Chapter 12
He had apologized, as he always did in the grandest ways. The bedroom was drowned in roses—so many their sweetness turned cloying, almost suffocating.
Jewels followed, glittering on velvet trays, as if their brilliance could outshine the memory of his violence.
And yet, when he touched me, I felt that familiar pull—the dangerous one.
The one that made me forget the sound of his voice when he was angry.
Later, tangled in linen and warmth, I let myself believe him again.
I always did, in these moments—when he was soft, when he looked at me as though I was the only mercy he knew.
It is this version of him I love. Or perhaps it is this feeling—this dizzy, consuming closeness—that I can never quite abandon.
When I think back on it later, the months blur together like a road seen through rain.
We leave Acheron at the end of summer, packing away warmth and comfort and hot springs as though they were only a season-long indulgence. The court moves south in long caravans—horses, banners, chests of silk and silver—rolling steadily toward autumn. The leaves turn, the days shorten.
Autumn is spent traveling.
There are inns and temporary courts, halls borrowed from lesser lords, nights spent by firelight. Charles is often in high spirits then, energized by motion, by novelty. He laughs more. He teases me. He tells stories from the front as though they are triumphs instead of wounds.
I laugh with him.
From the outside, we are happy. That matters to him. We joke, we dine together. Sometimes we walk ahead of others, our hands brushing like newlyweds. When he looks at me in those moments, there is something genuine there—something warm and possessive and proud.
Aileen travels with us. That is my greatest mercy.
She listens when I chatter too much, laughs when I am foolish. I never tell her about the night in Acheron. I never tell her about the way the memory lives just under my skin. I am not ready to hear it spoken aloud.
By the time we reach Passberg, one of Charles’s smaller southern palaces, just before winter truly settles, I almost believe I imagined it.
The palace is quieter than Acheron, less grand. It’s surrounded by a thick forest. Christmastide approaches, candles are being lit, while evergreen branches are hung in the halls.
And most days, he is kind.
Then there are the other days.
I learn to read him the moment he enters a room—the weight of his steps, the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes slide past me instead of settling. I learn when to speak and when to stay silent. When to touch him and when to make myself small.
At first, it was easy to excuse.
A sharp word spoken too loudly. A hand landing a little too hard when I displease him.
A laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He’d tell me he doesn’t mean it, that he drank too much, that the day was difficult.
He kisses the place he hurts me afterward, apologetic, murmuring that I drive him mad.
I want to believe that.
Sometimes, the line between affection and something darker blurs. His touch has grown rougher, more demanding. It wasn’t painful, not at first at least, but possessive. I tell myself it is passion. That I wanted him to want me like this.
Still, something inside me flinches every time he looks my way.
He is careful in other ways. He washes before coming to me when he has been elsewhere. He does not speak of other women. It feels, absurdly, like a concession, like kindness offered to me.
The violence escalates quietly.
Never my face. Bruises are hidden where dresses fall—along the backs of my thighs, my hips, places no one sees unless I allow it. Once, his hand closes too tightly around my wrist. The snap that followed is a sound I will never forget. I scream before I can stop myself.
He stares at me in horror afterward, he starts crying, and I have to soothe him.
I tell everyone I fell from my horse; lying is becoming easier.
Between those moments, life continues. We host dinners, and we receive petitions. I sit beside him in court and smile. I laugh at Aileen’s jokes. I almost convince myself that the good outweighs the rest.
But the fear settles deeper each time.
I mold myself around his moods. I have become very good at surviving.
By winter, I no longer think of escape. I think of endurance.
I tell myself this is marriage. That love can be bruising. That I am strong enough to bear it. That if I am careful, if I am quiet, if I am good, it will not get worse.
* * *
He is gone for a week.
Long enough for my body to relax into the quiet.
Long enough for the palace to feel almost safe again.
I sleep better, I breathe easier. I even let myself imagine what it might be like if this were permanent.
Maybe I could stay here while he starts traveling again in the spring.
I am a day’s ride away from my father’s estates.
I could visit my parents and my siblings every now and again; they could come and see me here, too.
I look around the room. It’s smaller than our chamber in Acheron, but I have been able to decorate in a way that reminds me of my childhood bedroom.
Soft green colors make the tight space feel fresher, like sleeping outside in the woods in the summer.
The soft green carpet reminds me of moss on the forest floor and the light green curtains soften the harsh stone optics of the cold palace walls—
The door flies open with a crash that rattles the walls.
The sound is so violent it steals the air from my lungs. I jolt upright in bed, heart slamming against my ribs. The door rebounds off the stone and swings back, groaning.
Charles stands in the doorway.
The look in his eyes freezes me where I am. Not anger—something worse. Something feral. He grips a bottle in one hand, the glass slick with condensation. The smell of liquor reaches me even from across the room.
I know that look.
My body reacts before my mind does. I shrink inward, folding into myself, scrambling back across the mattress. I pull the covers up, past my chin, past my mouth, until only my eyes are exposed. As if fabric might protect me. As if becoming small enough will make me invisible.
He doesn’t say a word.
He paces the room like a caged animal, kicking a stool aside, sending it skidding across the floor.
It crashes against the wall. I flinch at every sound.
My hands tremble beneath the blankets. I want to hide entirely, but I know I need to keep an eye on him.
I need to know what he is doing. I need to be prepared.
He fumbles with his clothes, swearing under his breath, growing angrier when his fingers don’t cooperate. The bottle hits the floor and rolls. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
The bed dips beneath his weight.
