CHAPTER 4

"You look like you're heading to your own funeral, Lady Abigail."

Hannah Brooks didn't look up from the lace. She yanked the corset string. Hard. Noah’s breath left him in a sharp, pained hiss. His ribs, already screaming from the beating Lucas’s dogs had given him in the dark, felt like they were grinding together.

"Just nervous, Hannah. It’s a big day." Noah’s voice was a thin wire. He kept his eyes on the mirror, watching the seamstress apply another layer of heavy, pale lead-white to his jaw. It covered the yellowing bruise. It buried the boy.

"Nervous is one thing. Looking like a corpse is another." Hannah stepped back, her eyes narrowing at the way the silk sat on his shoulders. "The King wants a bride, not a ghost. Stand up straight."

Noah forced his spine to lock. Every movement was a gamble. The heavy embroidery of the gown weighed ten pounds, dragging at his bruised skin. Outside, the cathedral bells began to toll. Clang. Clang. Clang. Each strike felt like a hammer hitting a nail into his coffin.

The door groaned open.

Ethan stood there. He wasn't the man from the cave anymore. He was a god in white velvet and gold plate. His eyes, usually burning with that desperate, needy heat, were flat. Cold. Like frozen lakes. He didn't move toward Noah. He just stayed in the threshold, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial sword.

"The carriage is waiting," Ethan said. No "my love." No "little bird."

"I’m ready," Noah whispered, pitching the voice up. It sounded brittle.

Ethan offered his arm. When Noah looped his hand through the silk sleeve, Ethan’s muscles felt like carved stone. He didn't squeeze Noah’s hand. He gripped the wrist. Tight. The pressure was a warning, a silent command that sent a jolt of pure ice down Noah's spine.

The cathedral was a cavern of gold leaf and judging whispers.

Noah’s boots clicked against the marble as they walked the long aisle. The air was thick with incense and the scent of lilies—the smell of death disguised as a celebration. To the left, he caught Lucas Reed’s face. The Prince was lounging in his pew, a slow, shark-like grin stretching his lips. He was waiting for the moment. The reveal. The kill.

To the right, General Jonathan Hayes stood like a statue. His hand was white-knuckled on his sword hilt, his gaze fixed on the floor. He knew the truth. He was the ticking clock in the room.

Ethan led him up the altar steps. The priest, a withered man in heavy brocade, began the chant. The Latin words blurred into a low hum in Noah’s ears.

"Abigail Moore," the priest droned. "Do you take—"

Ethan’s grip on Noah’s hand tightened until the bones groaned. He leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing against Noah’s. Despite the crowd, the heat between them was a physical thing—raw, suffocating. Noah could feel the King’s breath on his temple. It wasn't romantic. It was predatory.

"The vow, Abigail," Ethan prompted. His voice was a low, dangerous vibration.

Noah’s throat felt like it was full of sand. "I... I do."

"If any man," the priest continued, his voice echoing off the high stone arches, "can show just cause why these two may not be lawfully joined, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

The silence hit like a physical blow.

Noah looked at Lucas. The Prince started to rise, his hand smoothing his tunic, his mouth opening to deliver the execution blow.

The cathedral doors slammed open.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. A woman stood in the light of the entryway, her hair wild, her dress torn. She looked like she’d run miles through the muck.

"Stop!" she screamed. "Stop this madness!"

The court erupted into a frantic murmur. Lucas froze, his brow furrowing. This wasn't the script.

The woman stumbled down the aisle, pointing a shaking finger at the altar. "That is not Abigail Moore! I am Abigail! I am the woman from the village! This... this creature is an impostor!"

Noah felt the floor vanish. His heart hammered so hard he thought his ribs would finally give way. He looked at Ethan, waiting for the King to roar, to call the guards, to drag Noah to the block.

Ethan didn't move. He didn't even turn around.

The "Real Abigail" reached the foot of the altar, her face contorted in a mask of righteous fury. "He is a man! Look at him! Look at the neck, the hands—"

Ethan moved. It was a blur of white and steel.

He didn't argue. He didn't ask for proof. In one fluid, brutal motion, the King pulled the dagger from his belt and vaulted off the altar step. He caught the woman by the throat, silencing her mid-shriek.

The blade slid home.

