The Crown They Buried Me For

The scent of incense and lilies usually signaled a celebration, but today, they only served to mask the metallic tang of blood pooling on the marble floor.Evelyne d’Astier knelt, her knees aching against the jagged stones of the executioner's block. Her once-exquisite silver gown, the one she had chosen specifically to please the man she loved, was now shredded and soaked in a deep, visceral crimson. Her hands were bound behind her back with coarse rope that bit into her wrists, a cruel contrast to the silk ribbons she used to wear.She lifted her chin, refusing to let the trembling of her soul reach her lips. Through the matted hair falling over her face, she looked up at the dais.There sat Prince Alaric.He looked every bit like the "Ruthless Sovereign" the bards sang about. His dark eyes, once the only place Evelyne felt safe, were now as cold as the winter sea. He didn't look like a man about to execute his fiancée, he looked like a man bored by a necessary chore."Evelyne d’Ast

The carriage ride back to the d’Astier estate was silent, save for the frantic beating of Evelyne’s heart. She stared at her hands, still vibrating with the ghost of Alaric’s presence. She had played a dangerous game in that garden. To Alaric, a woman who didn't fawn over him was a puzzle to be solved, and once Alaric became interested in a puzzle, he didn't stop until he had taken it apart piece by piece."Lady Evelyne," Marie whispered, "we... we should probably prepare. Lady Seraphina mentioned she would be waiting for you in the drawing room to hear about the meeting."Evelyne’s gaze sharpened. Seraphina. In her past life, Seraphina had been the sister she never had. She was the one who had helped Evelyne pick out the soft pastels Alaric liked, the one who had offered a shoulder to cry on when Alaric grew cold, and the one who had ultimately stood on the balcony, draped in the d’Astier family jewels, as Evelyne was led to the chopping block."Is she now?" Evelyne murmured. "Then w

The royal hunting grounds were a sea of emerald velvet and baying hounds. The nobility had gathered under the gilded pavilion, their laughter ringing out like breaking glass. To anyone else, it was a day of sport, to Evelyne, it was a battlefield she had already walked once before.She sat atop her obsidian mare, her riding habit a deep, midnight blue that looked almost black in the shade of the ancient oaks. She wore no veil, letting the wind catch her hair, her eyes scanning the tree line with the precision of a hawk."You look like you're hunting more than just stags today, Lady Evelyne."Alaric pulled his white stallion up beside her. He was dressed for the chase, his leather jerkin straining against his chest, a longbow slung across his back. He looked wilder out here, less like a prince and more like the wolf he truly was."I find that in a forest full of predators, it’s best to be the one holding the bow," Evelyne replied, not looking at him."And where is your bow?" Alaric lea

The Imperial Dungeons weren't the damp, rat-infested holes the commoners whispered about. For the nobility, the Iron Tower was a suite of beautiful, windowless rooms, elegant prisons where the walls were thick enough to swallow screams and the silence was used as a weapon. Evelyne sat in a high-backed velvet chair, the only light in the room coming from a single candelabra on a heavy oak table. She hadn't been shackled, but the presence of two silent guards outside the door was a reminder that she was a guest in name only. The door groaned open. Alaric stepped in, alone. He had shed his heavy armor, now wearing a simple black tunic that clung to the hard lines of his frame. He looked less like a Prince and more like an executioner who had stepped out of her nightmares. He didn't speak. He walked a slow circle around her, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. Evelyne kept her gaze fixed on the flickering candles, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. "You'r

The dawn didn't bring light to the Iron Tower; it only turned the shadows from black to a dismal, bruised grey. Evelyne hadn't slept. She had spent the night paced the small square of her cell, calculating the time it would take for Sir Kaelen to reach the docks and for the Marquis de Valois to mobilize his private guard. In her past life, the Marquis de Valois had been a man of iron, stubborn, greedy, and the only person Alaric truly hesitated to cross. By handing him the evidence of Vincent’s smuggling, she hadn't just saved a guard’s sister; she had handed a wolf a piece of fresh meat. The heavy thud of the Iron Tower’s main gate echoing through the stone floors told her the hunt was over. An hour later, the door to her cell didn't just open, it was thrown wide. Alaric stood there, but the Ruthless Prince looked different this morning. His hair was windswept, his boots were splattered with fresh mud, and his eyes were burning with a dark, manic energy. In his hand, he held a ta