Chapter 30
Timothy
She lied to me.
Arianette said I would find her dress appropriate.
That isn’t the correct word.
The dress is fit for a queen–not just classic but regal–but that isn’t what has my balls locked in a vise grip.
It’s the way the black fabric clings to her warm, brown skin like molten lava, how it moves when she breathes, how it suggests rather than reveals.
It looks both like leather and satin, and not only does the shine make her dress look alive, it makes Arianette, the girl who died, look like she’s been given a second life.
That dress teases the very parts of her that I have disciplined myself not to touch.
The curve of her hips. The gentle swell of her breasts.
The collar around her throat. The soft promise of everything I’ve already taken ownership of, but haven’t indulged in.
The column of her neck taunts me, exposed by her straightened hair, pinned back and away from her bare shoulders.
Her face is hidden behind netting–a wisp of veil attached to a small cap secured at the crown of her head.
I can barely see the hint of her lips, painted black, just like her nails, and my mouth waters wanting to taste her.
Day after day with this woman is a test of control. This? There’s no frailty here. No innocence.
I say nothing as we ride, eyes fixed forward, my gloved hands resting by my side.
I wear a dark suit, tailored to perfection, and a bronze mask shaped with devilish horns that arch upward from my temples.
It’s ceremonial, nothing too flashy to take away from the Princess, but it’s necessary when I’m among society.
The car ride is quiet, filled with her presence–the faint warmth of her body beside me, the whisper of fabric when she shifts, the quick rise and fall of her chest that tells me she remembers our conversation from earlier.
She smells divine. I know it’s my imagination, but I convince myself I can still smell the slick from her fingers working over her pussy today.
The cloying scent lingered long after she left, a wet spot on my linen pants.
I’d withheld my own pleasure as much as I forced it upon her.
It would have been easy to rub myself raw thinking about her, finding a hollow release, but I’m better than that.
Stronger.
Still, I’m grateful when the driver rolls down his window, allowing the rush of fresh air into the car.
Palace security waves us through the gates with a flash of our invitation.
There are no weapons tonight. No armor. Only the shine of ritual and the pretense of celebration.
The Purple Palace rises before us in its usual excess, glass and stone glowing under floodlights, regal and obscene in equal measure.
Rufus would have gilded his ass in gold leaf if it would’ve stuck.
Cleaned up frat boys escort us to the solarium at the back of the palace.
Once upon a time, when things were less fraught, this had been Miranda Ashby’s private garden, enclosed in glass and steel.
It hasn’t been long since the bones were found here, years of chosen princesses, poisoned and discarded, buried beneath beauty and denial.
With Arianette’s arm linked with the crook of my elbow, I lead her down the center aisle. Every eye turns to watch us enter. Understandable. It’s our first big event since the wedding.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. The solarium looks like something torn from a fairytale that bled into reality.
Winter plants crowd the space, lush and carefully curated, poinsettias blazing red against deep green leaves.
Fairy lights spill from the ceiling in impossible quantities, bathing everything in artificial warmth.
The glass traps it all inside–heat, breath, secrets.
Rufus’ legacy still breathes through the walls, no matter how many lights they string or flowers they plant.
Ahead is the throne, cushioned in soft green velvet.
We find our seats among the rest of the elite.
My son is here, as well as the other Dukes and Lords, but they aren’t the ones that have my attention.
I force myself to ignore the eyes watching us, the questions and criticisms of my young bride to a man they think is much older than I am.
Clive Kayes would be thirty years my senior.
A disturbing gap in age, even for the most open-minded.
It’s only one more burden that I must carry, because these people will never know the truth about my identity. Not as long as I’m alive.
All around us, the lights dim, and the ceremony begins with the low, aching pull of a cello.
Whitaker plays from the far end of the space, his body curled around the instrument like it’s an extension of himself.
His blond hair is immaculate, catching the light as it sways with each draw of the bow.
The sound vibrates through the glass, through the floor, arching through the hollow in my chest, as I deal with the truth that this man’s powerful gift comes from the very woman who tried to kill him, and that without the blood on my hands, this new life, the new baby and the reason we are all here, would never exist.
I don’t miss Arianette’s fingers twitching once in her lap.
