His mouth hangs open. I haven’t confronted him about what the Wolf said to me a month ago. I’ve been waiting until the right moment, and here it is.

“I told you,” he says. “The Wolf came and—”

“Do not,” I hiss, “treat me like an idiot. An Enforcer would have left us a corpse for the pyre. Only an incompetent would bring back bloody rags and think it was enough. Those people out there expected a funeral like we’ve given every other Devaliant, oathbreaker or no. They loved Bryony more than they love you.”

His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat. “I did what had to be done,” he snarls, squeezing. “The Eternal demanded blood, and I gave it to him. You think you’re so much better?” His hold tightens until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. “I could snap your neck and tell them all you fell down the stairs in your grief. It would be so easy to say you finally cracked. That losing poor Bryony was too much. Who would question it?” His thumb digs into my windpipe. “You’re just another weak little cunt like the rest of them. Too soft to do what needs doing.”

I shove my knee into his crotch with all the force I can muster. He makes a sound like a wounded animal and doubles over. But I’m not finished. I slap him hard across the face, watching him stagger.

“Touch me again,” I snarl, shaking out my hand, “and I’ll make you beg for something as merciful as a broken neck.”

Idris works his jaw, his eyes blazing.

“You’ve been spinning stories for so long, you probably believe your own bullshit by now,” I say. “Go ahead. Try to end me. Give them another martyr and see if you last when they all realize I’m the only reason you still have a throne to piss on. They tolerated you because Bryony and I were holding Hellevig together. You think you’ll last a day when the truth comes out? Do it, Uncle. Kill me, you fucking coward.”

“Get out.” This time, I hear the first faint ring of uncertainty.

“You’re not a ruler,” I say, soft and vicious. “You’re a sad, pathetic man clinging to a title you never earned.”

Idris looks like he wants to lunge at me again.

“Remember this moment,” I tell him. “The day you lost Luceni. And it won’t be because the Eternal screwed us or Bryony died. It’ll be because you’re a craven, useless piece of shit who deserves every knife in your back.”

I’m out the door and halfway down the corridor before I pull in a shuddering breath that feels like swallowing glass.

The mark on my wrist throbs—Alexios’ Claim, binding me to his service. To the Shroud. I slide my fingers beneath my gold cuff and trace the brand, considering.

I’ve heard gods can hear those they Claim—any prayer sent along the conduit, our thoughts, our desperate pleas. I’ve spent every day since my first tithe training my mind to be a fortress. No stray thoughts escaping.

For the first time in my life, I open myself up.

Is this what you wanted when you revoked my sister’s Claim? I think, pushing the thought out like arrows. Chaos in the streets? You’ve left me a mess to clean up because you couldn’t stand that they loved her more than they feared you.

Silence answers. Not that I expected anything else. Gods don’t lower themselves to respond to the insects they grind beneath their boots.

I shore my mental ramparts back up behind an impenetrable psychic barrier. I have more immediate concerns. My throat aches where Idris grabbed me, but I hold my head high as I stride down the hall.

Kas falls into step beside me, matching my pace. “Your Highness—”

“I need numbers,” I say, cutting him off. “Tally my loyalists in each branch of the household, down to the scullery maids. Prioritize those closest to me during the regency.”

“Give me a few days,” he says. He hesitates. “Your Highness, we might not have enough—”

“Yes, I’ll assume everyone’s heard a version of events where I’m destined to usher in Luceni’s downfall because I was the first woman to rule even temporarily. I know what story my uncle crafted when he returned from his drunken haze and sat his ass back on the throne.”

Idris might be checked out from actually running this kingdom, but he’s always had a gift for controlling the narrative. Lying is the only thing he does with any semblance of competence.

“They don’t realize how close we are to collapse,” Kas says grimly. “They still think your uncle advised you when you were regent.”

“Then make them understand. He’s getting more unstable. We don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

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25

BRYONY

THE ROSES ARE HAPPIER.”

I go still at the Wolf’s voice. His scent envelops me, a mix of citrus, evergreen, and magic.

It’s been three days. Three days of him avoiding me. He comes into my room at night, heals my injuries, and leaves. Cold, perfunctory. None of the usual lingering touches with his hands. Not since—

This is killing you, isn’t it? Wanting me?

Gritting my teeth, I sit back on my heels and glare up at him—and immediately wish I hadn’t.

Every day, I forget how beautiful the Wolf is, and every day, I’m slapped in the face with it again. Dark trousers ride low on his narrow hips. A tight black shirt strains across his chest, stretching over his broad shoulders and fastening beneath his wings. His dark hair is mussed, as if he’s just rolled out of bed.

Or tumbled someone in it.

A sour taste fills my mouth at the thought.

In Hellevig, we have a saying: The sweetest poisons come wrapped in honey. I’ve never seen anything embody that warning quite like the male standing before me. Something so beautiful you forget what he really is: a predator.

I swallow hard and force my attention back to the weeds, attacking them with renewed vigor. “Maybe they’re just glad someone is finally paying attention to them. Their neglectful owner has been too busy pretending I don’t exist.”

I’ll bet wanting me eats. You. Alive.

A breeze whips through the garden, sending fallen leaves skittering over the ground. The branches of the towering silverpines creak around us.

Finally, he answers. “I just healed you yesterday, didn’t I? Cracked skull, busted ribs, ruptured spleen. One would think something that traumatic would stick, but maybe you had such a good time you’ve forgotten already. Or do you mean the lack of speaking? Otherwise known as your favorite tactic.”

A thorn bites into my wrist as I reach for another weed, and I hiss out a curse. A thin rivulet of crimson beads up. “You’re the one who likes the sound of your own voice.”

He smiles slowly. “Careful, nemesis. Almost sounds like you missed me.”

Nemesis. That nickname shouldn’t spread heat across my skin, but it does.

I glance away. “Amara will be here any second. I’m sure you have better things to do than supervise.”

“She’s not coming. I’m taking a murder holiday. Specifically to torment the princess who thinks she can cheat a god out of his daggers and get away with it.”

“I didn’t cheat. I outsmarted you. There’s a difference.” I roll my eyes. “If you’re planning to skulk around, you might as well make yourself useful. Bond with your precious roses. Prune something before they stage a coup and strangle us both in our sleep.”

When he doesn’t answer, I make the mistake of looking up again. The Wolf is grinning at me, the kind of grin that makes prey animals run for their lives. The kind that promises beautiful, terrible things.