24. Leni

“Iwish it were as simple as forgiving you,” Draven laments, as he switches on the overhead light in my room, illuminating nothing. Bare walls, empty floor. A sliver of a window, to high for me to see out. He shoves me inside. Tells me, “You must see how much it pains me to hurt my angel. But you’ve forced my hand. When I return, you’ll realize how kind I’ve been to you.”

What a load of misogynistic gas lighting.

I wince when the door slams.

Smell apples until I fall asleep.

The next time I see Draven, he’s grinning. Looming over me, pointing at a deep copper tub. “Time for your bath, angel.”

I glare up at him. “Is never ever in a million years already here? Wow, and you’re still an asshole. That’s an evolutional anomaly.” I’ve never talked back to the prince before, but whatever hope I had that he wouldn’t kill me, wouldn’t wreck me if I pretended to be his angel, has evaporated.

The realm is cruel and nasty, so why shouldn’t I be too?

His response is a chuckle. The trill devoid of mirth. “I wasn’t asking.”

He watches, blue eyes sparkling as the sentries forcibly strip me and submerge me into the cold water.

“Haven’t you tormented me enough?” I plead, voice unintentionally small.

His sadistic smile blooms. Meek is exactly what he desires from me.

In retaliation, I frown, crank up the acid. “Your cologne alone is chemical warfare, dear husband. Not to mention the threat of your buttons flying off and hitting me.” I shake in the tub, draw my knees into my chest. “Is that what you want from me? To lose an eye to your waistline?”

“I want everything, angel.” His voice cracks with the threat. “Your will, your life, your very soul. And you will surrender them to me, one way or another.”

Never. “Not likely. You need ten punches in your coupon card for the soul, and a one inch dick leaves a lot lacking.”

Draven’s mouth twists into a scowl. “Such a filthy mouth needs washing out.” To the sentries, he demands. “Dunk her.”

After, they take my clothes, leave me a wedding dress.

One night turns into two and then three, a week since my plunge, hours since Draven reiterated his kindness, and I shouldn’t be cowering and crying. I should be planning an escape.

But every time I close my eyes, I see a certain spymaster. See his phone sinking in beer fizz, hear him promising to protect me, feel his grip caging me, the tremor in his voice as he apologizes to me.

Betrayal burns low and steady in my chest, a raw cut that keeps me furious.

I’m so sorry.

I told him who Draven was, what he’d do to me, and the Blackguard still tossed me away, like an old muffin wrapper.

I focus on that, the anger, to block out the way he screamed my name, like his heart was being ripped out, like I was the one doing it.

I do my best to ignore the insane feeling of guilt low in my stomach, and allow a numb chill to seep into my bones.

For decades, the center of Yaya’s research was to understand why our kind survived. She’d explained to me over quartered grapes and apple juice that mortals unwittingly selected their partners for species continuation.

Our kind have low birth rates, limited lifespans, obvious physical markers.

So why then, do we continue to drip down bloodlines, undiluted despite being hunted, and persecuted and used? We should have died out centuries ago.

I was six when Yaya first referenced memetics. She’d been feeling good, clear minded, adorned in her beloved vintage Chanel blazer, running shorts and gladiator sandals—shoes were always a sign she was lucid. She explained to me, point blank, that we are a virus. We lure victims in with our beauty and essentially force propagation.

Draven wants a perfect, blissfully beautiful wife, who’s innocent in all things, that he gets to fuck and ruin and make his little toy.

Fuck that.

I’m giving him a virus. I’ll drive him mad, make him sick, make him retch and beg to the Gods for relief.

I’ll never wash the blue out of my hair. I’ll snap my nails into claws as fast as they grow. I’ll sleep in a filthy heap on the floor and hiss every time he greets me.

I will ruin him.

Cross gave me to Draven like a lamb to slaughter. Just like Yaya and my father. Just like the King.

No more.

Through his betrayal, Cross has given me teeth and claws. He’s sent barbs into my heart, unwittingly bolstered it. I’m getting out of this. Alive, no matter the pain it costs me.

The door creaks open and silent as night, a maid slips inside. She’s missing the usual signs of Draven’s employ. No black eye or bruises, no red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

I steel for her flash of pity, for the sad concern the maids have for Draven’s bride, prepared to coax away her worries, assure her she’s safe here if she needs a moment to herself.

It doesn’t come.

“Master wishes to speak with you,” she says, blunt, dry.

“Please send my apologies, but my schedule is crammed full today, no room for master’s wishes. Too much to do. Wedding prep and all.” I tear a hole in the train of my dress. Smile brightly. “Perfect.”

Lips in a flat unamused line, she leans back on the door to scrutinize me, boots silent on the hard cement floor. Still no pity in her gaze. Her curly dark hair cascades around beautiful almond eyes, and she wears a cream apron tied tightly at her waist, but her skirts are longer than the other maids, dangling past her knees, and I get the sense she won’t last long here.

Either it’s her first day on the job or Draven has failed to break her spirit.

I’d guess the latter from the way she looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Aren’t princesses supposed to be pretty and dainty?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “You look like you live in an ashtray.”

I do my best to curtsy. “Draven specified I remain pristine.”

She arches a dark feathered brow. Judging. “The little prince knows you’re protecting someone. Tell me what he wants to know or I’ll make you suffer.”

If she’s a maid, I’m a Kingsguard. “I’ll suffer either way.”

“Then why not talk? The male you were with”—her golden eyes flick over my face, searching for something—“what’s his deal? His fucking majesty wants to know.”

I lock my teeth. “It’s ‘His Grace’.” And no one in his employ would dare call him otherwise.

