Chapter Eleven
I'M STANDING IN DEVYN'S study—our study, I remind myself, though the word still feels borrowed—watching him read through a stack of documents that arrived by courier ten minutes ago.
Morning light slants through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air, making everything look like an old photograph. Sepia-toned. Warm on the surface.
His expression hasn't changed. Stone, as always. But his shoulders have gone rigid, tension climbing up his spine like something visible, something I can almost reach out and touch.
"The Court has appointed a lead investigator," he says. "For Abigail's murder."
"That's good, right? That means they're taking it seriously."
He sets the document down. Looks at me.
"Amos Karp."
I remember him the way you’d remember a nightmare.
The details are fussy, but the feelings are vivid.
Amos Karp.
My gut clenches at the name. I don't have a reason—not a real one, not one I could articulate if someone asked.
But the moment his name hits the air, I'm back at the wedding reception.
That too-warm smile. Those eyes that watched me walk down the aisle like he was cataloging every step.
The way Devyn's hand had tightened on my waist when he appeared.
"The man from the wedding," I hear myself say. "The one who offered to be my friend at court."
"Yes."
"You told me to stay away from him."
"Yes."
"And now he's leading the investigation into the murder that happened in your house."
Devyn doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The silence says everything.
"I don't like him," I blurt. Then wince, because that sounds childish.
"I mean—there's something about him. At the wedding.
The way he looked at me. It was..." I trail off, searching for words that don't make me sound paranoid.
"Too interested. Like he already knew things about me that he shouldn't. "
I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling. But Devyn isn't cutting me off or looking at me like I've lost my mind. He's listening. Actually listening, with that focused stillness that means I have his complete attention.
"Maybe I'm being crazy," I add weakly. "It's just a feeling."
"Your feelings aren't crazy." He says it like a fact. Like he's stating the weather. "My men have been watching him for some time now.”
I blink. "Why?”
“Something about him also rubs me wrong.”
“What kind of wrong?”
“The kind that comes from other worlds.”
“But not through Hewhay’s?”
“No.” He picks up the document again, but his eyes aren't reading it. They're calculating. "Definitely not from Hewhay’s.”
“So what do we do now?” I ask uneasily. Because if Amos is one of the others, and he’s the one in charge of investigating the murder he himself may have committed—
Ten minutes later, and we’ve moved to another room in his estate, one I didn’t even know existed...until now.
"If you're going to be my queen, you need to understand my world."
This room is much larger than most, with maps on the walls and a table covered in documents.
The light slants through high windows at a harsh angle, the kind of light that flattens everything it touches, makes shadows stark and unforgiving.
My photographer's brain catalogs it automatically: high contrast, blown highlights, the kind of lighting you'd use for an interrogation scene, not a lesson.
A war room, I realize. The kind of space where serious decisions get made by serious people who know what they're doing.
Two soldiers stand by the door, faces carefully blank.
I am not a serious person who knows what she's doing.
"This is New England." Devyn gestures at a map that's been divided into four colored sections. "Four territories. Four kings. The treaty keeps the peace, but peace is a negotiation, not a guarantee."
I nod like I understand.
I do not understand.
"Each king maintains his own forces. Intelligence. Security. Tactical response."
"Like...James Bond?" I venture. “Or Rambo?”
One of the soldiers by the door makes a sound. It might be a cough. It might be a strangled laugh. It's hard to tell.
Devyn's gaze cuts to him. The soldier's face goes pale.
"Something in your throat?" Devyn's voice is silk over steel.
"No, sir. Apologies, Your Majesty."
Devyn turns back to me. His expression softens—just a fraction, just enough that I notice.
"Let’s just say they’re trained to protect, and they’re known to mean business.”
“That’s um, impressive. But they’ll make sure...to give warning shots before doing anything. Right?”
Dead silence.
I look at his men, whose shoulders are shaking, and then at Devyn.
"Warning shots," he repeats.
"Is that not...a thing?"
"No." But his voice is gentle. Almost amused. "It's not a thing."
"Oh." I feel my face heating. "Well, it should be. Communication before violence. That's just good conflict resolution."
One of the soldiers chokes.
Devyn's head turns. Slowly. The soldier immediately develops a fascinating interest in the ceiling.
"Perhaps," Devyn says, turning back to me with a warmth that looks almost like tenderness, "we can discuss conflict resolution strategies later. For now, let's focus on the basics."
