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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he fragile peace of the night shattered at dawn.

Ulric woke after the most restful sleep he’d had in years.

The memory of Jessamin’s gentle touch still lingered on his skin, and he found himself replaying the previous night—the softness of her lips, the trust in her eyes when he’d confessed his deepest fears about the Curse.

For those few precious hours, he’d allowed himself to believe in something he’d thought impossible: a true partnership with his queen.

The sharp knock at his door destroyed that illusion.

Rook stood in the doorway. His spymaster’s face, normally an unreadable mask, was grim, and the look in his eyes sent a cold spike of dread through his gut.

“My king, I would not disturb you if it weren’t urgent.”

He pulled on his tunic, the wound in his arm protesting the movement. “Speak.”

Rook entered, closing the door with deliberate care. “One of my shadows was patrolling the eastern corridor before dawn. He found this.” From within his leather jerkin, he withdrew a folded parchment. “It was on the floor, dropped, outside the queen’s chambers.”

The seal was broken, but he recognized it immediately—the stylized sun and sword of the Priest King of Almohad. Jessamin’s father.

“Read it,” Rook urged, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The parchment felt oddly heavy in his hand, as he took the letter, a sense of foreboding crawling up his spine. He unfolded it and quickly scanned the elegant script. Each word hammered into his skull like an iron spike.

…Lasseran’s reasonable terms…

…your safe return to Almohad…

…wisdom of compliance from Norhaven…

…a loyal servant awaits your response…

The world around him receded, narrowed to the damning words before him.

The Priest King’s signature at the bottom was flawless, identical to the diplomatic correspondence he had received when negotiating for Jessamin’s hand.

He stared at it, a cold void opening in his chest where warmth had been just minutes before.

“The lower chambers,” he said flatly. “Where exactly?”

“My men are searching now,” Rook replied. “But discreetly. We don’t want to alert anyone.”

His mind worked with brutal efficiency, fitting this new piece into the puzzle that had been tormenting him for weeks. The coded messages about grain shipments. The missing silk used to bribe the stable hand. The sabotaged patrol route that had nearly killed him.

And now this—a letter revealing Jessamin’s father was negotiating with Lasseran, offering his daughter’s return as part of the bargain.

It was the final, damning piece of evidence. All of it pointed to Jessamin as the linchpin of the conspiracy.

Jessamin. His wife. The woman who had tended his wounds with gentle hands. The woman who had sat beside him in the darkness, accepting the terrible burden of his Curse without flinching. The woman who had looked at him with such tenderness that he had allowed himself to hope.

The intimacy of the night before felt like a cruel trick.

His confession, his vulnerability—was it all a lie for her to exploit?

Had she been playing him from the start, using his feelings for her to blind him to her true purpose?

The memory of her gentle hands on his wound, her soft lips against his, her body nestled against him—it all twisted into something sinister.

Was her tenderness just a performance to lower his guard?

Her concern for his injury a way to assess how close he’d come to death?

His Beast roared, a storm of betrayal and pain that threatened to tear him apart. He crumpled the letter in his fist, his claws tearing holes in the parchment.

“When was this found?” he demanded.

“Just before dawn, my king.”

Before dawn. After she’d left his chambers. After he’d confessed his deepest fears to her.

“And the queen? Where is she now?”

“In her chambers, my king. She has not yet emerged.”

“Summon the queen to the throne room,” he commanded, his voice like ice. “And double the guard. On her.”

Rook hesitated. “My king, perhaps a more private?—”

“The throne room,” he repeated, cutting him off. “This is not a private matter. This is treason against Norhaven.”

Rook bowed and departed, leaving him alone with his rage. He forced himself to breathe, to think past the roaring in his ears. The Curse heightened his emotions, turning his pain into something feral and dangerous. He needed control now more than ever.

She had betrayed him, not with her body the way his mother had betrayed his father, but with something far worse—his trust.

He dressed methodically, armoring himself in the trappings of kingship—the heavy leather tunic embossed with the crest of Norhaven, the ceremonial furs, the ancient sword passed down from king to king.

Each piece was a shield, a layer of protection against the hurt that threatened to cripple him, a barrier between himself and the vulnerability he’d shown her. Never again.

By the time he entered the great hall, he was encased in cold fury.

The room emptied at his approach, courtiers and servants scattering like leaves before a storm.

They sensed the danger in him, the barely leashed rage.

The massive stone throne of Norhaven, carved from the mountain itself, had never felt more appropriate. He was stone now—unmovable, unfeeling.

The letter, smoothed out again, rested in his hand. He stared at it, replaying every moment with Jessamin in his mind, searching for the signs he had missed, the clues that should have warned him.

Her insistence on learning to ride—had that been to facilitate an escape? Her interest in the ledgers—had she been gathering intelligence for Lasseran? Her tender ministrations to his wound—had she been assessing his weakness?

He sat rigid, waiting. He would have the truth from her, no matter the cost. He would look into her eyes and see if everything—every touch, every smile, every kiss—had been a lie.

The great doors swung open. Guards flanked the entrance, their faces grim, hands resting on sword hilts.

Jessamin entered, her steps light, her face open. She wore a simple gown of deep green, the color of Norhaven’s forests, her hair braided in the orc style with leather cords. The sight of her in his people’s fashions twisted the knife deeper. She looked every inch his queen, a perfect illusion.

