"You leave before dawn." Ah. He had finally made his choice. For a man supposedly chosen by the Moon Goddess herself to be mine forever and ever, Ramiro certainly had a talent for making me feel unwanted. "Why? Can you at least look at me when you speak, m'Lord?" Even I surprised myself with how bitter I sounded, yet Ramiro offered no answer. "Your father is on his deathbed, and you choose to send me away? Is it not a wife's duty to remain beside her beloved husband in times of sorrow?" That finally made him look at me, and I regretted the sarcasm at once. His clear blue eyes were tired, filled with something close enough to grief that I almost forgot I was angry. Almost. Being fated mates did not mean love. I had always known that. I had simply been foolish enough to hope our marriage might become something more. "Please, Ophelia. This is for your own good." My name sounded unbearably tender on his lips. Traitor. Part of me wanted to demand who had granted him the authority to decide what was good for me. Another part wanted to kneel at his feet and beg him not to send me away. I might have accepted a marriage in name only if it meant remaining beside him. Instead, I chose anger. Anger was easier to deal with after all. "Is it because of your lover, that wench Isolde?" "Do not speak of Isolde that way." Of course. Anything concerning her earned an immediate answer. "Why, dear Husband? Does it pain you?" I asked. "What else should I call a woman already mated who desires another woman's husband? A whore?" Ramiro crossed the space between us so quickly that I felt his hand close around my arm before I realized how near his face was. "She is my brother's wife and the future queen. I advise you to end this nonsense if you wish to keep your tongue intact." I had wanted to hurt him. Somehow I was the one fighting tears. "Tell me, dear Husband, do you hate me so? Or is your love for that woman so great that you would hurt me, your mate?" Something shifted in his expression. Confusion first, then something sharper. His grip loosened. For one foolish heartbeat, I thought he might finally answer me. "My lord," a man called from beyond the chamber door. "The King wishes to see you." Bernan. Ramiro closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, whatever I had glimpsed was gone. "Enter." Bernan stepped inside and glanced between us. He and Ramiro exchanged one of those practiced looks I had come to despise -- the silent understanding of men who would decide my fate without troubling themselves to ask my opinion. "See to it that Ophelia boards the carriage in time," Ramiro said. "And make certain she does not leave our chambers before then." "My chambers," I corrected. "You have not visited them in weeks, yet you still claim ownership?" His jaw tightened. He looked at me as though there were words caught behind his teeth. None came. He left and slammed the door behind him. "His Highness means well, m'Lady," Bernan said. "Fuck off, Bernan." I dropped onto the bed with none of the grace expected of a princess. "Now, now. If you are going to cry this hard after all that bravado, perhaps you should not have said half of it. And that is hardly how a princess of this kingdom should speak." He offered me a handkerchief. I snatched it from him. "Leave me alone until the carriage is ready." "If my lady wishes -- " "Can I bring a handmaiden?" Bernan's expression changed just enough to answer before he spoke. "No, m'Lady. Your ladies will follow once you are settled." "With how this is going, I ought to think I am being exiled. Where exactly is His Highness sending me?" "I do apologize, but His Highness instructed me that no one shall know." That chilled me more than I wished to admit. Bernan departed before I could question him further. I sat alone for several moments, staring at the door Ramiro had slammed behind him. Then I did the most pathetic thing imaginable. I wrote my husband a letter. Perhaps ink might accomplish what tears, arguments, and months of waiting had not. I did not ask him to love me. I had finally learned better than that. I only asked him to remember that once, before Isolde and court whispers and locked doors, he had promised to treasure me. By the time Bernan returned, the letter was folded upon Ramiro's table. "My Lady. It is time." We left through the empty corridors of the keep. Bernan led me behind a faded tapestry and into a narrow passage known only to the royal household and its most trusted servants. Ramiro used to bring me through these tunnels himself. Back then, he said the keep had too many walls for someone who loved the open air. Once, when a lady at court mocked me for being the daughter of a minor lord and his maid, Ramiro abandoned the royal ball and found me crying in the gardens. When bandits later took me on the road, he defied Tristan's orders and rode after me himself. Perhaps that was why I had been such a fool. He had given me enough kindness to make me believe it might last. When we emerged into the hidden courtyard, my carriage was already waiting. No ladies. No household trunks beyond what had been packed for me. No explanation. I climbed inside and looked back toward the keep. For one shameful moment, I hoped Ramiro would appear. Instead, I saw Isolde. Golden-haired and still safely within the palace walls. Of course. The carriage door shut. We lurched forward so violently that I nearly struck the opposite seat. "Slow down!" I called. No answer. I pulled aside the curtain. The wheels hammered over an unfamiliar road, and the escort I expected was nowhere in sight. My unease sharpened. I reached for the door. Locked. I struck the roof before pounding against the hatch separating me from the coachman. "Sir! What is happening?" The hatch opened. The coachman looked back at me. Not surprise. Not confusion. Guilt. Cold, unmistakable guilt. My stomach dropped. I seized the hatch before he could close it. "Stop this carriage!" He shoved my hand away and slammed it shut. I searched wildly for anything I could use -- a latch, a loose pin, anything -- but the carriage took a sharp bend before I found one. I threw myself against the opposite wall, bracing my arms as the wheels lifted from the road. No. Ramiro had ordered this journey. He had forbidden anyone from knowing where I was going. He had placed me in Bernan's hands. And Isolde remained behind. The carriage tipped. Surely he could not be this heartless. Ramiro had loved me. At least, I had believed he did.