“Yeah, as if I’d ever fucking call him that.” She fake gags.

Definitely not a maid. Then what? She’s fit. Toned and languid, like a coiled snake. “Are you Queensguard?”

The title alone sends a splash of ice water down my spine, and her slight bow gives me tremors, gathers darkness at the edge of my vision. Queensguard, the mighty sword created to parry the Blackguard. Known for their unwavering loyalty, utter brutality, and triumph where the Kingsguard failed.

Draven is manic and ruled by emotion and false power, but the Queensguard is unfeeling steel, driven by cold fortitude and brutal orders.

Crap.

“How about we try again?” she suggests, extracting a jewel encrusted knife from the folds of her skirts. “Easy first, and then we’ll heat things up. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

I raise my hands, all innocence. “I’ll answer whatever you want. Just don’t hurt me.”

“Excellent.” A cocky smile. “Where are you?”

I frown. “I was blindfolded on the way here.”

“Guess then.”

“The royal palace.” It’s where Draven should have brought me. A castle in the walled off mountains of Arizona, nestled in red rock and sunlight, hidden by Hecate’s magic.

“No. You’re not.”

No, I’m not, but I’m surprised she’s willing to tell me. I feed her my best shocked face. “I’m not?”

Her eyebrows draw together, not in confusion, but disapproval. “The prince has taken you to his personal residence. You’d know that if you paid attention. Noticed how the days are shorter, how you don’t feel that miserable dry heat.”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

“Who was the male in Copenhagen?”

“Draven Callas, sixth prince of the late—”

“Not the buffoon,” she snaps. “The one you were traipsing across Europe with. The one who was mowed down by his royal fuckwad’s army?” She peers at her reflection in the curve of her blade. “Tell me about him.”

My cheeks sour. “He’s nobody. I don’t even know his name.”

“Yet you were shacking up with him. How’d you meet?”

I don’t hesitate. Lies beget lies, so I hug close to the truth. “We met at a coffeeshop. He noticed me, I noticed him. We ended up sitting together. He didn’t speak English.”

“Ah, a carnal connection.” Her tone is dry as sand. “What’s he look like? Your dead Danish hero?”

Dead?The word hangs spikes on my heart. I swallow past a lump in my throat. Keep up the act. Numb, I mutter, “Bright green eyes, dark hair. He was a little taller than me.”

“Golden skin?”

I perk up. “You know him?”

“I wouldn’t know him if he was standing next to me,” she retorts, spinning her knife. “But I’m guessing he’s got dark eyes, blonde hair, and his skin is pale as death, and whoever you’re talking about, this Danish surfer boy you’re enamored with, he doesn’t exist.” She turns and thrusts the knife’s tip straight through the door’s lock, eyes gleaming with excitement. “But the other one. The one you’re trying to protect? Did he tell you about this?” She yanks down the prim collar of her uniform to reveal a thick black band around her throat.

My stomach flips.

She winks.

“Show me the wrists, too.” Because I’m tired of being tricked.

She tilts her head, clearly amused, and then shoves up her sleeves, displaying the Blackguard’s curse like a glittering thousand carat bracelet.

Somehow, it looks just as menacing against her dark skin as it does on Cross’s pale skin.

“You’re really Kingsguard?” I ask.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and I can’t tell if I’ve given her a compliment or doomed myself until a dangerous smile flashes across her face. “Andromeda of the Blackguard. And you must be Leni,” she says my name with a messy blend of admiration and contempt. “I gotta say, the hype lives up.”

I think I might cry. Might be crying.

Andromeda Porter—the most notorious thief in the realm. A master of deception and manipulation. Sleight of hand better than magic. The best at taking what’s not hers without leaving a trace.

Here. With me.

“How did you find me?” I ask, gathering up layers of my ridiculous white skirts, hurrying toward her. “We’re in the middle of a forest—”

She interrupts me with a click of her tongue. “Damn, you were doing so well with keeping your secrets, but you’re just like him, aren’t you? Figured everything out already.”

“Is he alive?” I ask, officially giving up the ruse, needing to know.

“Who?” she taunts. “Your fictional stud bunny?”

“If I scream, the sentries will come. I don’t remember the Blackguard’s royal pardon.”

“I suggest putting something else on,” she advises, as if my threat isn’t worthy of a reply. “It’s freezing outside. January in New England, and here we are in these ridiculous uniforms. Cotton skirts to carry firewood. Hasn’t His Royal Bitch heard of electricity?”

I don’t point out that modern homes lack dungeons, and servants’ quarters, which is why Draven abhors them. “Did you kill him? Draven? Is he dead?”

“I wish,” she sighs longingly, as if we’re discussing an all expenses paid vacation to the Canary Islands. “Lucky for his royal ass, the curse prevents us from harming anyone royal, and I’m only telling you that so you make sure none of us dumber Blackguard try to force it. Understand?”

She can’t really think Cross would try to kill the prince? Not after he sold me out. “Understood,” I respond, somewhat numb, mind a storm of thoughts.

Andromeda presses her ear to the door, and whispers, “We need to hurry.”

“Did Cross send you?” I blurt.

She hesitates, the first chink in her swagger. Then she’s rotating her elbow, pushing her sleeve higher. There, in silver sharpie, she’s written his name, along with a list of bullet points.

“You can’t remember him, can you?” A chunk of my heart falls out, smacks the floors.

Andromeda tenses, sucks in her cheeks. “Let’s get a move on.”

The wedding dress is my only option, voluptuous and whimsical, with coverage befitting a royal. I gather the mile long double lined train in my arms and, rolling her eyes, Andromeda leads me out of the cell.

Then we’re racing. And I vow it will be the last time I ever run.