Page 57 of Severe Husband Warning

I wish I found the thought reassuring.

My eyes drift back to the names before I ask the question that’s been weighing on me .

“Will it be enough?”

Rothgar’s arm tightens around me before he says, “No.”

I let out a slow breath.

“It gives us considerably more than we had, but Malakor will still have room to fight.”

The honesty stings, even as I find myself grateful for it. Turning within the shelter of his arm, I meet his eyes.

“Then tell me what he’ll do.”

He unfolds one of the larger maps across the desk.

“Malakor won’t waste his time disputing the evidence,” he says, tracing a slow path across the parchment. “He’ll attack the people presenting it.”

My stomach tightens before he continues.

“When I accuse Lord Malakor of treason, he’ll make you the true subject of the trial.”

“Me?”

“He’ll tell the court you manipulated me from the beginning.” His voice remains even, though a harder edge slips beneath it. “Our marriage becomes part of the scheme. Your first audience with me becomes premeditated. Every decision I made afterward becomes proof that you gained influence inside my household for his benefit.”

His finger moves toward the western district.

“The witnesses will be dismissed as coached. Commander Vhoros investigation will become another consequence of your influence rather than an independent inquiry.”

I stare at the map without really seeing it. “So I become the story.”

His eyes meet mine with a slow nod of his head.

“And it’s a story many people will be prepared to believe.”

I close my eyes briefly.

Malakor doesn’t have to create suspicion. He only has to give old prejudice a convincing shape, and our marriage provides one all too easily.

“I hate that they’ll believe him.”

Rothgar’s hand finds mine, his thumb brushing gently across my knuckles.

“Perhaps they will,” he says quietly. “Truth has survived worse.”

I lace my fingers through his.

“Then what do we do?”

Instead of answering, Rothgar crosses to one of the shelves lining the far wall. He returns carrying a narrow cedar box bound in black iron, holding it with a care that tells me it is older than either of us.

He sets it between us.

“I’ve never shown this to anyone,” he says. “My parents completed this rite. My grandparents before them.” His gaze lingers on the worn cedar. “For many years, I believed it would end with them.”

Something inside me stills as he opens the box.