Chapter 7

The Royal Lodge was not a palace. It was a fortress of stone and timber, hidden deep within the ancient oak forests of Windsor.

The carriage ride had taken three hours. Her legs were stiff when the door finally opened.

Sterling stood there. The air here was cleaner, sharper, smelling of pine and damp earth.

"Mrs. Lloyd," Sterling said, extending a gloved hand.

She looked at his hand. Then she looked at the ground. She stepped down unassisted.

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I can walk."

Sterling raised an eyebrow. He looked impressed, or perhaps just amused. "This way."

He led her through the main hall. It was lined with trophies. Stags with glassy eyes, bear skins rug on the floor. It was a masculine space, aggressive and wild.

"Mrs. Gable will show you to your quarters," Sterling said, passing her off to a severe-looking older woman in a black dress.

Mrs. Gable didn't speak. She led her up a winding staircase to the second floor. She opened a set of double doors.

"The King will join you for dinner," she said. "Bathing water has been prepared. Do not leave the room."

Mrs. Gable closed the door. Imogene heard the click of a key. Her breath hitched-a performance for any listening ears. She stumbled back from the door, her hand flying to her throat as if in terror. Only when the footsteps faded completely did she let the mask drop. She was a prisoner, yes. But a cage could also be a fortress.

She turned to look at the room.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

The curtains were pale lilac. The bedspread was embroidered with irises. The books on the shelf were poetry.

It was a shrine.

Every detail screamed Adella Lynn. Lilac was her color. Irises were her flower.

Alaric hadn't just invited a mistress; he had prepared a stage.

She walked to the vanity. A crystal vial of perfume sat there. She uncorked it. Lavender and jasmine. Adella's scent.

"He's insane," she whispered.

Maids entered through a side door. They stripped her efficiently, scrubbed her with scented oils until her skin was pink, and dressed her.

The dress they brought was deep purple velvet.

She put it on. It fit perfectly. Not a seam was out of place.

A chill went down her spine. Either Alaric had the best tailors in the world, or Adella and she shared the exact same measurements.

She sat on the velvet sofa and waited. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the floor.

Outside, the sound of hooves thundered on the gravel.

She went to the window.

Below, Alaric was dismounting from a massive black stallion. He looked different here. In the ballroom, he was a statue. Here, he was alive. His cheeks were flushed with cold, his hair windblown. He tossed the reins to a groom.

He stopped. He looked up.

Straight at her window.

She didn't hide. She stood in the frame, a dark silhouette against the dying light.

He stared at her. Even from this distance, she felt the impact of his gaze. He stood there for a long moment, motionless. Then, he turned and strode into the house.

She heard the heavy front door slam.

She heard boots on the stairs. Heavy. Fast.

Her heart began to hammer. This was it. The rehearsal was over.

She sat back down on the sofa. She picked up a book of poetry. She forced her hands to stop shaking.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

The lock clicked. The handle turned.

The door swung open.

King Alaric stood there. He brought the cold in with him. He smelled of horse and leather and winter air. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Imogene Lloyd," he said.

His voice was low, dangerous.

She didn't look up from the book. She turned a page.

"Your Majesty," she said softly.