I catch the soldiers exchanging a look of absolute disbelief. I have a feeling...they’re wondering why Devyn hasn’t divorced me yet.
"The four territories," Devyn continues, pointing at the map. "North—Quinn Haydraugh. West—Skye Wyndham. East—Wolfe Sideris. And South."
"That's you."
"That's us."
Us. The word does something to my heart. Makes it flip over in my chest.
"Rhode Island and Connecticut," I say, proud of myself for remembering. "You control Rhode Island and Connecticut."
"We control Rhode Island and Connecticut."
There it is again. We. Us. Our.
"Good." He nods once. "You're learning."
Behind him, both soldiers look like they might pass out. I think...they’re not used to hearing Devyn compliment anyone, much less for something as basic as knowing which states are under his rule.
I bite my lip to keep from smiling.
"What about the other kings?" I ask. "Are they...like you?"
"No one is like me."
"That's not what I—"
"Quinn is ice. Doesn't speak unless necessary. Wolfe is..." He pauses. "Volatile. But honorable. Skye...is good at retrieving information. People underestimate him. They shouldn't."
"And you?" I can't help asking. "How would you describe yourself?"
He looks at me. That golden gaze, giving me nothing.
"Impatient," he says finally. "Demanding. Difficult to work with."
"You're not being difficult right now."
"I'm making an exception."
"For who?"
His mouth curves. Just barely. "Who do you think?"
I forget what I was going to say next.
He steps closer. Points at the map—I have no idea what he's pointing at, because his arm is brushing against mine and his scent is everywhere and my brain has apparently decided to stop functioning.
"The border here," he's saying, "is contested. We've had skirmishes with—" He stops. "Bailey."
"Hmm?"
"Are you listening?"
"Yes. Absolutely. Borders. Skirmishes. Very important."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Ninth time. I'm still counting.
"You're not listening.”
I smile weakly. “You’re distracting.”
“Unfortunately—”
Oh no. Is this it? Is he finally going to—
“So are you.”
—make me feel like I’m the luckiest woman alive to be married to someone like him who’s so good at...oh!
He’s suddenly kissing me, right there in the war room with two soldiers trying desperately to become invisible, and I forget about maps and borders and everything except the way his hand slides into my hair and tilts my head back and—
Someone clears their throat.
Devyn pulls back. Slowly. Like he's not remotely embarrassed to have been caught kissing his wife in the middle of a strategy session.
"Mr. Karp has arrived, Your Majesty."
The warmth in my chest turns to ice, and I end up shivering when I’m left with no choice but to meet him again.
He looks exactly like I remember: handsome in a polished way—dark hair artfully tousled, jaw that could cut glass, eyes warm and sympathetic.
The light from the window catches him like he's been professionally lit, every angle flattering, every shadow intentional.
He enters the room like he belongs there, like every space he walks into reshapes itself to accommodate him.
My photographer's eye recognizes what he's doing. It's the same thing I've seen in a thousand headshots: the deliberate positioning, the calculated charm. The difference is, most people don't know they're doing it.
Amos knows exactly what he's doing.
Every instinct I have screams wrong.
"Your Majesty." He inclines his head to Devyn. Then turns to me, and his smile widens. "What a pleasure to see you again."
"Mr. Karp."
"I understand you were the last person to see Lady Abigail before her...disappearance." He settles into a chair across from us without being invited to sit. "I was hoping to ask you some questions. In private, ideally. Standard procedure."
"No."
Devyn doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't elaborate. Just: no.
Amos's smile flickers. "With respect, Your Majesty, it's protocol for witnesses to be interviewed without—"
"No."
Silence.
Amos looks at Devyn. Devyn looks back. Neither of them moves.
I watch the silent war play out between them—Amos's charm pressing against Devyn's absolute refusal, waves breaking against a cliff face. There's no contest. There was never going to be a contest.
"Of course." Amos's smile returns, but it's thinner now. Tighter at the edges. "I understand. You're protective of your wife. Admirable."
Devyn says nothing.
"Well then." Amos turns to me, leaning forward in his chair. "Your Majesty. Bailey. May I call you Bailey?"
"No," Devyn says.
"Back to Your Majesty then.” But his tone is as thin as his smile this time. “Can you walk me through what you saw that day? The day of the wedding?"