CHAPTER 5

"Eat it. It’s pheasant. The best in the realm."

Ethan pushed the silver fork toward Noah’s mouth. The metal clicked against Noah’s teeth. The King’s eyes were like two chips of frozen sea, unblinking, tracking every microscopic twitch of Noah’s throat.

Noah swallowed. The meat felt like a dry wad of wool. "It’s... it’s delicious, Ethan."

"Good." Ethan’s thumb brushed Noah’s bottom lip, wiping away a smear of grease. He didn't pull his hand back. He let his fingers linger, tracing the curve of Noah’s jaw with a pressure that was just a hair’s breadth away from a chokehold. "You haven’t touched your wine. Is it the vintage? Or do you still see spiders in every cup?"

A ripple of nervous laughter drifted from the lower tables. The court was a pit of vipers dressed in silk. They sat under the heavy scent of lilies that couldn't quite mask the metallic tang of dried blood still clinging to the altar stones in the cathedral.

"I'm just... the ceremony was a lot," Noah whispered. The "Abigail" voice was fraying at the edges, turning raspy.

Across the hall, Lucas Reed slammed his goblet onto the table. Red wine splashed over his knuckles, looking like fresh gore. He leaned toward a grey-bearded Duke, his whisper carrying through the sudden lull in the music. "...absolute madness. To murder a woman at the altar? The Crown is cracked. We’re being led by a lunatic and a peasant ghost."

Ethan’s jaw didn't just tighten; the muscle leaped under his skin. He didn't look at his brother. He didn't have to. The air around the head table dropped ten degrees.

"Ignore them," Ethan murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against Noah’s ear. He leaned in, the gold embroidery of his doublet scratching Noah’s shoulder. "They are gnats. They don't understand what we have. They don't know what it’s like to be saved."

He stood up, his hand clamping onto Noah’s wrist. The grip was absolute. "The feast is over. My bride is exhausted."

The room went silent. The music died in a discordant groan of strings.

"To the bedchamber!" a drunk lord hollered, but the cheer that followed was thin, papery, and laced with fear.

Ethan led Noah out. The hallway was a gauntlet of flickering torches and stone-faced guards. Every step felt like a march to the gallows. The heavy oak doors of the royal suite groaned open, then thudded shut behind them. The bolt slid home with a finality that made Noah’s stomach drop.

Locked. Truly alone.

"Take off the crown," Ethan said. He was standing by the hearth, the firelight casting jagged, dancing shadows across his face.

Noah’s hands shook as he reached up. The gold felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He set it on the vanity with a hollow clack.

"Come here."

Noah moved. He didn't have a choice. His legs felt like lead. He stopped a foot away from the King. The room was hot, the fire roaring, but Noah was shivering so hard his teeth clicked.

"You're trembling," Ethan said. He reached out, his fingers fumbling with the silk laces at the back of Noah’s gown. "Is it the cold? Or the anticipation?"

"Ethan, I... I need to tell you something. Before—"

"Shh." Ethan’s breath was hot against the nape of Noah’s neck. He yanked the first lace. The silk groaned. "No more words. No more stories. Just the truth."

He worked with a terrifying, slow deliberation. The heavy outer layer of the wedding gown pooled at Noah’s feet in a heap of white and gold. Then the corset. Ethan didn't use a knife; he unlaced it hole by hole, his knuckles grazing the linen bindings Noah had wrapped around his chest.

Noah couldn't breathe. The air in the room was thick, tasting of smoke and expensive oil. His heart was a frantic bird battering against its cage.

This is it. The blade. The rope. He’s going to kill me.

The last strip of linen fell away. Noah stood there, stripped of the Abigail lie, his flat chest and narrow hips bared in the amber glow of the fire. He kept his eyes shut, waiting for the roar of rage, for the King’s sword to find his throat.

Instead, there was a laugh.

It wasn't a happy sound. It was hollow, sharp, and cold as a winter grave.

Noah opened his eyes. Ethan was leaning against the bedpost, his head thrown back, his chest heaving with that dry, terrible laughter.

"You really thought," Ethan wheezed, his eyes snapping to Noah’s, "that I was that blind? That I, a man who has lived through three wars and a dozen assassination attempts, couldn't tell the difference between a girl’s skin and yours?"

Noah’s voice died in his throat. "You... you knew?"

"I found your boy’s rags three weeks ago, Noah. Tucked behind the loose stone in the washroom." Ethan stepped forward, his face a mask of predatory amusement. "I watched you every day. I watched you struggle with that high, ridiculous voice. I watched you bind your chest until you could barely take a full breath. It was the best theater I’ve ever seen."

Noah backed away, his heel catching on the discarded dress. "Then the actress... the woman at the altar..."

"Oh, she was the real Abigail Moore," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a conversational tone as he walked Noah down. "Lucas found her. He thought he could use her to break the 'spell' I was under. He thought I’d see her and realize I’d been tricked."

Ethan grinned, showing teeth. "But I didn't want her. I wanted the look on your face when I gutted her. That moment of absolute, pure despair. You thought your salvation was standing there, didn't you? You thought she’d take the fall and you’d run."

