CHAPTER 3

"What the hell was that, Abigail?" Ethan’s voice cut through the air like a serrated blade. He stood over the shattered remains of the wine goblet, his boots inches from the red puddle. The liquid hissed into the grain of the floorboards, a dark, spreading stain that looked too much like fresh blood.

"A spider!" Noah shrieked. He pitched his voice high, that strained, airy melody he’d perfected. He clutched his silk skirts and stumbled back, chest heaving. "Oh, god, Ethan! It was huge. It crawled right out from under the rim."

The doors burst open. Chainmail rattled as four guards spilled into the room, swords drawn, eyes darting from the King to the mess on the floor.

"Sire?" the lead guard barked.

Ethan didn't look at them. His eyes remained locked on Noah, searching. The coldness in his gaze didn't soften; it shifted. Concern replaced the suspicion, though the edge remained. He reached out, his hand wrapping around Noah’s upper arm.

"A spider?" Ethan repeated. He looked at the guards. "Secure the room. Now."

Noah faked a tremble, letting his knees buckle just enough that Ethan had to catch his weight. "It was in the cup. It looked... it looked poisonous."

Ethan’s grip tightened. He looked at the floor, then at the guards. "Who brought this wine?"

"The kitchen page, Sire," one guard answered, sweating under his helmet.

"Find him. And the steward. And the entire kitchen staff," Ethan commanded. His voice was low, devoid of the warmth he’d shown Noah seconds before. "If a common house spider can reach my Queen’s lips, then my servants are either incompetent or traitorous. Have them all brought to the courtyard. Fifty lashes each for the oversight. If the page saw the spider and didn't kill it, hang him."

Noah’s breath caught—not the fake "Abigail" gasp, but a real, jagged intake of air. "Ethan, no! It was just a bug. Please, don't hurt anyone because of a bug."

Ethan turned to him, his fingers brushing Noah’s cheek. The touch was possessive, almost suffocating. "You saved my life, Abigail. I will not have it put at risk by a dirty cup. They need to learn that your safety is the law of this land. Your life is more valuable than a hundred servants."

Noah looked into those blue eyes and saw a void. The man who had whispered promises of protection in the cave was a butcher. The love Ethan felt for "Abigail" wasn't a gift; it was a golden leash. A noose made of silk. Every time Noah lied to protect himself, he was sharpening the blade that would eventually fall on his own neck.

"Stay still, my Lady. If I prick you, don't blame me."

Hannah Brooks, the head seamstress, didn't look like a woman who cared about royalty. She looked like a woman who cared about seams. She circled Noah with a mouthful of pins, her eyes narrowed. The room smelled of lavender and raw wool.

"I told you, I can do this later," Noah said, his voice tight. He stood on a wooden dais, arms held out like a bird about to be plucked. The wedding dress was a monstrosity of white lace and seed pearls.

"The King moved the wedding up to tomorrow night," Hannah grunted, kneeling to adjust the hem. "There is no 'later.' Move your left shoulder back."

Noah obeyed, but the movement caused the bodice to gap. Hannah paused. She stood up, her eyes level with Noah’s chest. She reached out, her hand hovering near the lace.

"You're very... sturdy, my Lady," Hannah whispered. "I’ve dressed every noblewoman in the capital. Even the ones who hunt. But your frame... your shoulders are broad. And your chest..."

"Malnutrition," Noah snapped, the lie sliding out like grease. "In the village, we didn't have enough to eat. I had to carry water, logs, whatever we could sell. It built me wrong. I’m not a delicate city flower, Hannah."

Hannah stared at him for a long beat. She reached out, her fingers grazing the edge of the linen binding hidden beneath the lace. Noah felt his heart hammer against the fabric.

"It’s a struggle, being a woman from nothing," Hannah said, her voice softening, but her eyes remained sharp. "But don't worry. I can cut the lace to hide the truth. We’ll make you look exactly like what the King wants to see."

Noah didn't like the way she said "truth."

Before he could respond, the garden doors swung open. Ethan stepped in, waving the seamstress away. Hannah bowed low and scurried out, leaving the pins scattered on the floor.

Ethan didn't speak. He walked to Noah and leaned his forehead against Noah’s. He smelled of rain and stress.

"They’re all plotting," Ethan whispered. "My brother, the council, the generals. I can see it in their eyes. They think I’m weak because I’m happy."

"You're not weak," Noah said.

"I'm terrified," Ethan confessed. He pulled back, looking at Noah with a raw, desperate vulnerability. "I've spent my life surrounded by people who want my crown or my head. Then I found you. You wanted nothing but a roof and a promise. If I lose you, there’s nothing left but the iron."

He didn't wait for Noah to reply. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Noah’s.

It wasn't a kingly kiss. It was a drowning man reaching for air. It was deep, desperate, and tasted of salt. Noah’s head spun. For a second, he forgot the bindings, forgot Lucas, forgot the poison. He leaned into it, his hands finding the hair at the nape of Ethan’s neck. He felt the weight of Ethan’s desire, the heat of a man who loved a ghost. When Ethan pulled away, his eyes were clouded.

