Ophelia shakes her head. “Sometimes, milady, there’s no rhyme or reason to people’s madness. And if they have someone leading them now…”
Her voice trembles and her eyes glaze over.
My heartbeat rages in the center of my chest. “They’re that organized?”
I remember the unkempt woman from the party and the way she spoke. But I had filed that away as the ramblings of a deranged woman, driven mad by the famine running rampant in the city streets. King Michael didn’t seem to be bothered, so I assumed there was no reason to take it seriously.
Marisol’s spine stiffens, and she clears her throat. “Yes, well, we shouldn’t speak of these things. It’s forbidden.”
I stare at Marisol, taking in her words and slotting them away to dissect further when I’m alone.
“Regardless,” Ophelia says. “They’re not the type of people you should consort with. Ever. It’s enough to be tried for treason.”
“Of course not.” Reaching out, I lay a hand on top of Ophelia’s, smiling. “Thank you for telling me.” My eyes flick to Marisol, then back. “Us ladies need to stick together, after all.”
It’s long after everyone has turned in for the night, but I can’t sleep. My mind fills with questions and my stomach floods with tension.
Rebels.
I’ve never heard of them before.
But Xander clearly knows.
Unease burns through me.
I had thought I was ready when I arrived, yet here I am, less than a fortnight, and already there’s a wrecking ball thrown in my plans. A sound from outside the door makes me shoot upright in bed, my heart stuttering.
Is someone here?
I throw back the heavy duvet and swing my legs to the side, my feet meeting the rich fabric of the Persian rug.
Walking to my vanity, I slip on my deep red nightdress, the long silk sleeves flaring out at the wrist, and the hem kissing the floor. I cinch it tight at the waist and grab one of the blades I keep hidden in the top drawer before making my way to the door to see what caused the noise.
Twisting the handle, I throw open the wood frame, glancing both ways but meeting only silence. The area is dark, lit only by the small iron wall sconces that decorate the halls.
Blowing out a deep breath, I tuck a loose black curl behind my ear and take a step out of my room, closing the door behind me, my nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
I only make it two steps before a body moves out of the shadows and stands in front of me.
“Oh!” I yelp, my stomach rising to my throat and then plummeting to the ground.
Prince Tristan gazes at me, his hands in his pockets and his eyes like stone.
“You scared me.” My mouth is dry and my tongue swipes out to wet my lips as I take a large step back against my closed door, placing the dagger behind me. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
He cocks his head and moves closer. “What are you hiding, little doe?”
Irritation winds its way through my middle and I stiffen my shoulders. “That’s none of your business. Why are you in my wing?”
His dark brow rises. “Your wing?”
“Yes, my wing. Do you see any other ladies here?”
He glances around. “I don’t see a single one.”
The insult slices through my chest. Insufferable. “You’re as horrendous as they say, aren’t you?”
His posture changes then, his shoulders growing taut, almost as if his aura itself is mutating into something dark. Something dangerous.
It’s transfixing, the way he can morph from an unaffected stance to whatever this is, and it makes my hair stand on end, my gut screaming that I should watch my step.
“This may be your wing, but it’s my castle. These are my halls,” he hisses, moving in so close his breath ghosts across my face. “It would be incredibly stupid of you to assume just because I don’t wear the title of king, that you shouldn’t bow before me.”
My breathing stalls, but the next words still slip off my tongue before I can swallow them down. “I only bow for those who deserve it.”
He smirks, his body pressing into me, making heat surge through my middle and my heart slams against my ribs. His hand slides up the outside of my sleeve, the fabric creating a delicious sensation against my skin, despite the way my insides are stewing with a vile brew of hatred and panic, not wanting him to see what’s hidden behind my back.
“I could always make you,” he murmurs.
My nostrils flare, a small slice of fear winding its way around my spine like a rose vine, the thorns pricking me with warning.