She smiled when she saw him, but the smile faltered as she registered the guards, the empty hall, the rigid set of his shoulders. Confusion flickered across her face, followed by a shadow of hurt.

For a heartbeat, doubt crept in. Her reaction seemed genuine. The pain in her eyes felt real, but the letter in his hand was also real. The evidence was overwhelming. His wounded heart could not afford to be deceived again.

His own pain was a wall he couldn’t see past. The memory of her in his arms, of her lips on his, of her hand on his chest as he confessed his darkest fears—all of it poisoned now.

“My king,” she said, her voice hesitant as she approached the dais. “You summoned me?”

“I did.” His voice was devoid of all warmth, stripped of the tenderness that had colored it the night before.

She stopped before the throne, her eyes searching his face. He saw the exact moment she realized something was terribly wrong. Her posture stiffened, her chin lifting in that proud, defiant way that had once captivated him.

“What is it? What has happened?” The concern in her voice sounded authentic. She was skilled, this southern princess. A master of deception.

He held up the letter, watching her face carefully. “Explain this.”

Her eyes widened as she recognized the parchment, and the color drained from her face.

“Where did you get that?” she whispered.

“It was found outside your chambers,” he replied coldly. “Dropped, apparently, in your haste.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with what appeared to be genuine shock.

“Ulric, I received this letter last night. From Elspeth. She said a messenger from my father had just arrived. I was going to show it to you this morning.” Her voice cracked on the last words.

“I was coming to you for counsel because I knew something was wrong. This isn’t from my father. It can’t be.”

“No?” He stood, towering over her. “Then tell me, wife, what should I think when I read that your father is negotiating with Lasseran? That he wants you to return to Almohad? That arrangements are being made for your ‘safe passage home’?”

Her face had gone completely white now. “I don’t believe my father wrote that letter. “

“The signature is his,” he said coldly. “The seal is authentic.”

“But they’re not his words!”

“The words align perfectly with everything else,” he growled. “The coded messages about grain shipments. The missing silk used to bribe the stable hand who sabotaged the patrol route. The assassination attempt that nearly succeeded.”

With each accusation, her eyes grew wider. “You think I—” She stopped, her voice failing her. “You think I’m part of a conspiracy to kill you?”

“The evidence speaks for itself.”

She stared at him, and something in her expression shifted from shock to a dawning, terrible understanding.

“Last night meant nothing to you,” she said softly. “You shared your fears with me, you let me comfort you, you kissed me—and still, you think me capable of this?”

The reminder of his vulnerability, of what they’d shared, stoked his rage higher. “A clever performance,” he said coldly. “I commend your skill.”

“You want to believe I betrayed you?” She stopped, swallowing hard. “You would rather believe I am a traitor than trust what is between us?”

“There is nothing between us,” he said, the words cutting his own heart as deeply as they must cut hers. “There never was.”

She flinched as if he had struck her, her composure cracking. For a moment, she looked small and lost, a girl far from home, surrounded by enemies. But then her face hardened into something he’d never seen before—a cold, regal fury that matched his own.

“How dare you,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “After everything—after I tended your wounds, after I came to you in the night?—”

“After you arranged for me to be crushed under a rockslide,” he cut in. “After you plotted with Lasseran against my kingdom.”

“I did none of those things!” Her voice rose, echoing in the vast chamber. “I would never betray you or Norhaven! That letter is not from my father! Someone is trying to frame me!”

“A convenient defense.”

“It’s the truth!” Her eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of rage, not fear. “Elspeth gave me that letter last night. She said a messenger from my father had just arrived. I was exhausted, distracted. I took it to my room, read it, and knew immediately something was wrong.”

“Elspeth,” he repeated flatly. “Your Almohadi lady-in-waiting.”

“Yes, and I believe she’s the one working for Lasseran, not me!”

He laughed humorlessly. “So now you accuse your own servant? How convenient.”

“She’s been feeding me information, little hints about traitors in the keep. She suggested I write a note to the Captain of the Guard about suspicious activity. She drafted it for me. She’s been manipulating me, and I was too blind to see it.”

The explanation was so outlandish, so desperate, that it only hardened his resolve. She was grasping at straws, throwing blame at an easy target.

“Enough,” he growled. “I want the truth, Jessamin. Now.”

“I’ve given you the truth!” Her voice cracked with frustration. “I am not working with Lasseran! I would never betray you!”

“Then explain why your father is negotiating with him!”

“He wouldn’t! He sent me here to protect me from Lasseran!”

“Protect you?” he said bitterly. “By sending you to marry a Beast? Sending you to a kingdom of monsters? That’s how a father protects his precious daughter?”

“Yes!” she cried, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Yes, because Lasseran is the real monster, not you, not your people!”

Her words battered him, but he refused to let her see the impact. He’d been a fool once; he wouldn’t be again.

“You expect me to believe that your father, the Priest King of Almohad, sent his only daughter to marry an orc to protect her from his own kind?”

“Yes, because—” She stopped, something like terror flashing across her face.

“Because what?” he demanded.

She stared at him, her chest heaving with emotion. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

“Because,” she finally said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Lasseran wants me. Specifically me. And my father would rather see me married to you than in Lasseran’s hands.”

“And why would Lasseran want you specifically?” His voice was dangerously quiet now. “What makes you so special to him, Jessamin?”

Her face was a battlefield of emotions—fear, defiance, desperation. He could see her struggling with something, wrestling with a decision.

“Tell me the truth,” he demanded. “All of it. Now.”