I know how to throw flowers now. Boden taught me, but he eats them sometimes, so maybe not him."

"We'll see." The words stick in my throat because in two weeks—not four, according to the text that woke me at 3 AM—I'll be married to a man who tracks my every move.

Everly sets coffee in front of us, her movements careful but practiced.

The kitchen smells like vanilla and cinnamon, like safety and home. "Regnor's taking the kids to the park in a bit. Figured you might want to talk without little ears."

"Daddy said a bad word yesterday," Eira announces. "He said 'fuck' when he hit his thumb."

Everly gives her daughter a look. "And we don't repeat bad words, do we?"

"No. But sometimes Uncle Bjorn says?—"

"Okay, munchkin, let's get you cleaned up." Regnor appears, scooping Eira up.

His dark eyes meet mine briefly, taking in our disheveled state. "That's some ring."

I glance down at my bare finger, then remember I left it on the nightstand. "It's... yeah."

"Worth more than most people's houses," he says casually. "Man doesn't drop that kind of money unless he's serious."

"Or unless he's marking his territory," Dalla mutters, slumping into a chair.

Regnor doesn't argue, just carries Eira off.

Everly waits until we hear the bathroom door close before sitting across from us.

She pours herself tea—chamomile, I notice.

The coffee must make her nauseous, or she’s watching her caffeine input.

"So. How are we doing this morning?"

"I have go out to my car," I say instead of answering.

"In a minute." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. Her wedding ring catches the light—modest compared to mine, but earned through blood and choice rather than arrangement. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about. It's done. Ring on my finger, wedding in two weeks instead of four—oh, didn't mention that part. Doran texted at 3 AM. The timeline's been moved up."

"What?" Dalla's coffee mug hits the table hard. "Why?"

"Cartel stuff, probably. Does it matter?" I pull my hand back. "It's happening either way."

"Rev—"

"I need to go out to my car." I stand abruptly.

But Everly doesn't let me escape that easily. "Sit down, Revna."

Something in her tone—maternal and commanding—makes me obey her words.

"When I was where you are," she begins, "pregnant, terrified, trying to convince everyone including myself that I had it handled, you know what helped?"

"What?"

"Admitting I didn't have a fucking clue what I was doing." She smiles at our shocked faces. "What? Eira's outside. I can curse."

Dalla laughs. "I can’t remember the last time I heard you drop an f-bomb."

"I save them for special occasions. Like when my sort-of nieces are about to make the same mistakes I did." Everly stands, moves to the stove. "French toast?"

"I can't eat," I tell her honestly.

"You can and you will. Dalla, you're on egg duty." She starts pulling out ingredients. "And while we cook, we're going to talk. Really talk. Not this surface bullshit where you pretend you're fine."

"I am fine?—"

"You're so full of shit your eyes are even getting browner." Everly cracks eggs into a bowl. "You just found out you're marrying a man you barely know in four weeks. Your boyfriend?—"

"He's not my boyfriend?—"

"Your whatever-he-is wants to talk, probably declare his undying love now that it's too late. Your sister's freaking out. Your parents are probably losing their minds. And you're 'fine'?" She whisks the eggs with unnecessary force. "Honey, I've been 'fine.' Fine almost got me killed."

The words land heavy.

Dalla and I exchange glances.

"So what do I do?" I ask quietly. "How do I... how do I become someone's wife when I don't even know who I am yet?"

"You don't become anyone," Everly says firmly. "You stay exactly who you are, just with better security and a joint bank account."

"It's not that simple?—"

"No, it's not. It's fucking complicated and messy and some days you'll want to run so bad it physically hurts." She dips bread in the eggs. "But you know what? Some days you'll wake up and realize the life you never wanted became the life you can't imagine losing."

"Did that happen for you?" Dalla asks softly.

"Every damn day." Everly flips the French toast. "Doesn't mean it was easy. Doesn't mean I don't still have nightmares sometimes. But Regnor..." She pauses. "He let me stay myself. Broken parts and all. That's what you need to look for with Doran."

"What if he doesn't?" I voice my biggest fear. "What if he wants to change me?"

"Then you fight like hell to stay yourself. And we'll help." She plates the French toast, slides it in front of me. "Eat. That's an order."

I take a bite to appease her.

It's perfect—cinnamon and vanilla, crispy outside and soft inside. "This is really good."

"Secret ingredient is spite," she deadpans, making Dalla snort her coffee. "Made it every morning when I was on bed rest, determined to prove I could still do something right."

We settle into cooking together, Dalla scrambling eggs while Everly makes more toast and I set the table.

It feels normal, domestic, like we're just three women making breakfast instead of dealing with my chaotic situation.

Outside, the morning air is crisp enough to clear my head.

Sure enough, my keys wait on the porch, but there's more.

A small velvet box sits beside them with a note in cursive handwriting.

For Monday. Every queen needs her armor.

- D

Inside are sapphire earrings that match the ring perfectly.

Of course it’s something grand.

Everly's voice behind me is gentle. "He doesn't do anything half assed, does he?"

"Apparently not." I pocket the earrings but leave the box. "He's marking me as his in every way possible."

"Come back inside. Dalla's about to vibrate out of her skin."

My sister's pacing the kitchen when we return, phone in hand. "Njal texted. He heard you're back. He wants to talk."

"From who?"

She shows me the screen. "Does it matter?"

Multiple messages, increasingly desperate.

Heard you're home . C an we talk?

Rev, please I know about him.

I know about what happens on Monday.

Please.

"You should see him," Everly says quietly. "Close that chapter properly."

"Doran said I could have my freedom this weekend..." The words taste bitter.

Freedom with conditions, with surveillance, with the knowledge that Monday I become someone else entirely.

"Then take it. But be honest with Njal. He deserves that much."

"Does he?" Dalla's voice is sharp, which isn’t typical of my sister. "Two years of sneaking around, never making it official, always 'we'll figure it out later.' Now later's here and suddenly he wants to talk?"

"That's not fair?—"

"Isn't it?" She rounds on me. "You get one last fuck while I get to watch you marry a stranger? While I wonder every day if I'm next?"

The words hit like a slap. "Dalla?—"

"No. You know what? Go. Go say goodbye to your boyfriend who was never really your boyfriend. I'll be here, packing up our lives, wondering when the Irish will decide they need another alliance, and if our father will throw me in the deal too."

"That's not—this isn't my fault!"

"I know that!" She's crying now, mascara making fresh tracks down her face. "I know it's not your fault. But it should have been me. I'm older?—"

"By twelve minutes?—"

"I should protect you! That's my job. That's what I've always done. And now I have to watch you—" Her voice breaks.

"Remember when we were seven?" I say suddenly. "And Mikey Morris kept pulling my hair on the playground?"

She blinks at the subject change. "Yeah?"

"You put a spider in his lunchbox. Told him if he touched me again, you'd put one in his bed."

"Little shit screamed like a baby," she says, almost smiling.

"And when we were thirteen and I got my period at school?—"

"I pretended I'd peed myself so everyone would look at me instead." She wipes her nose. "Ruined my favorite jeans."