Chapter 5

MARIGOLD POV

Sleep was a battlefield I fought and lost.

The dreams were fragmented, shards of memory and fear. I saw my father’s face, stern and unyielding, turning away as men in black uniforms dragged me toward a cliff edge. I heard the roar of the Beast echoing not from the courtyard, but from inside my own chest, a vibration that rattled my ribs.

When I finally opened my eyes, the room was submerged in that pre-dawn grey where the world looks flat and colorless. The fire had died down to embers that cast a weak, orange glow against the stone walls. The silence was absolute—a heavy, suffocating blanket that smelled of ancient dust and cold iron.

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor was shocking against my bare feet, a sharp reminder that I wasn't in the White House anymore. There was no plush carpet, no secret service agents politely waiting outside the door, no room service menu on the nightstand.

There was just the tower. And the silver knife tucked under my pillow.

I pulled the knife out, holding it up to the faint light. The metal was warm from my body heat. It was a pitiful weapon against a kingdom of monsters, but it was mine. I slipped it into the waistband of the wool dress I’d worn the day before, the cold metal pressing against my hip, a constant, grounding weight.

The lock clicked.

I didn't jump. I was beginning to recognize the specific, heavy cadence of Armano’s footsteps.

The door opened, and he stood there. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. His uniform was still immaculate—how did he do that?—but his face was drawn, the skin tight over his high cheekbones. There was a darkness in his eyes, a shadow that hadn't been there yesterday. Or perhaps I just hadn't been looking close enough.

"The King requests an audience," he said. His voice was that low, gravelly rumble that scraped against my nerves. "And then... a walk."

I stood up, smoothing the wrinkled wool of my skirt. "A walk? Is that a euphemism? In D.C., a 'walk' usually meant a scandalous leak to the press. Here, I assume it involves the dungeon."

"The Inner Bailey," he corrected, ignoring my jab. "There is someone you need to meet."

"I saw you last night," I said, keeping my voice level.

He didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just stood there, a monolith in the doorway, blocking out the faint light from the torches in the hall. "I know."

"You were with it. The Beast." I took a step toward him, testing the distance. "You called him Fenris. That doesn't sound very... beastly. It sounds like a dog who fetches slippers."

"He is not a pet, Marigold." He said my name slowly, carefully, as if it were a foreign word he was learning to pronounce. "And he is not an 'it.' He is the War Hound. The last of his line. He is the only living creature in this castle who does not lie."

"Romantic," I deadpanned. "Does he have a dating profile? 'Loves long walks on the beach, tearing throats out, and honest communication.'"

A muscle in his jaw jumped. It was the only sign that my sarcasm was landing. "He knows you are here. He knows... change is coming."

"Change," I repeated, walking past him into the corridor. The air out here was colder, smelling of damp stone and smoke. "Is that what we call a hostile takeover these days? 'Change'?"

He fell into step beside me, but not too close. He was maintaining a strict perimeter, a bodyguard’s distance. But I could feel the heat radiating off him, a magnetic pull that made the hair on my arms stand up.

We walked through the waking castle. The corridors were like arteries, carrying the flow of servants and guards who stopped and stared as we passed. I kept my chin up, my expression bored, but inside, my heart was hammering. Every shadow looked like a hiding place for Prince Cian. Every torchlight cast a monster on the wall.

We reached a set of heavy iron doors that led to the Inner Bailey. Armano pushed them open, and the wind hit us—a gale force that tore at my heavy skirts and tangled my hair.

The courtyard was a circle of crushed slate surrounded by high, sheer walls. In the center, chained to a massive iron stake driven deep into the rock, was the monster.

Up close, he was even bigger than he looked from the tower. His shoulders came past my waist, a hunch of muscle and scar tissue. His fur was a thick, coarse mat of black and grey, matted in places where old wounds had healed over. His head was the size of a beer keg, jaws lined with teeth that belonged in a paleontology museum.

Fenris.

As soon as we entered, he surged to his feet. The chain rattled, a sound like grinding bones that echoed off the stone walls. He let out a bark that shook the fillings in my teeth—a sound of pure, primal rage.

Armano moved instantly.

He didn't draw his sword. He stepped in front of me, his body a solid wall of black fabric and muscle between me and the animal. His hand came up, not to his weapon, but in a sharp halting gesture.

"Stay back," he commanded me. His voice had changed. It was deeper, guttural. He spoke to the dog in a language I didn't recognize, harsh vowels and clicking sounds.

Fenris ignored him. He was pulling at the chain, his claws scrabbling against the stone, sending up showers of sparks. His eyes—burning gold coals—were locked on me.

I looked at Armano’s back. I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he planted his feet. He was ready to die to keep me safe.

A strange feeling bloomed in my chest. Not gratitude. Something hotter. More defiant.

They wanted me to be afraid of this. They wanted me to hide behind the shark.

I refused.

I stepped out from behind him.

"Marigold!" Armano barked, his hand shooting out to grab my arm, but I sidestepped him.

"No," I said, my voice ringing out over the wind. "I'm not hiding."

I walked toward the beast.

My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might bruise my ribs. My knees were trembling, a traitorous reaction of my lizard brain screaming run, climb, fly. But I forced my feet to move. One step. Two steps. The crunch of my boots on the gravel was the only sound in the courtyard besides the beast’s guttural growls.

I stopped five feet from him. Close enough to smell the musk and old blood on his breath. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace.

He lowered his head, the hackles on his neck rising like a serrated ridge. He opened his mouth, displaying those terrifying yellow teeth, strings of drool hanging from his jowls.

"Fenris," Armano said from behind me. His voice was tight, strained. "Stand down."

