Chapter 3

MARIGOLD POV

The wheels touched down with a screech that sounded like a dying scream, jolting me awake. I hadn’t realized I’d drifted off, head lolling against the scratchy leather of the headrest, mouth slightly open—charming, I know. But the sleep hadn't been restful. It had been filled with falling dreams and grey eyes and the sensation of warm, calloused hands gripping mine in the dark.

I sat up, blinking against the morning light. Or what passed for morning here.

Through the small, oval window, the world was a monochrome painting. Everything was grey. The sky, a heavy, bruised ceiling of clouds. The ocean, churning and black like ink. And the land... jagged cliffs rose up from the water like the teeth of a massive, submerged beast, crowned by a structure that looked less like a palace and more like a scar.

"Welcome to Regalia," Armano said from across the aisle. He was already standing, checking his watch. He hadn't slept. I knew this because he looked exactly the same as when we boarded—immaculate, unreadable, and vibrating with that low-level, dangerous energy that made my skin prickle.

"Cheerful," I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "Does the sun ever shine, or is it permanently eclipsed by the sheer weight of your collective gloom?"

"It is winter, Ms. Forbes," he said, not looking at me. "And the mountains trap the clouds. It keeps the enemies from seeing the approach."

"Right. Tactical weather. Very ominous." I stood up, my knees popping. "Do I get a coat? Or am I expected to shiver dramatically to set the mood?"

He didn't answer. He just gestured to the door.

As we descended the stairs, the cold hit me like a physical blow. It wasn't the crisp cold of a New York winter; it was a damp, ancient chill that seeped through the silk of my dress and into my bones immediately. I wrapped my arms around myself, my teeth chattering.

A black SUV was idling on the tarmac, its engine growling like a caged animal. Armano opened the back door for me. His hand brushed my shoulder as I climbed in, a brief, hot spark against the freezing air.

"Thank you," I said, the automatic politeness slipping out before I could stop it. I hated myself for it. I didn't want to thank him. I wanted to hate him. He was the reason I was here.

"You are welcome," he replied, his voice devoid of inflection.

We drove in silence. The landscape outside was desolate. Rocky outcroppings, scraggy trees that looked more like skeletons than vegetation, and the occasional stone ruin crumbling into the earth. There were no suburbs. No billboards. No signs of life at all, really.

"So," I said, breaking the silence because the sound of my own heart hammering against my ribs was getting annoying. "About the Prince."

Armano stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel with practiced ease. "What about him?"

"Is he... I don't know. Does he have a head? Two heads? Is he prone to sacrificing virgins to the volcano gods? I feel like I should be prepared."

A muscle in his jaw jumped. "Prince Cian is the King's nephew. He is... ambitious."

"You make that sound like a dirty word."

"In Regalia, ambition is usually a precursor to treason."

"Great," I sighed, slumping back in the seat. "And the dying King? Should I prepare my eulogy speech now, or does he prefer conversational Italian?"

"You will speak when spoken to," Armano said, his voice hardening. "You will bow. You will not offer your opinions on American politics or the quality of the wine. The King is old school, Marigold. He believes women are to be seen, not heard."

I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Oh, you are going to love watching me fail then. Because I physically cannot shut up. It’s a medical condition."

He glanced at me then, a swift, cutting look from the corner of his eye. "I know. That is why I am concerned."

The car rounded a final bend, and the Castle appeared.

It was bigger than it looked from the air. It sprawled across the cliff edge, a fortress of black stone and jagged spires. It didn't look like a home; it looked like a weapon. There were no lights in the windows, only the dark, swallowing maw of the main gate.

"The Kingdom of Graves," Armano said softly, almost to himself.

"Is that what you call it?" I whispered, staring up at the imposing walls.

"It is what it is," he said, pulling the car up to the iron gates. "Every stone in this castle was laid by a slave or a prisoner. The foundation is built on bones. We do not forget the dead here."

The gates groaned open, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder.