A sharp, wet sound echoed through the silent cathedral. The woman’s eyes went wide, her hands clawing at Ethan’s gold-dusted sleeves. Blood, hot and bright, sprayed across the white marble steps. It splattered onto the hem of Noah’s lace gown.

Ethan pulled the steel out with a sickening squelch and let her drop. She hit the floor like a sack of grain, her life pooling in the grout.

"A liar," Ethan said, his voice loud and clear, carrying to the very back of the hall. He wiped the blade on a silk cloth and stepped back up to Noah’s side. He looked at the priest. "Continue."

"But... Sire..." the priest stammered, staring at the corpse.

"Continue," Ethan barked.

The priest’s hands shook so hard the holy book nearly fell. He skipped the rest of the preamble. "I pronounce you... husband and wife."

The court was silent for three heartbeats, then a wave of terrified, frantic cheering broke out. People were clapping because they didn't want to be the next body on the floor.

Ethan turned to Noah. He didn't kiss him. He grabbed Noah’s jaw, forcing him to look at the carnage at their feet.

"You thought I didn't know?" Ethan whispered. The voice was soft, intimate, and absolutely insane.

Noah’s breath hitched. "Ethan..."

"I knew the second night in the palace," Ethan said, his thumb digging into the lead-white makeup on Noah’s cheek, smearing it to reveal the bruised skin beneath. "I know the weight of a man’s grip. I know the sound of a voice that’s been forced too high. Lucas hired that actress to break me. He thought the truth would make me let you go."

He leaned down, his lips brushing Noah’s ear. "He doesn't understand. I don't care what you are. I don't care about the village or the name. You saved me. You belong to me. I’d marry a demon if it had your eyes."

Noah looked at the "Abigail" on the floor. She had been a pawn, just like him. And Ethan had butchered her without a second thought just to keep his toy.

"You're mad," Noah breathed, the words meant only for the King.

"I’m a King," Ethan corrected. He pulled Noah flush against him, his hand sliding down to the small of Noah’s back, pressing him into the hard line of his ceremonial armor. "And you are my Queen. Try to run again, Noah. See how many bodies I’ll pile up to bring you back."

Ethan turned to the crowd, raising Noah’s hand in a victory. The sapphire ring caught the light, heavy and cold.

As they walked back down the aisle, stepping over the cooling blood of the woman who should have been his salvation, Noah looked at Lucas. The Prince was pale, his eyes darting toward the exits. His plan had backfired. He hadn't exposed a scandal; he had unleashed a monster.

Noah looked at Jonathan. The General looked sick.

They reached the carriage outside. The sun had vanished, replaced by a heavy, bruised sky. The first drop of rain hit the stone, cold and sharp.

"The feast is waiting," Ethan said, handing Noah into the carriage. He followed, the door slamming shut, plunging them into the dim, velvet-lined shadows.

Ethan didn't sit across from him. He sat next to him, his heavy thigh pinning Noah’s against the seat. He reached out, his fingers tangling in the lace at Noah’s throat, pulling him close until their noses touched.

"Tonight," Ethan whispered, his eyes dark with a hunger that made Noah’s skin crawl. "I want to see exactly what I bought with all this blood."

The carriage lurched forward.

The Great Hall was a sea of false smiles and sharp knives.

Noah sat on the dais, the weight of the crown pressing into his temples. He couldn't eat. The wine tasted like the copper he’d smelled on the altar steps. Beside him, Ethan was the perfect host, laughing with lords, tossing meat to the hounds, all while keeping one hand firmly on Noah’s thigh beneath the table.

Every few minutes, the King’s fingers would squeeze, a reminder of the cage.

"You should eat, my Lady," a voice said.

Noah looked up. It was Lucas. The Prince had recovered his nerves. He stood before the table, a golden chalice in his hand. He looked at Noah, then at Ethan.

"A toast," Lucas said, his voice projected for the room. "To the King’s... unique taste. May the union be as fruitful as the battlefield."

Ethan’s smile didn't falter, but the air around him turned frigid. "Careful, brother. The battlefield is a place where men die for their mistakes."

"Of course," Lucas bowed. As he straightened, his eyes locked onto Noah’s. He gave a tiny, imperceptible nod toward the gardens.

Noah’s heart did a slow, painful roll. Lucas wasn't done.