"You're a monster," Noah breathed.

"I'm a King who pays attention," Ethan snapped. He grabbed Noah’s jaw, his fingers digging into the bone. "You wanted to be pampered? You wanted a life of luxury? You lied to get into my bed, and now you’re going to stay there. But don't think for a second that this was an accident."

He leaned in, his eyes burning with a dark, ancient malice. "Do you know how your family really died, Noah? Back in the north? Before the ravine?"

Noah froze. "The raids... the fire..."

"My father's orders," Ethan whispered. "Your village didn't pay the tax. My father sent the knights to burn it to the ground. He personally watched your father hang. I was there, Noah. I was ten years old, sitting on a horse, watching the smoke rise. I recognized your eyes the moment I woke up in that cave. I knew exactly who you were."

The world tilted. The floor felt like it was turning to water. "You... you let me save you. You brought me here... knowing..."

"A generational debt," Ethan said, his grip loosening just enough to slide his hand down to Noah’s throat. "I’m just finishing what my father started. He took your life; I’m taking your soul."

Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, lustrous pearl. It glowed with a sickly, iridescent light.

"Open."

"No—"

Ethan’s thumb jammed into the hinge of Noah’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. He shoved the pearl onto Noah’s tongue and clamped his hand over Noah’s mouth.

"Swallow it. Now."

Noah struggled, his hands clawing at Ethan’s wrists, but the King was a wall of iron. The weight of Ethan’s body crushed him against the bedpost. Noah swallowed. The pearl felt like a cold stone sliding down his esophagus.

Ethan pulled back, his eyes dark. "A loyalty charm. That’s what I’ll tell the court. But you and I know better. It’s a slow-acting poison, Noah. Within a month, your organs will start to shut down. You’ll be tired. You’ll be weak. And then you’ll die."

He brushed a strand of hair from Noah’s forehead. "Unless, of course, you get the antidote. Every seven days. From me. Only me."

Noah collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his legs giving out. He felt sick. He felt stained. The luxury of the room—the silk sheets, the gold-leafed ceiling—it all felt like the inside of a coffin.

"You’re a prisoner now, my little wolf," Ethan whispered.

He moved then, his movements no longer slow. He shoved Noah back onto the pillows. The weight of Ethan’s body was a crushing reality, a physical anchor that grounded the nightmare in 3D space. He smelled of sweat, expensive wine, and the iron of the altar blood.

Ethan’s hands were rough, lacking the feigned tenderness of the feast. He pinned Noah’s wrists above his head, his knees forcing Noah’s legs apart.

"The court expects a wedding night," Ethan growled. His face was inches from Noah’s, his breath hot and demanding. "They want to hear the screams of the new Queen. I think we should give them something to talk about."

Ethan leaned down, his mouth catching Noah’s in a kiss that was pure violence. It wasn't about desire; it was about conquest. He bit Noah’s lip until the copper taste of blood filled both their mouths.

Noah tried to push him off, his muscles jumping with a frantic, useless energy. Ethan just laughed against his skin, his hand sliding down to grip Noah’s waist with enough force to leave bruises that would last a week.

"What's the matter, Abigail?" Ethan mocked, his voice a low rasp. "Isn't this the pampering you asked for?"

He shifted, his body a heavy, hot mass of muscle pressing Noah into the mattress. Ethan’s fingers found the sensitive skin of Noah's inner thigh, his touch searing like a brand.

"Look at me," Ethan commanded.

Noah opened his eyes, blurred with tears of rage and humiliation. The moonlight through the window cast jagged, silver shadows across the bed, making Ethan look like a carved statue of a vengeful god.

"You’re mine," Ethan whispered, his hand tightening. "Every lie you told, every breath you take, it all belongs to me. You’ll learn to love the leash, Noah. Because I’m the only thing keeping you alive."

He moved again, his body grinding against Noah’s with a brutal, rhythmic intent. The silk sheets were a mess, tangled around their limbs like vines. Noah let out a broken, jagged sound—part sob, part scream—that was swallowed by the heavy velvet curtains of the bed.

The heat in the room was suffocating. The salt of their sweat mingled with the lingering scent of lilies. Noah felt the literal weight of the King’s obsession, a pressure that seemed to sink into his very bones.

Ethan eventually pulled away, leaving Noah shaking on the rumpled silk. The King stood up, adjusting his tunic with a terrifyingly calm precision. He didn't look at Noah. He walked to the window, watching the rain lash against the glass.

"The antidote is in the desk," Ethan said, his voice flat and regal again. "Next Sunday. Don't be late."

Noah lay there, his limbs leaden, his skin stinging where the King’s hands had been. The lingering warmth of the bed felt like a mockery. He looked at the gold ring on his finger—the promise of a life he’d lied to get.

He wasn't a savior. He wasn't a Queen.

He was a ghost in a gilded cage, waiting for his next dose of mercy.

Ethan turned, his silhouette a dark, jagged line against the moonlit window.

"Welcome to the family, Noah."