The dog didn't move. He was testing me. Deciding if I was meat or master.

I looked into those burning gold eyes. I didn't see a monster. I saw a prisoner. I saw a creature locked in a cage, just like me. Anger flared in my gut, hot and bright.

"I'm Marigold," I said, my voice dropping, cutting through the wind. "And I'm not afraid of you."

Fenris let out a huff, a cloud of steam rising into the cold air. He took a step forward, the chain snapping taut.

"Don't," Armano warned. I heard the whisper of steel leaving a scabbard. He was going to kill the dog to save me.

"Put it away," I commanded him, never taking my eyes off the beast.

"He will kill you."

"He won't," I said. "Because we're the same."

I took the final step. I was within striking distance. One lunge and he could take my head off.

I slowly raised my hand. My fingers were trembling, just a little.

"You want to scare me?" I whispered to the monster. "You want to be the big bad wolf? I've been sold by my father, blackmailed by a soldier, and threatened by a necromancer. You're just a dog, Fenris. You're a prisoner in a cage, just like me."

I laid my hand on the top of his head.

The fur was coarse, wired like steel wool. Burning hot.

Fenris went absolutely still. He didn't bite. He didn't snap. He leaned into my touch, just a fraction. A low rumble started in his chest, but it wasn't a growl. It was a sound of acknowledgment.

I stroked his head, moving my hand down to his massive shoulder. I could feel the power thrumming beneath his skin, enough strength to rip me apart in a second. But he was still. He was letting me touch him.

"Good boy," I said softly, scratching behind his ear the way I used to scratch my neighbor’s golden retriever. "We're going to get out of here, you and me. Maybe we'll eat Cian."

Fenris’s eyes closed, his long tongue lolling out to the side. He sat down, the heavy thud vibrating through the soles of my boots.

The silence in the courtyard was deafening. The wind howled, the chain rattled, but the violence was gone.

I slowly pulled my hand back. I felt different. Stronger. Like I had claimed a piece of this cursed castle as my own.

I turned around to look at Armano.

He was standing exactly where I left him, the sword half-drawn, forgotten in his hand. He was staring at me.

Not at the dog. At me.

His grey eyes were wide, the mask of indifference fractured. He looked at me as if I were a creature of myth himself—a ghost, a spirit, something he couldn't explain.

There was no lust in his gaze. It was something far more dangerous. It was a disturbance. A crack in the foundation of his world.

He was shaken.

He looked at my hand, still warm from the beast's fur, and then up to my eyes. His chest was heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp puffs of white vapor. He looked like a man who had just watched a child walk through a minefield and come out dancing.

I walked back toward him, my steps steady. I stopped inches from him, looking up.

"He likes me," I said softly.

Armano swallowed hard. I watched the movement of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple. "Yes."

"He's a good boy."

"He is a killer," Armano rasped, his voice rough. "He has taken three arms and two legs. He has dragged grown men into the darkness and left nothing but bones."

"Maybe he just didn't like them," I said. "Maybe they didn't scratch the right spot."

I reached out, my fingers hovering over the hand gripping the sword. "Are you going to put that away, Captain? Or are you planning to use it on me?"

He blinked, the spell breaking. He sheathed the sword with a violent, metallic snick. "I should," he muttered, almost to himself. "I should put you in a cage and throw away the key. You are a menace."

"But you won't," I said. "Because you're curious."

"I am not curious," he snapped, though his eyes darted away from mine, focusing on a point over my shoulder. "I am concerned with the safety of the Crown."

"You're concerned because you don't understand me," I countered. "You have a file on me, right? 'Marigold Forbes: Disaster Daughter. Likes vodka and bad decisions.' You think you know exactly what I am."

"I know what you are," he said, his voice low, laced with a tension I didn't understand. "You are a distraction. You are chaos."

"Chaos is better than a cage," I said. "And I think you're tired of the order, Armano. I think you're tired of being the perfect soldier."

He looked down at me then, his eyes narrowing. The temperature between us seemed to drop, the air becoming heavy and charged. He was angry. He was angry that I had seen him with the dog, and he was angry that I had survived the encounter.

"You speak of things you do not understand," he warned.

"Then explain it to me," I challenged.

"Prince Cian is approaching," Armano said abruptly, turning his back to me. He adjusted his jacket, composing himself with military precision. "He will be here in moments. Do not speak to Cian of the dog. Cian hates the beast. He thinks it is a relic of the old ways."

"Why? Because he can't control it?"

"Because," Armano said, looking out toward the archway, "Fenris knows a traitor when he smells one."

The heavy doors to the courtyard groaned open, interrupting the moment.

Prince Cian strode in, flanked by four guards. He was wearing a uniform today, crisp and grey, with a sash of silver across his chest. He looked every inch the Prince—arrogant, polished, and cold.

His eyes swept over the courtyard, taking in the chained beast, then me, then Armano. His lip curled in disgust as he looked at Fenris.

"The stench in here is unbearable," Cian said, waving a hand in front of his nose as if the very air offended him. "Come, cousin. Uncle is waiting. And please, try not to let the dog slobber on your dress. We have standards here, unlike your backwards country."

He turned and walked out, expecting me to follow.

I glanced at Armano. He was watching Cian’s retreating back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword again. His knuckles were white.

He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the struggle behind his eyes. The conflict between his duty and the undeniable reality of the girl standing in front of him.

"Go," he said. "I will watch over you."

I walked toward the doors, glancing back one last time.

Fenris was lying down again, his head on his paws, watching me go. And standing next to him, a dark silhouette against the grey sky, was Armano.

I had tamed the beast. But looking at Armano, I had a feeling the real fight was just beginning. And for the first time, I thought I might actually enjoy it.