As their brother plays, Lex and Pace situate themselves near the throne, their eyes cast back. The princes murmur, shifting in their seats, glancing toward the entrance in expectation.
Arianette’s shoulders lift with a shallow breath she doesn’t finish and a look back tells me the Princess waits at the far end of the solarium. She’s draped in a deep emerald green meant to suggest purity, renewal and rebirth. More lies. All of it. We know what crowns cost in this city.
The music swells, filling the enclosed space. I feel Arianette lean almost imperceptibly toward me, not touching, just orienting herself like she needs something solid nearby.
Verity’s red hair catches the light as she walks down the aisle, the color rich and alive against the glass and greenery. Holding Justice in her arms, there’s a careful strength to her stride, her body acclimating to being a new mother. She meets Lex and Pace at the base of the throne.
The cello pulls higher, tighter, the bow dragging emotion out of the strings.
Next to me, Arianette rises slightly, like she’s trying to get a better look at the front of the solarium.
I wrap my fingers around her hip and settle her back down.
I look at her face, and even though I can’t fully see her eyes behind the veil, I know she can see mine, and the message is clear: behave.
Whitaker’s song tapers off, long and melodic, the final note hanging in the solarium like breath held too long. Silence presses in on all sides.
Arianette exhales too fast, like she’s been holding it.
Whitaker sets the cello back on its stand with reverence before joining his brothers and Verity, sliding seamlessly into place beside her as if this has always been where he belonged.
Arianette’s movement starts again, this time her knee bouncing under the black satin, the liquid sheen catching the fairy lights. The rhythm is wrong–too quick, too frantic.
Annoyance flares in my chest, and I clamp my hand down on her thigh.
It’s not hard, just enough to still her, but the contact ignites a tremor that ripples up her spine. I feel it under my palm. Her muscles lock, breath catching like I’ve startled prey instead of steadied her.
“Control yourself,” I say.
She nods, quick and shaky, and forces herself into stillness. Her gaze stays fixed forward, unblinking. Good. If she can’t even sit through a ceremony without unraveling, she’s not ready, just as I feared. All that bravado in my room earlier today was nothing but a charade.
I do my best to refocus on the family at the front of the room, looking back just in time to see Whitaker lean down and make a show of giving Verity a long, lust-filled kiss.
For Christ’s sake.
Her hand curls tighter around her own wrist, nails pressing crescent moons into skin.
“Come on,” my son groans from the audience. “Get a room.”
Whitaker pulls away with a scowl and glares at Remy. “How about you come over here and make me?”
Remy shoots to his feet, smirking. “Maybe I will.”
“Hey!” Verity snaps. “In your seat, right now! And you.” She turns on Whitaker with an exasperated look. “Behave.”
Wicker sniffs, looking away. “He started it.”
As uncouth and humiliating as this behavior is during a ceremony, I can’t help the brief warmth that spreads through my chest at the sight of them—messy and loud, like real brothers. The woman next to me seems caught in some battle with herself that I don’t understand.
Clearing his throat, Lex steps forward, pulling a book from beneath his arm. “I’d like to say I know how to do this, that there was a book in the library that laid it all out, but,” he holds up the PNZ pledge book before tossing it aside, “there isn’t one. There’s no easy way to claim a legacy.”
A row over, Killian coughs, and in the corner of my vision, I see Lavinia take Sy’s hand.
Three legacies that were not inherited cleanly. Three that were taken, fought for, and claimed by a new generation. Four, if we include Lionel Lucia.
That leaves one.
Me.
The thought settles heavy and familiar.
Lex continues, his voice steady and confident, but my attention drifts to the woman next to me. She remains rigid, nails biting deeper. “…someone to sell, to trade for secrets and leverage,” Lex says. “He wanted a carver. Someone without remorse who’d hold his scalpel as he cut down his enemies.”
My focus snaps back to him.
A carver.
Thank God for the mask hiding my expression. I don’t look at any other Royal in the room. I can feel eyes everywhere, even if they aren’t actually on me.
Is Lex flaunting this? Is he careless, or bold enough, to toy with the truth in public?
In my peripheral, the Baroness swallows hard. I feel it through the faint shift of her throat.