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CHAPTER NINETEEN

“ H e is my uncle!”

Jessamin’s words echoed in the throne room long after she fled, hanging in the air like shards of ice. Ulric sat frozen on his throne, his mind struggling to process what she’d revealed. Her uncle. The revelation knocked the air from his lungs as if he’d been struck by a war hammer.

His advisors and guards stood in shocked silence, not daring to move or speak as he stared unseeing at the space where his queen had stood.

Lasseran was her uncle. Her mother was his sister.

He thought about the “evidence” laid before him—the forged letter, the intercepted messages, the suspicious coincidences—and saw them for what they were: a masterful, cruel frame-up designed to isolate Jessamin from her only protection. From him.

He hadn’t just doubted her. He had convicted her in his heart without trial, without even listening to her defense. The shame was a physical sickness that churned in his gut. The memory of her face—the hurt, the betrayal, the rage—burned into his mind.

“What have I done?” he whispered, his voice a ragged shadow of itself.

Before he could rise, before he could go to her so he could beg for forgiveness, the great doors burst open and a guard rushed in.

“Your Majesty! An urgent envoy from Almohad sent by the Priest King!”

He straightened, his mind still reeling. “Bring him.”

Minutes later, a grim-faced priest in travel-stained robes strode into the throne room. The man’s eyes were haunted, his face etched with the weariness of a desperate journey. He bowed before the throne, but there was steel in his spine.

“Rise,” he commanded. “You come from the Priest King?”

“I do, Your Majesty.” The priest stood, his voice steady despite his exhaustion. “I bring a message not to a king, but to a husband.”

The priest reached into his robes and withdrew a signet that bore the unmistakable sigil of the Priest King himself.

“My master bid me talk to you alone, but given the circumstances, I believe speed is more important than privacy.” The priest’s eyes darted around the room. “Is the Princess—forgive me, the Queen—is she safe?”

The question was a blade to his heart. “She is.” Physically at least. How much damage had he done to her heart? “Speak your message.”

The priest nodded gravely. “The Priest King sent his daughter to Norhaven not merely as a political bride, but to save her life. High King Lasseran is her uncle.”

“I know. She just told me.”

The priest looked startled for a minute, then nodded.

“Then you know he has hunted her since he learned of her existence. He is obsessed with the magic in his bloodline—magic he believes she carries as well. When her mother died in childbirth, we spread the word that the child had died as well. That worked for some years, but eventually he discovered the truth. He has spies everywhere.”

He winced, remembering how dismissive he’d been of her claim that Elspeth had been the true traitor.

“We managed to keep the Princess safe in the temple until she came of age,” the priest continued.

“We hoped that Lasseran’s interest in her had faded but his agents came after her again.

The Priest King saw only one option to keep her safe—to send her somewhere beyond Lasseran’s reach, to a people strong enough to protect her. ”

The priest’s voice dropped, heavy with meaning. “He chose Norhaven not despite your reputation as Beasts, Your Majesty, but because of it. He believed the orcs of Norhaven more honorable than the men of his own kind.”

Something else Jessamin had said and he’d refused to believe.

“I understand that now,” he said, “but what brings you here with such urgency?”

“We believe he plans to use her in a blood ritual,” the priest said grimly. “He will do everything he can to get his hands on her.”

Murmurs of shock rippled through the throne room, and his hands clenched on the arms of his throne, his claws digging into the ancient stone.

A blood ritual. Was that how Lasseran planned to control them? With his wife’s blood?

“The Priest King begs you to guard his daughter with your life,” the priest finished. “He believes that together, you may be the only hope of breaking Lasseran’s power.”

He rose from his throne, his movements deliberate, controlled, though inside he was a storm of emotion. A tidal wave of guilt and burning, protective love consumed him. He had been a blind fool, and his foolishness had wounded her almost as much as Lasseran could have.

“Where is my queen?” he demanded, turning to his captain of the guard.

“In her chambers, my king. I stationed guards outside her door as you ordered.”

Ordered. He had ordered her confined like a criminal. His Beast howled with self-loathing.

“Dismissed,” he growled, the word cutting through the room like a blade. “All of you. Now.”

The court scattered, recognizing the dangerous edge in his voice. Only when the last of them had fled did he allow his shoulders to slump, the weight of his failure crushing down on him.

The priest remained, his face still grim.

“There is something else you need to know,” he said quietly. “We believe that Lasseran intends to father a child with her.”

Never. His Beast threatened to emerge as he gave the other male a horrified look.

“On his own sister’s child?”

“He has no heir and believes only his line is worthy.” The priest’s face twisted in disgust. “There is no depravity to which he will not sink.”

“He will never lay a finger on her,” he swore, then remembered her face as she fled the great hall. “If she will accept my protection.”

