Chapter 33
Ihave them brought to the throne room because it is the one place no one expects intimacy.
When I enter, they are already there.
Rowan stands near one of the pillars, arms folded. Aileen sits stiffly at the long table, twisting her fingers together. Ashford…no, Malric, stands apart from the others, as though uncertain what his position is in this construct.
He does not know what to do; I can see it written across his face.
So I decide for him.
I cross the room, take his face in my hands, and kiss him. It is not careful or poetic, it is overdue.
Aileen gasps sharply behind me and then laughs into her hand.
Rowan exhales loudly. “Fucking finally.”
Ashford’s hands come to my waist instinctively before he seems to remember where we are. When we part, he is smiling in a way I have not seen in days.
“I missed you,” he says quietly.
“I missed you, too,” I respond.
Rowan clears his throat. “Were we invited by accident, should we step outside and pretend this never happened?”
“No,” I say, turning back to them. “Stay. I need all of you.”
The humor fades.
We gather around the long table beneath the high windows. I remain standing.
“I learned something,” I begin, “and it has unsettled me deeply.”
Ashford watches me closely now.
“I need to get away from Charles,” I say. “Before the ring tightens again. Before whatever is tightening around us breaks completely.”
Rowan nods once, as if that part is obvious.
Then I simply come out and say it, “I need to contact the devil.”
Silence.
Aileen shoots to her feet. “No, Fastrada!”
Rowan stares at me. “Tell me you are joking.”
Ashford does not move. He simply studies me as though measuring whether I am serious.
“What did you learn?” he asks.
So I tell them.
The bargain. The promised soul. The generations of queens weighed and rejected. The cracked iron door in the chapel.
“The only way to be free of Charles,” I say, “is to change the bargain. If the pact binds the throne, then I need to break the pact, and the throne loses its foundation. Charles loses his divine excuse. The strain on every queen ends.”
Rowan shakes his head slowly. “You cannot renegotiate with the devil. That is not how that works.”
I look at Ashford. “You found the man who enchanted the ring. You know how to find those who do not want to be found. Whoever he serves—even if it is not the devil himself, it is someone close to that circle.”
Ashford’s expression hardens slightly. “If he worked for the devil, why would he help you? The devil does not solve problems for people.”
“He solves them for himself,” I reply. “Perhaps I am more useful alive than dead.”
“You are gambling with your soul,” Aileen whispers.
“I am gambling with it either way,” I say.
I meet Ashford’s eyes again. “Either he rejects me, and I end up like the others—sick, discarded, perhaps dead. Or he claims me. Neither outcome is appealing. But at least one of them is final.”
Ashford’s jaw tightens. “He cannot take your soul without your consent. Even scripture says that.”
“I do not believe in scripture anymore,” I answer quietly. “You said it yourself—religion is built by men. Men who were just as frightened as Charles’s ancestors. What do they truly know?”
He does not like that, but he does not contradict me.
“I have one chance to set this right,” I continue. “One chance to end it, not just for me, but for every woman who might come after.”
Aileen’s eyes fill with tears. “I cannot be part of that,” she says. “I love you. I will stand by you in almost anything. But I will not barter with Hell.”
I go and wrap my arms around her.
“I would never ask you to act against your conscience,” I murmur. “If anything happens…look after my children. Make sure they are protected.”
She nods against my shoulder, already crying.
Rowan rubs a hand over his face. “I will protect you as long as I draw breath,” he says. “But I think this is a catastrophic mistake.”
“I know.”
All eyes turn to Ashford.
He has not moved.
Finally, he says, very evenly, “I will look into it.”
Relief loosens something in my chest.
“The man who worked the ring has vanished again,” he adds. “Men like him surface when it suits them. We may have to wait.”
“I do not want to wait,” I say.
“Then we will not,” he replies quietly. “But we will not rush blindly either.”
Before I can respond, the sound of boots echoes outside the throne room.
The doors swing open and Charles storms in.
He stops when he sees us gathered around the table.
For a split second, something sharp flashes across his face, suspicion, perhaps, but it disappears beneath warmth.
“There you are,” he says breathlessly. “They told me you had taken ill. I was worried.”
He crosses the room and pulls me into an embrace before I can fully evade him. His grip is firm but not crushing. The ring remains steady against my skin.
Ashford stands perfectly still behind him. I can feel the tension in him even without looking.
“I am quite all right,” I say carefully.
Charles beams. “You should have seen the Avar line break,” he says, launching into an account of the campaign. “We will celebrate. A ball. The court needs spectacle.”
He turns suddenly to Ashford.
“And you—I will require your services tomorrow. There is work to be done.”
Ashford bows smoothly. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
He moves toward the door.
Charles calls after him. “What business had you here?”
Ashford does not hesitate. “Her Majesty required my counsel regarding your son. Pepin. The matter has been addressed.”
Charles studies him for a long moment, then nods.
“Good.”
Ashford meets my eyes once before he leaves. Hold steady.
When we are alone, Charles reaches for me again. His touch is less fevered than before. The cleansing, the reinforcement of the ring, they have helped.
Still, I cannot bear it.
“I am still unwell,” I murmur, letting my weight sag slightly. “May I retire?”
Concern softens his features. “Of course.”
* * *
Later, when he enters my chambers, I am already lying in bed with my eyes closed. I slow my breathing deliberately.
He stands there for a while and watches me, as if deciding what to do. I feel it, the ring is warming slightly.
Then he leaves.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor and allow myself to breathe again.
