Chapter 4

MARIGOLD POV

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the frantic thumping of my own heart and the wind howling around the tower like a grieving widow.

I stayed pressed against the balcony doors, the cold wood seeping through my thin dress, clutching the silver knife Armano had given me until my fingers ached. The roar from the courtyard didn't repeat itself, but the silence that followed was worse. It was the silence of a holding breath.

Eventually, the adrenaline began to leach out of my muscles, leaving me shaking and exhausted. I turned away from the doors and looked at my prison.

It was beautiful, in a haunting, Victorian Gothic sort of way. The bed was massive, a mountain of velvet and dark wood, hung with heavy curtains that looked thick enough to smother a person. The wardrobe was carved with intricate vines that seemed to strangle the wood. There was a dressing table with a silver mirror, but the glass was obscured by a layer of dust, as if no one had looked into it for decades.

A gilded cage.

The phrase spun in my head. Gold leaf on the bars didn't stop you from being a prisoner. It just made the scenery prettier while you withered away.

I walked over to the wardrobe and yanked it open. Inside, hung with precision, were dresses. Not clothes. Costumes.

Gowns of heavy silk and velvet in deep, mourning colors—crimson, midnight blue, black. No pants. No sneakers. No comfortable cardigans. Just layers and layers of fabric designed to restrict movement and remind you of your place.

"Right," I muttered, running a hand over a stiff black bodice. "No running. No fighting. Just looking pretty and breeding heirs. Got it."

I grabbed the first dress I could reach—a simple, dark blue wool thing that looked like it belonged on a governess in a Dickens novel—and stripped off the emerald silk. I let it fall to the floor, stepping out of the ruined tulle and the memories of the White House party that felt like a lifetime ago.

The wool was scratchy against my skin, but it was warm. I felt a little more like a person and a little less like a doll.

I spent the next hour pacing. Ten steps from the bed to the door. Ten steps back.

I checked the door again. Locked, of course. I tried the balcony. The drop was sheer, jagged rocks waiting at the bottom. Even if I had a rope, the wind would tear me off the stone face.

I was trapped.

The reality of it settled over me, heavy and suffocating. My father had done this. He had traded his daughter for a dip in the polls and some lithium batteries. I wasn't angry anymore. I was hollowed out.

A sudden, sharp knock at the door made me jump. I spun around, the knife instinctively raised in front of me.

"Who is it?" I called out, my voice betraying me by cracking.

"Dinner."

Armano.

The handle turned, and the door swung open. He stood there, a silver tray in his hands. He didn't look like a waiter. He looked like a soldier guarding a vault. He had changed out of his suit and back into his uniform—the black tactical fatigues, the heavy boots, the holster snug against his hip.

He saw the knife in my hand. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just walked in and set the tray down on a small table near the fireplace.

"I see you kept the blade," he said, turning to face me.

"I sleep with it under my pillow," I lied, lowering my arm but keeping my fingers wrapped tight around the hilt. "Along with my deep-seated abandonment issues."

"It is not for sleeping," he said. "It is for waking up."

"Poetic," I scoffed, walking over to the table. "Are you joining me? Or do you prefer to stand in the corner and brood?"

"I am your guard, Ms. Forbes. I do not leave my post."

"So, you are a warden." I lifted the silver lid on the tray. Roast chicken, root vegetables, bread that looked dense enough to use as a weapon. It smelled incredible, and my stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl.

"Call it what you like." He leaned back against the stone wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled the fabric tight across his shoulders. He was immense, taking up half the room with just his presence.

I sat down and picked up a fork. "If you're going to watch me eat, the least you can do is entertain me. Tell me about the Prince. Cian. Is he as charming in private as he was in the Throne Room? Does he always talk about women like they're prize-winning heifers at a state fair?"

Armano’s jaw ticked. "Prince Cian is... complicated."

"That’s a fancy word for 'psychopath,' isn't it?"

"He is a soldier," Armano said, his voice low. "He believes in the old ways. Strength. Blood. Survival."

"And what do you believe in, Captain?" I asked, tearing off a piece of bread. "Duty? Obedience? Following orders?"

He looked at me then, his grey eyes unreadable in the dim light of the room. "I believe in the Crown."

"Even when the Crown is a senile old man who wants to sell me off?"

"The Crown is an idea, Marigold. It is bigger than one man."

"That sounds like something they drilled into you in boot camp," I said, popping a piece of carrot into my mouth. "Do you ever have an original thought? Or is your brain just a filing cabinet for royal propaganda?"

Something flickered in his eyes. A spark of annoyance. Good. I wanted to crack the mask. I wanted to see the man underneath the uniform.

"I have thoughts," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I simply choose not to voice them to prisoners."

I set my fork down. The food was good, but I’d lost my appetite. I stood up and walked over to him. I didn't stop until I was inside his personal space, close enough to smell that scent of sandalwood and cold air.

