Chapter 9
9
S he glanced at the heavy oak door, anxiety gnawing at her insides. Where was Melody? Skylar paced the confines of her private quarters, each step measured and deliberate, her long hair swaying with every movement. The plush carpet muffled her footfalls, but she could still feel the vibrations through her bare feet. Her fingers twitched, instinctively seeking the familiar weight of her sword. But she wasn’t Duke Anathemark right now. Just Skylar, waiting for one of the few people who knew her secret.
It had been over an hour since she’d sent her servant to fetch any incoming correspondence. Unease crept through her body, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She felt like prey despite her usual role as predator. This vulnerability, this feeling of exposure and unpreparedness—she hated it all.
Her gaze swept over the opulent room, so different from the sparse functionality of the war tent where she’d spent the last few weeks. The massive four-poster bed dominated one wall, its deep blue velvet curtains drawn back to reveal crisp white sheets that seemed to glow. But it wasn’t home either, no matter how often she had stayed here. In the palace. Near Arye.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Skylar tensed, her hand already reaching for the short-haired wig that lay nearby. The coarse fibers felt wrong against her skin, a constant irritant she had long since learned to ignore.
“Who is it?” she called out, ready to be the Duke if needed.
“It’s me, Your Grace,” came a familiar voice, muffled by the thick wood.
Skylar’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but she remained on guard. She positioned herself in a blind spot, ensuring that any nearby servants wouldn’t catch a glimpse of her true appearance if someone were to lurk through the door. “Come in, Melody.”
Skylar tensed at the unmistakable sound of the lock turning. She knew logically that nobody else could enter without a key, but it still made her pulse quicken. The door creaked open slowly, the hinges protesting slightly, and Melody slipped inside. Her brown hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a strand out of place, and her plain dress spoke of practicality over fashion. As always, Melody’s gaze darted over her shoulder, checking for potential threats before focusing on Skylar.
“I have good news, my lady,” Melody said, her voice hushed as she quickly locked the door behind her. The click of the bolt sliding into place was oddly comforting. “I’ve brought a letter from the Dowager Duchess.”
Skylar’s attention fixed on the crisp envelope in Melody’s hand. “Finally,” she muttered, reaching for it. As she took the letter, a distinctive scent wafted from the paper. Lavender. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily, memories of pain and power flooding her senses.
“Shall I help you with your hair, my lady?” Melody asked, already moving behind Skylar. The soft rustle of her skirts against the carpet was a comforting, relaxing sound.
Skylar nodded distractedly, her attention focused on the letter. She turned it over in her hands, fingers tracing the familiar seal. A lump formed in her throat, unexpected and unwelcome.
With practiced ease, Melody set to work on Skylar’s long tresses, the gentle tugging a soothing counterpoint to the tension thrumming through her body. “I must say,” Melody began, her tone conversational but tinged with worry, “I’m relieved His Highness sent for that Aequilibrium healer. Even the scars from your chest wrap have faded.”
Skylar’s brow furrowed, her fingers unconsciously tracing the spots where the bindings had left their marks. The skin there was smooth now, unblemished, yet the memory of the pressure of the cloth that had constrained her for so long—and would continue to do so—lingered. “He shouldn’t have,” she said, her voice tight. “There were soldiers who needed attention far more than I did.”
“Nonsense,” Melody clucked, her motherly concern evident in the way her hands paused briefly in their work. “You needed care too. Besides, it’s good to see that crazy bastard cares for you, even if it’s just a little.”
“Melody,” Skylar warned, but the servant continued undeterred, her words tumbling out in a rush of pent-up frustration. The brush resumed its rhythmic movement, punctuating each statement with a firm stroke.
“You should have heard the ruckus he caused today. Challenging the King openly like that—it’s not right, my lady. The way he carries on, you’d think he was already wearing the crown. Mark my words, that boy will bring nothing but trouble.”
Skylar tuned out Melody’s speech, focusing instead on the letter. She broke the seal with trembling fingers, the crack of the wax seeming unnaturally loud, steeling herself for its contents. As she unfolded the paper, the lavender scent grew stronger, almost overwhelming. It was cloying, suffocating, reminding her of everything she both cherished and despised about her heritage.
Her mother’s elegant script filled the page, the ink a deep, rich black against the cream-colored parchment. The words began to swim, announcing the imminent arrival of her brother. A decade of waiting was finally drawing to a close. Her eyes stung as she read her mother’s heartfelt message, full of joy and anticipation for the son who would carry on the Anathemark legacy.
Five years since they’d learned the child would be a boy. Five years since her father died. Five years of living as Duke Anathemark, on top of the twenty years she’d already spent pretending to be a man—from the very moment she was born.
