Chapter Thirteen
THE BARON OF GREENWICH was fuming.
His butler had just announced the arrival of the King of the South, and now every female servant in the manor seemed to have found urgent business in the front hall.
The maids. The cook’s assistants. Even his wife’s elderly lady-in-waiting was peering around the corner with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
Did they not realize this man could be the murderer of his daughter?
But no. One look at that sharp jaw and those golden eyes, and apparently all sense fled from their minds. They were staring at Devyn Chaleur like he was some kind of dark angel descended from the heavens, not a potential killer who had arrived uninvited to—
“Baron.” Devyn’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade. “A word. In private.”
It wasn’t a request.
Patrick’s jaw tightened. He gestured sharply at his staff—a silent command to disperse—but even as they scattered, he caught several of them stealing one last glance at the king.
Unbelievable.
They sat in Patrick’s private study. No guards. No witnesses. Just two men and the ghost of a murdered girl between them.
The older man had expected threats. Interrogation. Perhaps even violence.
What he had not expected was the silence. Devyn simply sat across from him and waited, those golden eyes patient and watchful, giving nothing away.
The silence stretched until it became unbearable. Until the baron found himself speaking just to fill it. “I wasn’t a good father to her.”
The words cracked on their way out. His hands—once steady enough to sign treaties and command troops—trembled where they rested on his desk.
“I was cold. Distant. I treated her like an asset to be managed, not a daughter to be loved.” He looked up, and his eyes were wet. “When she submitted her name as a candidate for your bride, I didn’t ask if it was what she wanted. I just saw the opportunity. The alliance. The power.”
Devyn said nothing. He watched. Listened. Assessed.
A month ago, he would have seen only a broken man trying to deflect blame. Would have dismissed the confession as strategic weakness.
But Bailey had changed things. Changed him. Made him see that people could be more than their worst moments, that grief could twist even the strongest men into shapes they didn’t recognize.
“At the Court,” Devyn said quietly, “you accused me of murder.”
The older man flinched. “I know.”
“You know our laws. Speaking against the king carries a sentence.”
“I know.” Patrick’s voice had started shaking. “I was mad with grief. I wanted someone to blame. Someone to punish. And you were—” He stopped. Swallowed. “You were easy to hate.”
The silence stretched between them.
“I could have you thrown in the dungeons,” Devyn said. “Executed. Our laws are clear.”
Abigail’s father closed his eyes. Nodded once. Accepting.
“But I will show you mercy. This once.”
Patrick’s eyes flew open, his body jerking in shock.
“In return,” Devyn continued, his voice cold and precise, “you will never speak of me or my wife again. Not publicly. Not privately. Not at all. You will mourn your daughter in silence. You will support the investigation. And you will trust that I will find whoever did this and make them pay.”
Patrick could only stare. Disbelief first, and then—slowly—the first fragile stirrings of hope.
“You—” His voice broke. “You would spare me?”
“I give you my word. Justice will be served for Abigail’s death.” Devyn held his gaze. “If you know anything that might aid in finding her killer, speak now.”
“There were rumors,” Patrick said slowly, heavily. “Before she submitted her name as one of your bridal candidates. Before any of this.”
Devyn went still.
“Rumors of her being seen with a man. Someone inappropriate. Someone she should not have been associating with.” The older man’s jaw tightened. “I dismissed them at the time. Thought it was gossip, jealousy from other families who wanted their daughters chosen instead.”
“A name?”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I never had the chance to investigate. And then she was gone, and I assumed—” He stopped. “I assumed the rumors were irrelevant. That she had simply run from you.”
A man. Someone inappropriate. Someone who watched her too closely.
He stood. “If you remember anything else—any detail, no matter how small—you will contact me directly.”
“You have my word, Your Majesty.” The baron rose as well, still pale, still shaken, but steadier than before. “And...thank you. For sparing my life.”
THE REPORTS KEPT COMING.
Devyn sat in his Hartford safe house, surrounded by documents about a murder investigation that was going nowhere, and read update after update about his wife.
The diplomatic function had been a success.
Lady Celine was telling everyone who would listen about the three kings who had watched over the new queen.
The staff had warmed to her—not just warmed, but actively adored her.
The cook had saved her chocolate torte. The gardener had started cutting flowers for her room each morning without being asked.
