Chapter Five
I PICK UP MY FORK. Put it down. Pick it up again.
Devyn is watching me do this. I can feel his gaze like a physical thing, steady and patient and probably cataloging every nervous tic I have. The candles flicker between us, casting shadows that make his golden eyes look darker, deeper, full of things I can't read.
"We should discuss expectations," he says.
"Expectations," I repeat, like an idiot.
"For the marriage."
Right. The marriage. The thing happening in two days. The thing I keep forgetting about because I'm too busy cataloging the exact shade of amber his eyes turn in candlelight.
Not something a normal person does, Bailey. Stop it.
I clear my throat. "So, um, about that—”
“It’s not up for negotiation.”
Seriously?
“It’s illegal to force—”
“I am not forcing you to do anything. You have a choice. Marry me and live. Do not marry me and die.”
SERIOUSLY?
“Shall we continue with our discussion?”
I almost ask him if I have a choice...when I see the way his eyes are gleaming, and ugh.
I already know he’s going to tell me I have a choice again.
Continue and live. Do not continue and die.
I’m honestly tempted to call his bluff. Like 99% tempted.
But since 1% of me isn’t completely convinced it is a bluff—
“What are your expectations?” I know how to choose my battles and when to admit defeat.
"Public appearances. You'll stand beside me at court. Present a unified front."
"And if I trip over my own feet in front of all your important political allies?"
"I don’t like anyone touching what’s mine—”
My heart skips a beat.
“So be sure not to let any of them catch you."
But now I tell my heart to un-beat even as I choke back a laugh, and oh!
There it is again!
That twitch at the corner of his mouth. I'm starting to think that's as close to a smile as he gets.
"As for our private life—”
Do not skip a beat, heart!
“You'll have your own chambers. I won't force anything."
I should feel relieved.
I do feel relieved.
The little dip in my stomach is relief. Definitely.
"Your activities. You'll have freedom within the estate. Continue your photography if you like."
I blink. "My photography?"
"You work at a bridal studio. Lauve." He says it like he's reciting facts from a file. "You're a photographer."
"A photography assistant. There's a difference."
"Not to me.”
I have no idea what to say to that so I just...start eating as the candles continue to flicker and the silence between us gradually grows heavier.
I should let it go. Finish dinner. Go back to my room and figure out what happened to Abigail.
Instead, I open my mouth.
"And if I wanted to see someone?"
The words fall out before I can catch them.
Devyn's fork pauses. Just for half a second.
"See someone," he repeats.
"Not that I would." My face is getting hot. Why did I ask this? "I'm just asking what the rules are. For informational purposes."
"Informational purposes."
"Yes."
"You want to know if you can take a lover. For informational purposes."
Hearing him say it like that makes me want to crawl under the table.
"There are no rules." His voice is flat. "You're free to do as you like."
"Oh. Good. That's good."
Silence.
I should stop talking. I should absolutely stop talking right now.
"And you?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"Kings have..." I wave my fork vaguely, realize I'm gesturing with silverware, and put it down. "Historically. You know. Mistresses."
"Would it bother you if I had one?”
"No." Too fast. I answered too fast. "It's a strategic marriage. You said so yourself. So it wouldn't bother me. At all. Strategically speaking."
We stare at each other across the candlelit table. My heart is beating too fast.
"I don't share."
The words come out low. Almost rough. Like they escaped without his permission.
I stare at him.
"I thought you said—"
"I know what I said."
He's still sitting perfectly straight, still controlled, but something has cracked. I can see it in his eyes. In the way his fingers have tightened around the stem of his wine glass.
"I don't share, Bailey." His voice drops even lower. "If you're mine, you're mine. I don't care if this is strategic or temporary. No one else touches you. No one else makes you laugh. No one else gets to see that dimple."
My hand flies to my cheek before I can stop it.
"What dimple?"
"The one you showed the guard this morning. The one with the curly hair." His eyes are fixed on my face. "You smiled at him. Really smiled. And I saw it appear, right there, on your right cheek."
He noticed.
He noticed my dimple. The secret one. He noticed, and he noticed who I showed it to, and he's been watching me closely enough to track which of his guards makes me smile.
I should be alarmed.
I am the opposite of alarmed.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "Then the same goes for you."