And now, it was all coming to an end.
“My lady?” Melody’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Shall I braid your hair?”
Skylar blinked, focusing on the ornate mirror before her. She hardly recognized the woman staring back—soft features at odds with the hardened warrior she pretended to be. Her silver-white hair fell in waves around her face, framing eyes that looked too sharp, too intense for a noble lady. “I don’t care,” Skylar’s gaze remained fixed on her reflection, her words as empty as her expression. “Perhaps it would be best to cut it.”
Melody gasped, her hands stilling in Skylar’s mane. “Never! Especially not now, when you’ll finally be able to live as yourself. Once we leave this hellhole, you can wear your beautiful hair with pride.”
Skylar managed a weak smile, but the words only deepened the ache in her chest. Leave. Soon, she would leave it all behind. Leave him behind.
As Melody resumed her work, her chatter filled the room once more. “It’ll be such a relief to be away from here. The constant worry, always looking over our shoulders. And don’t get me started on the Clawbornes!” She shuddered dramatically, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The way the King used to look at your mother… I dread to think what might have happened after the Duke’s death if we hadn’t had you as heir.”
Skylar’s stomach churned at the implication. She’d always known her father’s death was strange—who would let such a useful tool die? It made a twisted sort of sense; after all, it’s hard to kill someone from a cursed bloodline. And it was quite convenient to have a second Anathemark who could summon a beast as well. It was suspicious, but to hear it spoken of so plainly…
“That’s enough, Melody,” she said sharply.
The servant fell silent, focusing on Skylar’s hair. In the quiet, Skylar’s thoughts drifted to Arye. She hadn’t seen him in days, too busy investigating the assassination attempt. The evidence all pointed to Thorncrest, despite their impending delegation. But something felt off, a nagging sense that they were missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
“There,” Melody said at last, stepping back to admire her work. “All done, my lady.”
Skylar nodded absently, her mind still on Arye. “Thank you, Melody.”
But the servant wasn’t finished. “Oh, I nearly forgot to mention,” she murmured, her tone conspiratorial, leaning in close enough that Skylar could smell the faint scent of herbs that always seemed to cling to her clothes. “The whole palace is abuzz with rumors of His Highness’s future.”
Skylar’s head snapped up, her heart racing. “What do you mean?”
Melody nodded eagerly, oblivious to Skylar’s distress. “Oh yes, it’s all anyone can talk about. Poor woman, whoever she ends up being. I don’t envy her one bit, having to marry that tyrant.”
“Do you know who it is?” Skylar asked, hating how nervous she sounded. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to maintain her composure.
Melody leaned in, eyes gleaming with gossip. “Well, nothing’s certain yet, but word is, it will most likely be Princess Aven Elridge from Grimrose. The King has been pushing for that match for years now. Can you imagine? That poor girl, tied to someone like him for the rest of her life? It would have been safer for her to marry one of the fae brothers.”
Skylar flinched. The words pained her. Arye, married. The thought of him with another woman, sharing his life, his bed… It was almost more than she could bear. A wave of possessive anger washed over her, followed quickly by shame. She had no right to feel this way. No claim on him.
“My lady?” Melody’s tone was tinged with concern. “Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.”
Skylar forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. Her face seemed stiff, unnatural, as if she’d forgotten how to arrange her features into a convincing expression. “I’m fine,” she lied, her voice strained. “It’s just… unexpected news.”
She stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something to distract herself from the pain threatening to overwhelm her. The sudden motion sent a rush of blood to her head, making the room spin momentarily. She gripped the chair’s frame, the polished wood smooth and cool beneath her fingers, anchoring her to the present. “Pack my things,” she ordered, her voice steadier than she felt. “We’re going to visit the Anathemark Estate.”
Melody’s eyes widened in surprise. “But my lady, is that wise? With the recent assassination attempt?—”
“Mother wants to see me,” Skylar cut her off, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Make the necessary arrangements. We leave at first light.”
As Melody hurried to obey, muttering under her breath about the dangers of travel and the unpredictability of nobles, Skylar’s mind raced. She needed… something. Someone. To feel, to forget, if only for a moment.
She remembered Captain Knox’s crude suggestion from the procession. Post-battle tension indeed. Recalling the way he said it made her skin crawl, but there was a kernel of truth in his words. She needed release, an outlet for the maelstrom of emotions threatening to consume her.
It wouldn’t be Arye. It could never be Arye. But for one night, she could pretend. For one night, she could be Skylar—not a Duke, not an Anathemark. Just a woman, seeking comfort in the arms of a stranger. To satisfy this desperate, burning hunger, even if just for a night.