I don’t want to leave him behind.
I came into this world with Alder… Does that mean I can leave it with someone else?
Could I leave with Alderic?
Would he even come?
I swallow the questions and the fear tangled up in them. I can’t afford to wonder right now. So I just squeeze his hand and let my silence lie for me.
His thumb skims over my knuckles. “There’s anotheroption.”
I glance up at him.
“We run. Right now. Take the boat. Sail until we’re far from here. No evil queens. No machines. Just you and me and the sea.” His eyes search mine, pleading. “You don’t have to fight this battle, Gemma.”
I close my eyes, and for a split second, I let myself imagine it. The open ocean. A life without castles, without bloodstained machines, without the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. Just the wind in my hair and Alderic’s hands on my skin.
But when I open them, I shake my head. “I can’t run. Not from this.”
“You’d rather die to save a kingdom that isn’t even yours?”
“I’d rather live with myself when it’s over.” I square my shoulders. “I won’t be the woman who looks away when other women are suffering.”
His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid. “Gemma—”
“No.” I meet his gaze, unwavering. “I choose the fight.”
His breath shudders, and for a moment, I think he might argue, might try one more time to convince me. But instead, his fingers tighten around mine “And I choose you.”
Thirty
Silver banners cascade from the banquet hall’s vaultedceiling like moonlit waterfalls. They ripple with every shift of the air, shimmering above walls swathed in gauzy silks, artfully pinned to mimic waves crashing along an unseen shore. The scent of spice and roasted meat mingles with candle wax and lavender oil.
Each banquet table gleams under candelabras shaped like coral, their branches dripping with crystals. Pale blue silk covers every surface, embroidered with silver thread so fine it almost glows. Every person in the room is dressed to impress the gods themselves—or at the very least, the queen who sits like one.
At the far end of the hall, raised on a crystal dais that resembles frozen waves mid-break, sits Queen Delphara Rothmore. Her gown is the color of the Caribbean, layered in translucent fabrics that shimmer like frost. Her bodice clings to her waist, stitched with sapphires and wave-carved bone, the crest of Cups a purplish blue and painted onto the fabric like a bruise. Her crown isa twisted reef of silver and polished gems, jagged and glinting. And around her pale throat coils a chain of sapphires so dark they look black.
Her expression is serene, serpentine. A queen sculpted from the sea’s coldest depths.
A few steps down, seated just beneath her on a smaller platform, is Victor. His throne is simpler, though still gilded. He sits straight, but not stiff, his expression neutral in that way only people with terrible secrets can manage. His hand rests on the arm of his chair, within easy reach of Delphara, though I get the feeling that he hasn’t touched her in ages.
Laid out around them, painted in silver and positioned like art, are women. They’re naked and motionless. Their bodies serve as platters—shoulders bearing fruits, bellies holding mounds of carved meat and cheeses, thighs spread for crystal dishes of figs, honey, and decanters of wine. Every inch of them arranged for display. For use. The women in this castle are always being used for something.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Alder murmurs at my side.
I force a smile, aware of the weight of every glance in the room, every wine-glossed whisper rippling behind us.
“It’s really something,” I say, managing to make my voice sound awed, just a little breathless, like I’ve been swept off my feet by the splendor of it all.
Alder’s hand settles at the small of my back, possessive, and I suppress the shudder that runs through me. Instead, I smile a little wider and tilt my head up toward him like I’m grateful for the attention.
I’m playing my part. The scared, overwhelmedwoman who came crawling back. The woman who tried to run but realized she couldn’t survive without her powerful, perfect man.
His hand presses a little firmer, fingers splaying across bare skin. He pushes me deeper into the banquet hall with the casual command of someone who assumes the room belongs to him. After all, these people know him as Lord Alderic Lockhart, the Queen’s new plaything. And I am his chosen accessory.
I straighten, spine prickling as more faces turn toward us.
My dress clings to every curve, midnight-blue velvet catching the light in ways that make it look almost wet. The high neckline elegantly skims my throat, but the draped back falls just above my tailbone, leaving most of my back exposed to the chill and to Alder’s hand.