Perhaps he goes to one of his concubines, perhaps he is going back to his celebration.
Either way, I have escaped him for another night.
But escape is not enough.
I cannot endure his hands on me while my heart belongs elsewhere. If I am to hold him off, I will need more than feigned illness. I will need leverage.
And if leverage lies in Hell, then Hell may soon hear from me.
* * *
The days after the throne room and Charles’s return are intense. My father and the opposition have been informed about my plans. I received numerous letters from my father, asking me not to act before he arrives in the capital. I do not know if he will get here in time.
Charles is absorbed in preparation for his victory parade.
There are meetings from morning until late afternoon, tailors in and out of his chambers, courtiers rehearsing speeches of gratitude and loyalty.
The ball is spoken of as though it were a coronation rather than a celebration.
He thrives in it. The attention steadies him, or perhaps it simply distracts him.
For now, that distraction is my protection.
I learn to measure my movements. To meet his gaze long enough to satisfy, but not long enough to invite. To excuse myself before the ring begins to hum too loudly against my skin. It is a quiet calculation, constant and exhausting.
On the fifth evening, I am walking along the eastern corridor when someone catches my arm and pulls me through a narrow side door.
I barely have time to react before it closes behind us.
Ashford lets go of me at once.
“I am sorry,” he says under his breath. “I needed to be certain no one saw.”
The room is small and dim—used for storage, perhaps, or once for private audiences. Dust hangs faintly in the air where the light filters in through a high window.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
There is no ornament to the question. It is direct, almost clinical, but his eyes betray him.
He walks over to me with two quick strides and takes my face into his hands. His kiss is sweet, but urgent.
“Yes,” I say, when he lets me go. “Charles is occupied. He spends his days arguing about banners and procession routes. It keeps him from looking too closely at anything else.”
“And at night?”
I hesitate, but only slightly. “It grows more difficult. He notices the distance. I pretend fatigue. It will not hold forever.”
He studies my face as though searching for what I am not saying. “Has he grown suspicious?”
“Not openly.” That is the closest I can come to honesty without alarming him.
I lean back against the table behind me. “Have you heard anything?”
Ashford exhales slowly. “I sent word through a contact in Lyon. If anyone can trace the sort of men who work with…older agreements, it will be him.”
“That sounds like hope, not progress.”
“It is both,” he replies. “These things do not move quickly. And when they do, it is rarely in ways we expect.”
I watch him carefully. There is something restrained in him, something measured.
“Are you thinking of something else?” I ask.
“I am thinking of consequences,” he answers. “And I would prefer you not rush toward them.”
“I am not rushing.”
“You are preparing to,” he says gently.
He pulls me closer. “I need you calm,” he says. “Not burning through yourself before we know where we stand.”
The truth is, I am tired of being calm, but I do not say that. Instead, I ask, “And what would you have me do?”
“Rest,” he says, though the word is softer than a command. “Let me shoulder what I can.”
His hand rises as if by instinct and brushes a loose strand of hair back from my face. The gesture is so ordinary that it unsettles me more than urgency would have.
We simply stand there, close enough to feel each other’s breath, and the tension that has been sitting in my chest all week loosens.
When he kisses me, it is not reckless. It is not hurried. It is something careful, as though he is reminding both of us that this is real and not some imagined rebellion. His hand rests at my waist, reassuring and grounding.
I allow myself that softness; I allow myself to lean into him.
“I know what you need, Ada,” he rasps. “Tell me anyway.”
I moan quietly. “Why do you want me to say it?” I ask.
His eyes darken. “Because I am yours, and…” He moves his hand underneath my skirt, “because it excites me to hear you speak your desires out loud.”
I inhale sharply as his fingers dig into my thigh. “I want you…I want you to—” I can’t finish my thought.
“Yes, Ayna’vael, you want…?” he teases.
“I need you to fuck me with your fingers. I need to come on your hand so badly, I need—”
His mouth crashes over mine before I can finish. His fingers are already sliding in, because he knows what I need.
“You are so wet, Ada,” he rasps, alternating between pumping his finger inside of me and rubbing his thumb over my clit.
“Oh Devil’s mercy, I am so close,” I breathe, and I feel Malric’s chuckle all the way to my core.
“Is that what you need, Ayna’vael?” he asks, his fingers pumping harder now, while I rub my clit against his palm.
“Yes, don’t stop, Malric, make me come!”
He groans, a deep guttural sound that works like an aphrodisiac.
I press a hand over my mouth as I come hard, falling apart on his hand, clinging to his strong shoulders like a sailor tossed over board.
When my breathing slows, he asks, “Did I do well, my love?”
I open my eyes and run my hand through his hair. “You did so well, Malric.”
He shudders at my praise, a moan escaping him that I did not expect.
“You like it when I praise you?” I ask teasingly.
His eyes open, and the emotions in there are a sight to behold. “Oh yes, I do,” he says simply and kisses me again.
“Hmmm, I guess I will have to—” Before I can finish my sentence, I hear people outside the door. Malric quickly moves behind it, just as it is being opened.
Two maids stand in the doorway, surprise written all over their faces as they see me. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, we had no idea we’d find you in…the laundry room,” one of them exclaims.
I smooth a hand over my skirts.
“Please do not worry, I sometimes come here to calm my nerves. There is so much hustle and bustle in the palace because of the celebration, I simply needed a quiet room to think.”
The maids bow and leave. I follow them and simply hope that Ashford can escape before the maids return.