An hour later, as the music grew louder and the wine flowed faster, Noah leaned toward Ethan. "The headache... it’s back. The incense in the cathedral..."

Ethan looked at him, his gaze tracing the lines of Noah’s face as if memorizing a map. "Go. Hannah will see to you. But do not think the walls are thin, Noah. My guards are everywhere."

Noah nodded, scurrying away before the King could change his mind. He didn't go to his room. He slipped through the servants' entrance, tearing the lace of his sleeves on the stone walls.

He reached the rose garden. The rain was steady now, soaking through the white silk, making it heavy and translucent.

"Over here."

Lucas stepped out from behind a statue of a weeping goddess. He looked agitated, his usual composure frayed at the edges.

"He’s insane," Lucas hissed, grabbing Noah’s arm. "He killed that girl without even looking at her face. He knows, Noah. He knows everything and he doesn't care."

"I told you," Noah snapped, shrugging off the Prince’s grip. "He’s obsessed. You’ve made it worse."

"I have a ship," Lucas said, his voice urgent. "At the docks. My men can get you out tonight. But you have to do one thing for me."

Noah laughed, a jagged, hollow sound. "Another poison? Another lie?"

"The signet ring," Lucas said. "It’s the key to the royal treasury. Without it, Ethan can't pay the mercenaries. His power will collapse in a week. Give me the ring, and I’ll give you your life back."

Noah looked at the gold band on his finger. It felt like it was fused to his bone.

"And if I don't?"

"Then I’ll tell the General to finish what I started," Lucas said. "Jonathan Hayes isn't just a soldier, Noah. He’s the King’s executioner. He’s been watching you. He’s waiting for the order."

"He already knows," Noah said.

Lucas blinked. "What?"

"The General found the bindings," Noah said, watching the Prince’s face fall. "He’s blackmailing me too. Everyone wants a piece of the lie, Lucas. There’s no room left for me."

A twig snapped behind them.

Noah spun around. Jonathan Hayes stood at the edge of the path, his cloak dripping with rain. He looked at the Prince, then at Noah.

"The King is looking for his wife," Jonathan said. His voice was like a funeral bell.

"General," Lucas said, trying to regain his footing. "We were just—"

"I don't care what you were doing," Jonathan said. He walked toward them, his boots sinking into the mud. He looked at Noah, his eyes full of a weary, dark loathing. "Ethan is losing his mind in there. He’s breaking glasses. He’s asking why his Abigail left his side."

Jonathan grabbed Noah’s shoulder, his grip like a vice. "If you’re not in that bedchamber when he arrives, he’ll burn this garden to the ground with both of you in it."

He shoved Noah toward the palace. "Run. Now."

Noah ran. He didn't look back at the Prince or the General. He ran through the rain, his heavy skirts dragging in the dirt, the white silk turning grey and filthy. He reached his chambers, his lungs burning, his ribs screaming.

He stripped off the wet gown, the lace tearing and knotting. He stood shivering in the center of the room, his chest still bound in the damp, red-stained linen.

The door opened.

Ethan stood there. He was drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, his white velvet tunic ruined. He looked like a ghost that had crawled out of a grave.

He didn't say a word. He walked to Noah and grabbed the front of the bindings. With one violent tug, the linen snapped.

Noah gasped, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He was exposed. No lace. No makeup. Just the boy who had found a King in the snow.

Ethan’s hand moved to Noah’s throat, not to choke, but to hold. He pushed Noah back against the bedpost, his body weight pinning him down, solid and suffocating.

"No more lies," Ethan whispered.

He leaned in, his mouth crashing against Noah’s. It was a collision of teeth and desperation. The King’s hands were everywhere—on Noah’s waist, his hair, his skin—claiming every inch of the deception.

Noah tried to fight, but the heat was too much. The walls were closing in, the palace was a trap, and the man holding him was a monster who loved him.

Ethan pulled back, his eyes burning with a terrifying, possessive fire. "You are mine, Noah. In this life and the next. Every bone. Every lie. Every breath."

He threw Noah onto the bed, the heavy velvet curtains closing around them like the walls of a tomb.

Outside, the rain turned into a storm, washing the blood from the cathedral steps, but the stain on the altar was already set.

Noah looked up at the King, realizing the truth. He hadn't saved a man in the ravine.

He had invited the devil into his house, and the devil had just locked the door.