We drove through a courtyard and stopped in front of a massive set of oak doors. Armano got out and opened my door. The wind was whipping my hair loose from its pins, sending strands flying across my face.

"Stay close," he commanded.

"I'm not going to wander off and pet the gargoyles, Armano."

He led me inside. The Great Hall was cavernous. The ceiling was lost in shadows, held up by pillars as thick as redwoods. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, casting flickering, orange light that made the shadows dance. It smelled of dust, beeswax, and something metallic—old blood.

There were people lining the hallway. Servants, guards, courtiers. They stood still as statues, watching me pass. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale. They didn't look welcoming. They looked like they were viewing a ghost.

"Smile, wave," Armano murmured out of the side of his mouth. "They are waiting to see if you are afraid."

I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and pasted on my most patronizing, royal smile. I gave a little queenly wave to a woman in a grey wimple who looked like she wanted to faint.

"Don't trip," Armano added.

"Don't worry," I whispered back. "If I go down, I'm taking you with me."

We reached the end of the hall and a pair of guards threw open the heavy doors to the Throne Room.

It was smaller than the Hall, but infinitely more oppressive. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting battles and hunts, the colors faded to muted browns and reds. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat two chairs. One was empty, a massive thing of iron and black velvet. The other was occupied.

The King.

He didn't look like a fairytale monarch. He looked like a mummy that had been propped up for display. He was skeletal, his skin hanging loose on his face, spotted with age. He wore a heavy velvet robe that looked like it weighed more than he did. An oxygen tank hissed quietly beside the throne, a clear tube running into his nose.

Beside him stood a man. He was younger, maybe thirty, with sharp features and blonde hair that was too perfect. He wore a military uniform decorated with enough medals to sink a ship. He was smiling—a cold, predatory smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Armano said, dropping to one knee. He bowed his head.

I stood there, frozen. I looked at Armano, then at the King. I didn't want to kneel. My knees were shaking enough as it was.

"Kneel," Armano hissed through gritted teeth.

I sank to the floor, the stone biting into my knees. I kept my head up, staring at the King.

The King’s eyes, clouded with cataracts, focused on me. He wheezed, a wet, rattling sound. "So," he croaked. "The American whore."

I stiffened. The warmth that Armano’s hand had given me on the plane vanished, replaced by a wave of ice.

"I prefer 'Marigold,' Your Majesty," I said, my voice steady, surprising me. "But I suppose accuracy isn't a priority when you're dying."

The room gasped. It was a collective intake of breath that sucked the oxygen out of the room. The man in the uniform—Cian, I assumed—stepped forward, his hand going to the sword at his hip.

"You forget yourself," Cian snapped.

"She speaks the truth," the King rasped. He laughed, a dry, hacking cough that shook his frail frame. "She has spirit. Good. We need spirit to breed the next generation."

I felt sick. Breed. Like livestock.

"Stand up, girl," the King commanded. "Let me look at you."

I stood, smoothing my dress.

"She is plain," the King said dismissively. "But wide-hipped. She will carry."

"Thank you?" I said, unsure if that was a compliment or an insult. "I try to stay hydrated."

"The wedding will be at the end of the week," the King continued, ignoring me. "Before I die. I want to see the alliance sealed."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," Cian said, his voice smooth as oil. "Surely we should allow the Lady to... settle in. To mourn the life she left behind."

"Softness, Cian," the King spat. "That is your weakness. We need the deal. We need the American tech. Marry her. Tonight if possible. I don't have time for courtship."

"I'm not marrying anyone tonight," I said, my voice rising. "I haven't even eaten. I'm jet-lagged. And I'm fairly sure I'm still legally a minor in the eyes of your archaic laws."

The King’s eyes narrowed. "You will do as you are told. Or your father’s economy collapses. Or perhaps we send him the videos."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"She will be ready, Your Majesty," Armano spoke up. He was still standing slightly behind me, a solid presence at my back. "I will ensure she is prepared."