The territory was talking.
About the king who called his brothers to protect his bride.
About the queen who smiled through humiliation and won hearts anyway.
About Bailey.
She was becoming visible.
And every report that confirmed it made his jaw tighten another degree.
He shoved back from the desk and walked to the window. Hartford spread out below him—city lights glittering against the dark, a world that didn't know it was being ruled from the shadows. A world that didn't know a killer walked free among them.
The investigation was a dead end. Every lead dried up before it could be followed. Every witness had nothing useful to offer. Amos Karp smiled his too-smooth smile and promised progress while delivering nothing but polished reports full of empty words.
The fox guarding the henhouse.
Devyn's hands curled into fists. He wanted to drag Amos into a room with no windows and no witnesses and get the truth the old way. He wanted to stop playing politics and start breaking bones.
But he couldn't prove anything. Not yet. And moving too soon would tip his hand.
So Amos kept circling. Kept smiling. Kept leading an investigation designed to find nothing. His fists clenched, his knuckles cracking as he imagined Amos circling Bailey, and a memory came to him, unbidden.
The Baron of Greenwhich calling out to him just as Devyn had stepped out of his house, uttering words in a voice that was made hoarse by grief and impotent rage over the murder of his flesh and blood.
“You must find him, Your Majesty. Make him pay. Because I have a feeling...he is out for you, too. So find him...before it is your own queen he takes away next.”
Devyn pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window.
Bailey.
He could still feel her. That was the problem. Five days away and he could still feel the softness of her skin. The warmth of her breath. The way she'd looked at him after he kissed her—flushed and dazed, her lips parted, her eyes full of hope.
Hope. In him. For him.
When had he started caring whether she hoped?
He thought of the way she'd defended him at Court.
Standing in front of a room full of powerful people, calling him sweet, talking about puppies and blizzards and little girls, escalating into increasingly ridiculous specifics until the whole room was laughing and the Baron's accusations had dissolved into irrelevance.
He thought of the way she'd hidden under a blanket afterward. "Bailey has left. There is only blanket." And he'd laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time in years.
He thought of the way his chest went tight whenever she smiled—that real smile, the one with the dimple she didn't know he tracked.
The way he couldn't stop looking at her mouth.
The way he'd called three kings, his brothers, his equals, and asked them for a favor because the thought of her alone among wolves had made him want to burn the entire party to the ground.
She was under his skin.
In his blood.
Wrapped around every thought until he couldn't think straight.
She was his weakness.
And someone out there—someone who had already killed a woman under his protection—knew it.
The territory was talking about her. Celine was spreading stories. The staff adored her. She was visible now. A target. A pressure point that could be exploited, threatened, destroyed to bring him to his knees.
His. She was his. And he couldn't even keep her safe.
The thought made him want to put his fist through the glass.
Find him...before it is your own queen he takes away next.
He couldn't protect her. Not like this. Not while she was beloved, visible, the darling of the territory. Not while Amos was circling and the investigation was stalled and the killer was watching, waiting, planning.
The only way to protect her was to make her invisible again.
Make her hate him.
Make everyone think she meant nothing.
Remove the target from her back by removing her from his side.
He hated it. Hated every part of this plan that was forming in his mind. Hated that he'd let himself care enough for it to matter. Hated that he'd been so stupid, so reckless, letting her in when he knew better.
He'd spent his whole life building walls. Learning not to care. Turning himself into something cold and sharp and untouchable because caring was weakness and weakness got people killed.
And then Bailey had appeared in his chapel, confused and terrified and impossibly soft, and she'd looked at him like he might be worth trusting.
And he'd let her in.
Stupid. Reckless. The most dangerous thing he'd ever done.
Because now he had something to lose.
And losing her—watching her body carried out of a dungeon the way Abigail's had been, knowing he could have prevented it, knowing he'd been too distracted by the way she smiled at him to see the danger closing in—
No.
He would not be the Baron. Weeping over someone he'd failed to protect. Begging for vengeance because he'd been too blind to see the threat until it was too late.
He would not stand over Bailey's grave.
He knew what he had to do.
It would destroy her.
It would destroy him.
But she would be alive.
Devyn turned from the window.
He had calls to make. Orders to give. A stage to set.
And a heart to break.