Page 11 of The Dead Queen

I can’t do this. I can’t marry someone of my father’s choosing, no matter who the groom is. No matter that I feel the long-forgotten softening in my heart for a boy who understood me like no one else could.

I stiffen and take my hand away from his.

“Sienna, it’s been three years. Haven’t you punished me enough?” The pain in his voice takes me by surprise.

“Hunter, I didn’t leave to punish you.”

“Then why?” His voice has lost its earnestness now. He takes several steps back, bumping into the bookshelf. “Why did you abandon me here with them? Why else if not for what I did?”

My voice catches in my throat. He watches my face intently.

The truth is, as much as I loved Hunter—as much as I still love him—he broke my trust. He shattered my heart into a million pieces. I ran away because I had nothing left to lose.

He puts his hands on a high shelf and rests his forehead against the books, his eyes closed. He takes several slow breaths.

“I have hated myself every single day since you left.” He stands up again to face me. “And I promise you, Sienna, that I will never betray you again.” There’s a fire in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

He kneels down in front of me.

“No, Hunter ...” I try to pull him back up, but he takes my hands in his. I notice now that there are tears in his eyes.

Tears of guilt.

“Please forgive me, Sienna. We can move past this.” He pauses. “It’s been so long. We’re both older, more mature. I know what matters now. Do you?”

Yes, I want to say. I do. But it’s not him.

“It’s us,” he insists. “We matter, Sienna. You and me. We’ve always been what matters most. I forgot that once, but I vow to you, I will never forget that again.”

I search his eyes, trying to find some way to convince him that his priorities may have changed, but mine haven’t. I can’t just ignore what happened to Grandmother. That’s what’s most important to me. And I can’t hunt down her killer if I’m expected to be a docile bride.

Yet, I also know that father’s decisions are final. I’ll have to marry Hunter whether I want to or not. My life will be forfeited. I’ll be sent to some remote fortress with my new husband, to live a domestic life away from the hustle of the Fox Court. Father will expect me to be an obedient wife and birth future Fox Heirs.

Goodbye, independence. Goodbye, freedom to search the kingdom for answers. Goodbye, Grandmother. For good this time.

But I won’t go down without a fight.

I nod. It’s as good an agreement as any to Hunter. He leaps up and spins me around again, like he did out in the stable yard. His good-nature is restored, like a tempest blown over.

I can’t help but laugh at his renewed enthusiasm. That’s the thing about Hunter. He’s always been able to make me smile. And there are certainly worse qualities to have in a husband than that.

Chapter 5

“It’s tradition,” a seamstress says between a mouthful of pins when she sees my wide, horrified eyes staring through the gilded mirror.

I hate everything about this dress, from its enormous, cumbersome skirts to the fact that the royal tailors have clearly been working on it for weeks—long before I even knew I was engaged to be married. Most of all, I hate its color. A deep, seductive red.

“It’s lucky,” the seamstress says as she tugs the sleeve down my arm, smoothing out any wrinkles in the sheer fabric. “It means your marriage is blessed. That you will have many heirs.”

“A litter of tiny red foxes,” a pink-cheeked assistant giggles from behind us. She sifts through an ornate cabinet filled with buttons, clasps, and other fastenings. Mother-of-pearl, polished wood, and precious metals gleam from open drawers.

It takes great effort to keep from rolling my eyes. My own parents wore red from their engagement party through to the royal wedding, too. The color did nothing for their yield. All they got was me. One scrubby fox from hell.

Around us, bolts of fabric line the walls, arranged by color. Silks from distant lands shimmer like liquid jewels, while velvets in rich tones beg to be touched. Gossamer-thin chiffons and intricate laces are draped artfully over tables, to better display their patterns.

In one corner, a collection of dress forms stand at attention, each bearing a masterpiece. Half-finished gowns sparkle with partially sewn beadwork and glint with golden embroidery. They are undoubtedly beautiful. They just feel deeply wrong after what I’ve seen these past few years.

The seamstress waves for her assistant to hurry with the needle and thread. With only one day to spare before the engagement ball, we couldn’t cut this last-minute fitting any shorter if we tried. She places a final pin in the hem of my sleeve.