"I'm not a prisoner, Armano," I said softly, looking up at him through my lashes. "I'm your future Queen."

He didn't move away. He didn't breathe. He just looked down at me, his body rigid as a statue. "You are a liability."

"Is that why you gave me the knife?" I reached out, my fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket. The fabric was cold, but beneath it, I could feel the heat radiating off him. "Because I'm a liability?"

I let my hand trail lower, resting over his heart. The beat was steady, strong. Unaffected.

"You're trying to manipulate me," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. It was rougher now.

"Is it working?" I whispered, stepping closer, so our bodies were almost touching. I could feel the tension radiating off him, a magnetic pull that made my head spin. I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But it was the only power I had.

He caught my wrist.

His grip was iron, but he didn't push me away. He held my hand against his chest, trapping me. His thumb pressed against the frantic pulse in my wrist, reminding me that he could feel how fast my heart was beating too.

"I have trained for counter-interrogation, Marigold," he murmured, his face inches from mine. "I have resisted torture. Do you think a little flirting is going to make me forget my duty?"

"I think you're lonely," I bluffed, staring into his eyes. They were so grey, so deep. "I think you're tired of being the scary dog everybody kicks. I think you liked holding my hand on the plane."

His eyes darkened. The air between us crackled, charged and dangerous. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. Or maybe snap my neck.

"You see what you want to see," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Then let me see something real," I challenged. "Let me out. Just for a walk. I feel like I'm suffocating in here."

"You are safer here."

"Safe?" I laughed, a brittle sound. "I'm in a castle full of monsters and the man who blackmailed me is the only one I can talk to. That's not safety, Armano. That's just a slower kind of death."

He stared at me for a long moment. His grip on my wrist loosened, his thumb stroking the skin there once, almost absently. A caress. It was so slight I almost missed it, but it sent a shiver down my spine.

Then, he released me, stepping back. The cold air rushed in between us, severing the connection.

"Eat," he commanded, turning away. "The Prince has requested your presence at breakfast tomorrow. You will need your strength."

"I'm not going to breakfast," I called out to his retreating back. "I'm going on a hunger strike. I'm going to waste away until I look like a skeleton and they have to send me home in a box!"

He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He didn't turn around.

"He will force the food down your throat," Armano said quietly. "Cian enjoys breaking things. Don't give him the satisfaction."

He opened the door. "Goodnight, Marigold."

"Goodnight, Shark," I whispered to the empty room as the door clicked shut.

I stood there for a moment, rubbing my wrist where his fingers had been. My skin was burning.

He hadn't taken the bait. He had shut me down, dismissed me, and locked me back up. But for a second... just a split second... I had felt his heart rate kick up.

He wasn't made of stone. And if he wasn't stone, he could be broken.

I walked back to the table and finished the meal, planning my next move. I wasn't going to just sit here and wait for Cian to decide my fate.

I picked up the silver knife and tested the point against my thumb. Sharp.

Tomorrow, the Prince. Tonight, the Beast.

I turned toward the balcony doors. The wind had died down, but the moon had risen, casting long, silver shadows across the courtyard below.

I walked to the railing and looked over the edge.

Far below, near the edge of the cliff where the land dropped away into the churning sea, I saw movement.

It was large. Massive. A shadow that detached itself from the darkness of the walls. It moved with a fluid, silent grace that belied its size.

It stopped directly below my tower. It lifted its head, and two eyes burned like coals in the night.

It wasn't a dog. I had seen Great Danes and Mastiffs. This was something else. It was the size of a small horse, its shoulders hunched with muscle. Its fur was matted and dark, spiked in some places, looking almost like iron filings.

The Beast.

It let out a low huff of breath that I could hear all the way up here. It was sniffing the air. It was scenting something.

Me.

It knew I was here.

I gripped the railing, knuckles white. Part of me wanted to run. Part of me wanted to scream.

But then, something strange happened. It sat down. It didn't pace. It didn't howl. It just... watched. Like a sentry.

And then, from the shadows of the courtyard, another figure emerged.

A man.

He walked up to the monster and placed a hand on its massive head. The beast leaned into the touch, its eyes closing.

The man looked up.

Even from this height, even in the moonlight, I knew the profile. The stiff posture. The dark hair.

Armano.

He wasn't in the guardhouse. He wasn't in the barracks. He was down in the cold, in the dark, petting the monster that made noises like thunder.

He turned and looked straight up at my balcony.

I ducked back instinctively, hiding behind the heavy velvet curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs.

What was he doing?

Who was he really?

The knife felt heavy in my hand. I was locked in a tower with a princess and a shark, but down in the yard, there was a man who talked to beasts.

I looked out again.

The courtyard was empty. The beast was gone. Armano was gone.

Just shadows and wind.

I backed away from the balcony and locked the doors, my hands trembling.

I was definitely going to need a bigger knife.