I know this is insane. I shouldn’t even be wasting time establishing rules for a marriage I’m not supposed to want. But—
"No mistresses. No 'companionship elsewhere.'"
I’ve come to realize that I must have left most of my brain cells back in my world—
"If I have to be yours, then you have to be mine.”
And so here I am, saying things old-world-me would never even have considered saying.
“That's the deal. That's my condition."
His eyes crinkle at the corners. That almost-smile.
"Those are your terms?"
"Those are my terms."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I show my dimple to every guard in this house."
He makes a sound. Low, almost startled. It takes me a second to realize he's laughing. A single huff of air and a crinkling around his eyes that transforms his whole face.
"Agreed," he says.
"Good."
"Good."
We're both smiling now. Or I'm smiling and he's doing his almost-smile thing, and I’m 99% convinced that I’ve lost my mind. I mean...I just virtually agreed to marry a total royal stranger. Didn’t I?
My breath catches when he suddenly stands, and all I can do is gulp as he moves around the table. Slow. Deliberate. Each step bringing him closer until he's right beside my chair.
"Stand up."
It's not a request. But his voice is softer than I've heard it before.
I stand.
We're close now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He's so much taller than me.
His hand comes up. Touches my jaw.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone, slow, and I stop breathing.
"You're trembling," he says.
“I’m cold.”
His other hand finds the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You're not cold."
No. I'm not. I'm burning up from the inside.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Fifth time.
I'm still counting.
He leans in.
His breath ghosts across my lips.
I close my eyes.
And someone knocks on the door.
"Sir." The voice is muffled but urgent. "There's a situation in Hartford. The Baron needs you immediately."
Devyn doesn't move. His hands are still on me, still cradling my face, and I can feel the war happening in his body.
Then his jaw tightens, and he steps back.
The absence of his touch makes me sway.
"We'll continue this." His voice is rough.
And then he's gone.
I sink into my chair.
Okay, Bailey. Okay.
What just happened?
I press my hands to my cheeks. They're burning. My whole body is burning. I should be glad he got called away. I should be relieved that I didn't let a mafia king kiss me while we made ridiculous demands about not sharing each other.
I am so glad.
I am so relieved.
I am such a liar.
THE HALLWAY IS EMPTY. No guards.
I don't try to remember the path. I just walk, letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go, letting the rhythm of movement calm the chaos in my chest.
I turn a corner and find myself in a hallway I've never seen. The walls are older here, the plaster cracked. And there's a door at the end of the hall.
Glowing.
Faint amber light seeping from around the edges. Warm and familiar.
No.
It can't be.
But even before I push the door open, I know. I can smell it. Cream cheese garlic buns and peppermint hot chocolate and old paper and leather.
The door swings open.
Hewhay's.
It’s exactly as I remember. The soaring ceiling, the dark wooden beams, the brass lanterns casting their intentional light. Bookshelves arranged by color. A fireplace crackling.
I step inside.
The door closes behind me.
The last time I was here, I fell asleep and woke up in another world. The last time I was here, I drank tea that tasted like safety and opened my eyes to find armed men and a groom demanding answers I didn't have.
I should leave.
But there's a book on the table beside the velvet armchair.
Not the same book. This one is smaller, bound in midnight blue instead of burgundy, silver lettering instead of gold.
The title gleams: The Transplanted Life.
I open it.
The first page is an illustration. A girl at a crossroads, one path leading back to a door marked Origin, the other leading forward into color and light. She has dark hair and violet eyes.
She looks exactly like me.
I turn the page.
The text is handwritten, elegant script that seems centuries old.
You came through Hewhay's. You fell asleep reading a story, and you woke up inside it.
You're wondering if you can go back.
Here's the truth: there's nothing to go back to.
Your life wasn't copied into this world. It was moved. Transplanted whole. The apartment in Providence exists here, in this world's timeline. The job at Lauve exists here. The people you know—your mother, your boss—they exist here, exactly as you remember them.
There is no parallel you wondering where you went. There is no hole in another world where your life used to be.
This is your life now. The only one you have.
I turn another page.
You're worried about your mother. Whether she's scared. Whether she's looking for you.
She isn't.
In this world, you've always been here. You've always been Bailey Sutton of Providence, photography assistant at Lauve Studio, reader of too many books, owner of a secret dimple that only appears when you really smile.