"Tomorrow," Ethan said. "You’ll be mine. Forever."

Noah fled the garden as soon as Ethan was called away. He needed air. He needed to think. He ducked into the library, a massive, echoing hall of dust and parchment. He leaned against a bookshelf, his hands shaking.

"It’s a pretty lie, isn't it?"

Noah jumped. General Jonathan Hayes stood in the shadows of the mezzanine. He was Ethan’s closest friend, a man built of scars and silence. He walked down the stairs, holding a strip of blood-stained linen in his hand.

Noah recognized it immediately. It was a discarded piece of his chest binding. He’d thrown it in the trash in a rush this morning.

"The King is a romantic," Jonathan said, his voice flat. He stopped three feet from Noah. "He sees an angel. He sees a girl from a cave. He doesn't see the way a person walks, or the way their shoulders move when they think no one is looking."

"General—"

"I’m not a fool, boy," Jonathan hissed. He stepped into Noah’s space, his hand slamming into the bookshelf next to Noah’s ear. "I loved the idea of her. I wanted to believe Ethan finally found something pure in this hellhole. And then I find this." He shook the binding. "Wrapped in the trash of the Queen-to-be."

Noah’s voice dropped to its natural register. "What are you going to do? Tell him? He’ll kill me. And then he’ll kill you for knowing."

Jonathan’s eyes flared. He looked at Noah—really looked at him—with a mixture of disgust and a dark, twisted kind of fascination.

"I won't tell him," Jonathan said. "Not yet. Ethan is fragile right now. If I break his heart, he’ll burn the kingdom down. But you... you're going to pay for this mockery. You’re going to be my eyes and ears in his bedchamber. You’re going to tell me every word he whispers, every plan he makes."

"A spy?" Noah spat.

"A survivalist," Jonathan corrected. "I keep your secret, and you give me the King’s ear. If you fail, I’ll show him this cloth. And I’ll tell him you laughed while you saved him."

Noah waited until the moon was high. The palace was too crowded, too loud. He couldn't do this anymore. He grabbed a dark cloak and a small bag of coins he’d swiped from the vanity. He knew a servant’s passage near the kitchens.

He slipped through the dark, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He reached the outer wall, the smell of damp earth and freedom so close he could taste it.

He climbed the stone stairs to the postern gate. He reached for the latch.

A hand grabbed his hair and slammed his head into the stone.

"Going somewhere, Lady?"

Noah’s vision exploded in white stars. He fell, his face hitting the cold dirt. He tried to scramble up, but a heavy boot crashed into his ribs. He felt a bone snap. He gasped, the air leaving him in a wheeze.

Two men in Lucas Reed’s colors dragged him upright. One of them punched him in the stomach, then the jaw.

"The Prince wants a word," one of the men laughed.

They dragged him through the mud, his silk cloak tearing, his blood dripping into the grass. They threw him into the damp, rat-infested cell at the bottom of the North Tower.

Lucas Reed was waiting. He sat on a wooden stool, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger. He looked at Noah’s bruised face and smiled.

"You tried to run," Lucas said. "That’s disappointing. We had a deal, boy."

"I... I couldn't kill him," Noah coughed, spitting a glob of blood onto the floor.

"Oh, I know," Lucas said. He stood up and walked over, grabbing Noah’s chin and forcing him to look up. "But the plan has changed. I don't need you to kill him anymore. I need the wedding to happen. I need you to stand there in your white lace, in front of the bishops and the lords."

Lucas’s eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "And then, at the height of the ceremony, I will reveal the truth. I will strip that dress off you myself. The King who married a man. The perverted King. The people will riot. The Church will demand his head. And I will be there to pick up the crown."

"He'll kill me before you get the chance," Noah whispered.

"Probably," Lucas shrugged. "But your death will be the final nail in his coffin."

He signaled to the guards. "Take him back to his room. Clean him up. If he has a single bruise showing by morning, I’ll have your skins. He needs to look like a perfect bride."

The guards dragged Noah back through the secret tunnels. They threw him into his lavish room and locked the door.

Noah crawled to the mirror. His lip was split, his eye was purple, and his ribs felt like they were on fire. He looked at the white dress hanging on the wardrobe. It looked like a ghost.

He reached out and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at the reflection, his eyes hardening, the fear finally curdling into something cold and sharp.

He wasn't Abigail. He wasn't the "Angel of the Ravine." He was a man with a target on his back and three monsters at his throat.

He picked up a shard of glass from the vanity and held it against his palm. If the world wanted a villain, he would give them one. He would walk to that altar, but he wouldn't be the sacrifice.

The sun began to bleed over the horizon, painting the room in a deep, violent red.

"Time to get dressed, my Lady," a voice called from the hall.

Noah gripped the glass until his hand bled, mixing his own red with the silk of the gown.

The door opened.