The King looked past me at Armano. "Yes. My loyal dog. Take her to the tower. Lock her in. Let her contemplate her future."

Armano bowed. "Come, Ms. Forbes."

He turned me around with a hand on my elbow. His grip was firm, almost bruising. He was marching me out, escorting the prisoner.

As we walked back down the long aisle, the whispers started. The courtiers were muttering behind their hands. I caught snippets of words. Cursed. Doom. Sacrifice.

"Armano," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I can't stay here. These people are crazy."

"You are safe," he said, his eyes forward.

"Safe? He called me a whore! He talked about my hips!"

"And I am taking you out of the room before you say something that gets you thrown in the dungeon," he shot back. "Pick your battles, Marigold. This one is lost."

We exited the Throne Room and stepped back into the Great Hall. The heavy doors boomed shut behind us.

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for eight hours. "Okay. So, that was terrible. Where’s my room? I need a shower and a Xanax."

"This way," he said, guiding me toward a spiral staircase carved into the stone wall.

We climbed in silence. The air grew colder as we ascended. My legs were burning, my heels clacking on the stone.

Finally, we reached a heavy wooden door at the top of a tower. Armano pulled a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked it.

"These will be your chambers," he said, pushing the door open.

It was... surprising. It wasn't a dungeon cell. It was a suite, circular and spacious. There was a massive four-poster bed draped in heavy curtains, a fireplace that was currently cold and dark, and a balcony overlooking the stormy sea. But the furniture was antique, the velvet worn thin, and the mirrors were covered in heavy cloths. It felt like a room that hadn't been lived in for a century.

"Cozy," I said, stepping inside. "Very 'Beauty and the Beast' avant-garde."

"There are clothes in the wardrobe," Armano said, standing in the doorway. He didn't enter. "Dinner will be brought up in an hour. Do not leave this room. The castle is a maze, and not all the inhabitants are... friendly."

"Right," I said, turning to face him. "Because the cousin with the sword and the dying necromancer are just a barrel of laughs."

He looked at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, silver knife. He held it out to me, handle first.

"Take it."

I looked at the knife, then up at him. "Are you giving me a weapon? Isn't that against the 'jailer handbook'?"

"If someone comes through that door that isn't me," he said, his voice low, "use it. Do not hesitate. Do not scream. Just slash and run."

I took the knife. It was heavier than it looked, the handle cold against my palm. "Why are you telling me this? I thought I was just a liability."

He stepped back, his eyes locking onto mine. For a second, the mask slipped. I saw something haunted in his gaze. A darkness that went deeper than duty.

"Because," he said softly. "The King is not the only monster in this castle."

He turned to leave.

"Armano," I called out. He stopped. "Who are you afraid of?"

He didn't turn around. "The Beast, Marigold. Always the Beast."

He closed the door. I heard the lock click into place.

I stood alone in the center of the room, clutching the silver knife. I walked to the balcony doors and threw them open.

The wind howled, tearing at my dress. Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs with the sound of breaking bones.

I looked out at the dark, sprawling fortress. Somewhere in this labyrinth was a monster. A Beast.

And I was trapped in its lair.

I gripped the knife until my knuckles turned white. I wasn't going to hide. I wasn't going to cower. They wanted a Princess? They wanted a brood mare?

I was Marigold Forbes. And if there was a monster here, I was going to find it.

And I was going to make sure it knew exactly who it was dealing with.

A low sound drifted up from the courtyard below. It wasn't the wind. It was a growl. Low, guttural, and hungry. It vibrated in the floorboards beneath my feet.

I froze.

The Beast.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I looked down into the darkness of the courtyard, but I couldn't see anything. Only shadows moving in the fog.

The sound came again, closer this time. A roar that shook the stone walls of the tower.

I slammed the balcony doors shut, locking them, and backed away into the center of the room.

Okay. Maybe I would cower. Just for a little bit.