Page 54 of The Dead Queen

I stop walking and turn to him. The guards halt a few paces away when they notice we’re not following.

“Please,” I beg. “Tell me how I’m wrong about this. If I marry you, I’m just another one of his puppets. He gets to tidy me away, like a forgotten wedding present. Out of sight. Beholden to another man. Another man, who is equally beholden to him.”

Hunter swallows, looking away. “I never wanted to become one of his puppets, you know.”

I shift to meet his eyes. “I know that, Hunter. We were going to make our own paths. Our own lives away from this awful place.” I sniff. “I don’t understand what changed.”

Hunter scoffs. “What changed is you left, Sienna.”

He could have slapped me and it would’ve hurt less. I try to stop the tears of shame from spilling over my eyelids.

“What changed is I was alone. With them! What else was I supposed to do? Be the rebellious son forever?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t have the protections you do as heir. I don’t have the privilege to run away and survive on my title or my naturally born talents.” He looks me straight in the eyes with a seriousness I’ve never seen in him before. “You and I are not the same. We are not on equal footing. We played and pretended when we were young, but it was all a lie. A fantasy, Sienna.”

It hurts, but it’s true.

His voice is raw with emotion. “And you have the audacity to blame me for it.”

“No, I don’t blame you, it’s just⁠—”

“No,” he closes his eyes. “You do. All my life, I’ve tried to make you proud. Except for that one stupid mistake that made you run away. I’ve told you that I will spend forever trying to make it up to you. But still, I am not enough.”

I’m ashamed because he’s right. I do blame him. And I know how awful that makes me sound. How unforgiving and intolerant. Like my father.

“I chose the pink one, by the way,” Hunter says.

I shake my head, confused. “What?”

“The cake.” He clears his throat. “It’s the one that made you smile the most. So …” his voice trails off.

A sob threatens to cut off my voice. “What a waste of a good cake.”

He nods. “What a waste of a good life.”

My vision blurs from the tears. “I’m truly, truly sorry.”

He nods. Then turns and leaves. The guards shift, allowing him to pass without comment. I listen as his footsteps echo, growing fainter, until a door slams behind him.

I am alone. Again.

And it is all my fault.

Chapter 17

In late morning, when even the laziest courtier has emerged from their beds, I dress in my red skirts and take a leisurely stroll in the palace gardens. I carry a woven willow basket in one hand and delicate floral shears in the other, the very picture of domesticated grace. My red hood is pulled back, allowing the weak sunlight to warm my face and ensuring everyone can see me admiring the last of the autumn blooms.

And, as always, my copper-armored tails follow at a short distance. Four. How can I lose four of father’s copper guards at once? I watch them out of the corner of my eye, the gravel path crunching beneath my feet as I wander between boxwood hedges.

There are other nobles here, as I had expected. They’re all vipers dressed in rich velvets and fur-lined cloaks. Jewels glint at their throats and wrists, catching what little light filters through the overcast sky. One might think they’re out to get the last of the fresh air before the world grows cold, but I know better. They’re out to be seen, just like I am. And to hear the most recent gossip, whispered through lips painted in shades of pink and red.

They try not to gape at the angry, red scar across my throat. I wonder what the palace story is, how they will explain away my injury. If the nobles knew about the escaped Wolf, they wouldn’t be out here prancing around the garden. For one brief moment, I allow myself to imagine what these people would do if a corpse wolf appeared on the lawn. Gnashing teeth, blood-soaked silks, screams, tears. Would they finally abandon their petty intrigues then?

“Your Highness,” a young woman curtsies as I snip a wilting rose and drop it into my basket. When I look up, I realize it’s Elena. Her pregnant belly stretches the taut copper fabric of her dress. Her silver-blond hair is intricately braided and pinned, glinting in the weak sunlight.

Eyes follow us, soaking in the gossip to spread around court later. The king’s pregnant mistress, talking to his heir in the garden. How insolent.

Elena doesn’t appear to notice that she’s overstepping. Or doesn’t care.

“You’re taking advantage of the last of the year’s flowers, I see.” She bends slightly forward to smell a bloom still attached to the vine. “With all the roses in your personal chambers, I’m surprised to see you in the gardens. We all heard about the gorgeous display my cousin sent you.”