The priest watched him with knowing eyes. “Your Majesty?—”

“I accused her,” he said, his voice hollow. “I believed the lies. I made her worst fears come true.”

“Then go to her,” the priest said simply. “The greatest strength is not in never failing, but in rising after failure.”

He nodded once, sharply, and strode out of the hall. He didn’t know what he would say to her. How could words possibly heal what he had broken? But he knew he had to try. He would beg for her forgiveness on his knees if necessary.

The corridors seemed endless. Each step was a reminder of his failure, each breath a prayer that she would listen. Guards snapped to attention as he passed, but he barely saw them. His entire being was focused on reaching her, on finding the words to undo the damage he had caused.

He reached her door and dismissed the guards with a sharp gesture. They departed swiftly, leaving him alone in the corridor. For the first time in his adult life, he hesitated before a door. The king who faced down armies found himself afraid of the judgment in one woman’s eyes.

He raised his hand to knock, then lowered it. What right did he have to demand entry? What right did he have to ask for forgiveness?

But staying away would be another failure, another betrayal. Drawing a deep breath, he knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again, harder. “Jessamin.”

Still no answer. Fear, cold and sharp, sliced through him. Had she fled? Had she been taken? Or was she simply refusing to see him?

“Jessamin, please,” he called, his voice rougher than he intended. “I need to speak with you.”

When no response came, he tested the door. It was unlocked. Pushing it open cautiously, he stepped into her chambers.

The room was empty, but not abandoned. Her things remained—her books, her clothing, the small trinkets she had brought from Almohad. The scent of her lingered in the air, that intoxicating blend of wildflowers and sunlight that had haunted his dreams.

Relief flooded him. At least she hadn’t fled. But where was she?

A movement caught his eye—the curtain to the balcony stirring in the breeze. He crossed the room in three long strides and pushed the drape aside.

She stood on the balcony, her back to him, her hands gripping the stone balustrade.

Her hair, freed from its braids, tumbled down her back in waves of honey gold.

She’d even replaced the green gown with a plain white one.

His heart ached as he realized she had removed all of her previous attempts to show that she belonged as his queen.

She didn’t turn at his approach, though he knew she must have heard him.

“Jessamin,” he said quietly.

Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t speak.

“Your father’s envoy arrived,” he continued, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. “He told me everything—about Lasseran, about why you were sent here. I know why you knew that letter couldn’t have come from your father. I understand now.”

She turned then, and the sight of her face nearly drove him to his knees. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying, but they were dry now, her expression a mask of regal dignity that couldn’t quite hide the raw hurt beneath.

“Do you?” she asked, her voice cool and controlled. “Do you understand what it feels like to live your entire life in fear of your own blood? To be judged not for who you are, but for who you’re related to?”

“No,” he admitted, taking a step toward her. “I can’t claim to understand that. But I understand that I failed you. I let my fear poison my judgment. I let Lasseran’s lies turn me against you.”

“You believed I would betray you,” she said quietly, but each word sliced him open. “After everything we shared, you thought I would hand you over to him.”

“I was a fool,” he said, the admission torn from his very soul. “A blind, suspicious fool who couldn’t see what was right in front of him. I was so afraid of losing you that I pushed you away.”

He took another step forward, close enough now to touch her, though he didn’t dare. “Your father sent you here because he believed orcs were more honorable than humans. I proved him wrong. I proved that I was no better than those who would judge you for your blood.”

Her composure cracked, just slightly. Her lower lip trembled before she pressed her lips together in a firm line.

“I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I haven’t earned it. But I’m asking for a chance to try. To prove that I can be the male, the husband, you deserve.”

He sank to one knee before her. “I love you, Jessamin. I have since the moment I saw you—not as a political asset but as a woman—but I was too afraid to admit it, even to myself.”

“Why? Why were you so afraid?”

“My mother betrayed my father, and it destroyed him because he loved her. I was determined that the same thing would never happen to me. I devoted myself to my duties and told myself it was enough. But you saw past my crown and my Curse to the male beneath. You taught me what it means to truly trust someone.”

Her eyes widened at his declaration, a flash of vulnerability breaking through her guard.

“I know I failed that trust,” he acknowledged, his voice raw. “But if you give me the chance, I will spend the rest of my life making it right. Not because you’re my queen, but because you’re my heart.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity. He remained kneeling, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for her judgment.

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Rise, Ulric. A king should not kneel.”

“I’m not kneeling as your king,” he said, remaining where he was. “I’m kneeling as your husband.”

Her eyes softened a little more, more cracks in the wall she’d built around herself.

“Then rise, husband,” she said, extending her hand to him. “We have much to discuss.”

He took her hand and stood, careful not to pull her towards him, though every fiber of his being ached to hold her. Her fingers were cool in his grasp, but she didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet. But it was a chance.