Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Don’t you all agree?”
The women’s faces contort like they’ve bitten into something rotten.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Pronunciation isn’t important.”
“Not important at all, ha ha ha.”
The laughter is painful. Forced. Like glass being ground between teeth.
Skye winks at me—actually winks—and murmurs, “Lovely party, by the way.”
“I—thank you—”
But he’s already gone. Vanished into the crowd like morning mist.
I stand there, still holding my co-quil-lay, trying to process what just happened.
Two kings. Two rescues.
Still a coincidence, I tell myself firmly. They’re kings. They’re at a cross-territory function. Of course they’d mingle with the hostess. That’s just...politics. Diplomacy. Normal diplomatic things that normal diplomats do.
Right.
Totally normal.
Nothing to see here.
THE THIRD INCIDENT happens near the balcony.
I’ve stepped outside for air—just for a moment, just to breathe—when a familiar voice makes my skin crawl.
“You seem lonely without your husband.”
Amos Karp steps out of the shadows. Too close. Too familiar. His smile is the same as always—warm, sympathetic, wrong.
“I could keep you company,” he says. “If you’d like.”
Every instinct I have screams run.
“I’m fine, thank you.” My voice comes out steady. Good. “I was just—”
“The lady doesn’t need company.”
The voice is a low growl. Direct. Final.
A man steps between us—broader than the others, darker, with a scar cutting through one eyebrow. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer pleasantries. His weight is forward, shoulders loose, and there’s something feral in his stance. A predator waiting for an excuse.
Wolfe Sideris. King of the East.
“Move along, Karp.”
It’s not a suggestion.
Amos’s charm flickers. Just for a moment. Just enough for me to see the calculation underneath—cold, sharp, dangerous.
Then the mask slides back into place.
“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Your Majesty.”
He retreats.
Wolfe turns to me. His eyes scan my face once—checking, I realize, for any sign of harm—and then he nods. Just once.
And walks away.
Three.
Three kings. Three rescues.
This is...
Okay, this is getting a little weird. But it’s probably still a coincidence. A very strange, statistically improbable coincidence. Maybe all three kings just happen to have excellent timing and a strong sense of chivalry and—
“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”
The voice is bright. Cheerful. Completely unbothered by my shell-shocked expression.
I turn to find a young woman standing behind me. She’s maybe nineteen, with dark hair piled artfully on top of her head and eyes that sparkle with barely contained amusement. Her gown is a soft rose gold, and she carries herself with the easy confidence of someone who has never once doubted her place in the world.
“I’m Celine,” she says, extending her hand. “Quinn’s ward. Well, technically his ward. In practice, I’m his future wife. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
I blink. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Quinn.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I’m going to marry him. He’s just being difficult about it because he thinks he’s incapable of love or whatever. Men are so dramatic.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, that’s not important right now. What’s important is your royal babysitters.”
“My what?”
“Devyn called the other kings before he left,” she confides. “Asked them to keep an eye on you tonight.”
“Oh.”
“You’re blushing,” Celine exclaims. “That’s adorable. Quinn never makes me blush. He just makes me want to throw things at his head.”
I press my hands to my cheeks. They’re burning.
“I’m not—I just—”
“You’re in love with him.” Celine says it like a fact. “And he’s clearly obsessed with you, or he wouldn’t have called in favors from three kings to keep you safe at a party.” She grins. “I like you. We’re going to be friends.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I just stand there, hands pressed to my burning cheeks, while Celine loops her arm through mine and declares that we’re going to spend the rest of the evening together because, in her words, “Someone needs to protect you from the vultures, and it might as well be someone who actually likes you.”
And somehow—impossibly—the rest of the night isn’t terrible.
Celine is unstoppable. She talks over interruptions, doesn’t register the social cues that should slow her down, and barrels through awkward silences like they’re not even there. She deflects barbed comments with cheerful obliviousness. She steers me away from Amos three separate times. She tells me stories about Quinn that make me choke on my champagne—stories he would probably have her imprisoned for sharing, she admits, but she’s not worried because “he’d miss me too much.”
By the time the crowd thins and the evening winds down, my heart feels so full it might actually burst.
He called them. For me.
I’m standing near the edge of the ballroom, watching the last guests trickle out, when I realize I’m swaying.
Not from exhaustion. From...happiness.
Can I take this as a sign that maybe, just maybe...
The King of the South is starting to have feelings for his accidental bride.
Chapter Thirteen
THE BARON OF GREENWICH was fuming.
His butler had just announced the arrival of the King of the South, and now every female servant in the manor seemed to have found urgent business in the front hall. The maids. The cook’s assistants. Even his wife’s elderly lady-in-waiting was peering around the corner with flushed cheeks and bright eyes.