He leans over me, his mouth pressing against my neck, my cheek. His skin is hot. He smells of sweat and alcohol and the road. My stomach turns. Usually, he isn’t particularly interested in sex when he is drunk, so I stay still, willing him to ignore me.
He doesn’t.
I feel his cock against me, digging into my back. Panic coils tight in my chest.
“I’m tired,” I whisper finally. “I don’t feel well.”
He doesn’t answer.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice barely there. “Please.”
The word seems to snap something.
Pain explodes across my side. I cry out before I can stop myself. The room spins. For a moment, there is nothing but darkness and ringing.
When awareness creeps back in, my body feels heavy, unresponsive. He is still there, hands on me, tugging, impatient. I whimper, trying to push him away, my strength gone.
“Please,” I sob. “Not tonight. We can—tomorrow. I’m not well.”
He ignores me.
Fear floods me, raw and overwhelming. I know what happens when I resist. I know how this ends.
He moves to take what he wants.
Something inside me fractures completely. “I’m pregnant, Charles. Please!” I cry out. The words tear themselves from my chest, loud and desperate and true. “I found out last week. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared.” It’s the first time I say it aloud.
Silence crashes down.
His hands still. For a long, terrible moment, I think I have made it worse—that I have given him something else to punish me for.
Then I feel his weight lifting off me as he steps back.
I curl inward, shaking, my arms wrapped around my stomach, tears streaming unchecked.
My entire body aches. My head throbs. My throat burns.
He doesn’t say a word. He turns and stalks out of the room, the door slamming behind him hard enough to make the walls shudder. I lie there, sobbing into the sheets, every muscle locked tight, listening to his footsteps fade.
He doesn’t come back.
I know—without doubt—that he will seek comfort elsewhere. I press my hand against my belly, breath hitching, terror and wonder tangled painfully together. A life is growing inside me.
And everything has changed.
Not because he hurt me, but because now, there is something I cannot let him destroy.
* * *
I wait, I don’t know how long. Until I am certain he is gone.
When I finally move, my body protests. My legs tremble beneath me as I sit up, my head throbbing, my vision swimming. Every movement sends a sharp reminder through me, but I force myself to stand.
I cannot stay here.
Dressing with shaking hands, I choose whatever I can manage, fumbling with fastenings that refuse to cooperate. The corridor outside is empty.
I run, and don’t look back.
The chapel is small, tucked away at the edge of the palace grounds. Nothing like the grand sanctuaries of Acheron—no soaring ceilings, no echoing choirs. Just stone, wood, and a few guttering candles.
It is the only place I can think of to go.
Pressing my hands to my face, I collapse onto the nearest bench. For a while, I just breathe. Then I cry—quietly, helplessly—until the tears run dry and my chest aches.
I have to think.
I have to make a plan.
He will hurt me again. I know that with terrible certainty. And next time, it might not be only me. My hand drifts to my stomach, instinctive and protective. The thought makes me dizzy.
I need funds. I need distance. I need time.
He leaves again next week—one of his court visits. I can ask to travel to my parents. I can say I am unwell, that I need air, comfort, prayer—anything. Once I am with my family, I will have space to breathe.
A sound shifts in the corner of the chapel.
My heart slams violently against my ribs. I spin around, panic surging, certain—certain—that it is him.
“Do not be afraid,” a deep voice says from the shadows. “It is not Charles.”
I freeze.
“I can help you.”
I swallow hard, forcing myself to sit still, to draw my fear inward where it won’t show.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say faintly.
A low chuckle answers me. “Don’t play coy, Your Majesty. I see everything. We all do.”
The candlelight flickers, stretching shadows across the stone.
“The bruises,” the deep voice continues calmly. “The pain. Your screams.” It pauses. “You are not as alone as you think.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my effort.
A man steps from the shadows.
“I am sent,” he says simply. “By someone who wishes to help you.” His voice sounds different now that I see him in front of me.
“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Why would anyone help me?”
“Because that is what he does,” he replies. His voice lowers. “There are ways to control a man like Charles.”
A shiver runs through me.
“And what does this person want in return?”
“When the time comes, you will owe him a favor of his choosing.”
My stomach twists. “That sounds an awful lot like a bargain with the devil.”
He laughs—soft and amused.
“What would he do to help me?” I ask.
“You must agree first,” the man says.
Silence stretches between us, and I think of my choices. Of nights spent afraid, of a child growing inside me, fragile and unprotected. I think of the future I cannot allow.
“I agree,” I say quietly, before I can come to my senses.
He steps forward into the light.
I have never seen him before—his face is unremarkable. He holds out his hand. “Yours,” he says.
I hesitate, then place my hand in his. He produces a small blade. The cut is barely more than a sting. He catches a few drops in a tiny glass vial.
Then he gestures. “Your ring.”
I look up at him. His stare is intense, unsettling even. I look back down toward my hand where the heavy golden ring sits, the stone almost black in the darkness of the chapel.
I slide it slowly from my finger and hand it to him.
The stranger murmurs words I don’t recognize, his voice low and steady. The ring begins to glow, the vines on it changing ever so slightly. Then it glows red, before cooling once more.
He returns it to me.
“Wear it always,” he instructs. “Do not remove it. Ever.”
I slide it back on. It fits as it always has.
When I look up again, the chapel is empty.
The candles burn, and I sit there for a long time, my hand pressed to my stomach, my pulse finally slowing.
What have I done?
Click.