"Sister. Sister, are you all right? You are crying." I looked down at the little girl tugging at my sleeve. For one strange moment, I did not know her. Then I did. Elizabeth. My sister. "Does your shin still hurt?" Beth asked. "I told you Catherine could get down from the tree on her own." Catherine. Her ginger cat. Yes. I remembered that too. "No, Beth. I am not hurt," I told her, resting a hand on her head, although I was not entirely certain that was true. Only moments ago, I had been inside a carriage careening around a bend. I remembered the locked door, the coachman's face, the sickening tilt as the wheels left the road. I remembered dying. Yet I stood beside a window with sunlight warming my face and my little sister staring worriedly up at me. I was not Ophelia of House Valdieri anymore. This was not Monteluce. "Ophelia, my sweet, it is rude to stare at your guests." "Father!" Beth abandoned me at once and ran toward the man entering the chamber. Our father. Of course. King Edric Kastark of Valdoren. He lifted Beth easily into his arms while she immediately began reporting my crimes. "Sister was crying while staring out the window, Father. I thought her shin still hurt." Father frowned at me. "You wounded yourself on your naming day? How are you supposed to dance later?" "It no longer hurts, Father." That, at least, was true. My head was another matter. I remembered eighteen years as Princess Ophelia Kastark of Valdoren. I remembered Father carrying me on his shoulders when I was small, Beth being born, Catherine appearing in the kitchens as a half-starved kitten, lessons, feast days, arguments with tutors. And somehow I also remembered another life. Another father. Another kingdom. Another husband. Ramiro. The name alone made my chest ache. Had the Moon Goddess finally taken pity on me? Had she given me another life far from Monteluce, with a father who loved me and a home where I was wanted? "You two should already be in the courtyard greeting our guests," Father said. He tickled Beth until she squealed. "Especially you, Ophelia. It is your naming day." Of course. My naming day. Apparently remembering one's death was no excuse for neglecting royal duties. "What was I even looking at?" I murmured as I turned toward the window again. Banners crowded the courtyard below, their colors bright beneath the morning sun. Noble houses from across Valdoren had come for the celebration, along with envoys from neighboring realms. Then I saw it. A grey wolf upon blue-gray cloth. My breath caught. No. "Fa -- Father." He had already reached the door. "Why are there Monteluce banners outside?" Father glanced toward the window. "Oh, they have arrived already?" His expression immediately became more serious. "We must go down. The King of Monteluce himself has honored your invitation. We cannot leave him waiting." The King of Monteluce. My stomach twisted. Still, there was one comfort. Tristan. Surely Father meant Tristan. The old King had been dying when I left the keep. Tristan had been Crown Prince. He would have inherited Monteluce after his father's death. Perhaps Ramiro was not even here. "Father, is it only the King attending?" I asked as we hurried toward the stairs. "No other members of the royal household?" Father looked back at me, puzzled by my sudden interest. "Their letter named only the King and his entourage." Good. I could manage Tristan. I would certainly rather face him than Ramiro. Or Isolde. Apparently death had done very little to improve my opinion of that woman. "How long..." I stopped myself. How long had I been dead? The question sounded ridiculous even inside my own head. Lycans lived far longer than humans. Tristan could easily still be King even if decades had passed. We reached the courtyard before I could decide how to ask without sounding mad. Father placed Beth at his left and motioned for me to stand at his right. Normally Mother would have stood beside him, but I had lost her young in this life as well. Perhaps even the Moon Goddess could not remake everything. But this life was still different. I hope. I was the eldest daughter of a king. Father loved me openly. Beth adored me when she was not blaming me for her cat-related disasters. Valdoren was small, but it was mine in a way Monteluce had never been. Perhaps I could marry someone kind. Someone who wanted me because he chose me, not because a goddess had tied our souls together. Perhaps I could have children this time. Perhaps I could finally have the ordinary happiness I had begged fate for before. The thought steadied me. Then House Ardelune's banner entered the courtyard. My heart betrayed me immediately. The royal carriage followed behind it. I told myself again that Tristan would step out. Tristan. Not Ramiro. The carriage rolled to a halt before us. Suddenly I remembered another crowded hall eighteen years -- or perhaps an entire lifetime -- ago. My first debutante's ball. I had looked across a ballroom and found a pair of cold blue eyes already fixed upon me. Ramiro had known immediately. It had taken me only two breaths longer. Within a month, I had given him my whole heart. I curled my fingers into my skirts. That girl was dead. Literally, it seemed. The Moon Goddess could not possibly be cruel enough to return him to me now. The carriage door opened. Every fragile hope I had gathered shattered at once. Ramiro stepped down. Not Prince Ramiro. The King. He looked almost exactly as I remembered him. A little rougher, perhaps. His black hair had grown longer, and a shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. There was something heavier in the way he carried himself now, something I did not recognize. But those eyes were the same. Steely blue. Beautiful, cold but warm if he wants them to be. "My sweet, you look as though you have seen a ghost." Father's voice barely reached me. I realized I had seized his arm hard enough to wrinkle his sleeve. Perhaps fainting would have been sensible after all. Father had said the King of Monteluce was coming. And there stood Ramiro. My husband. No. My former husband and my supposed murderer. The man who had never been meant to inherit the throne, yet every lord in the courtyard bowed to him. King Ramiro of Monteluce lifted his gaze and looked directly at me.

The King of Monteluce walked toward us with a smile. The bastard had the gall to smile at me as though the thought of him had not tormented me even in my dying breath. In my first life. Of course. This life was different. I was no longer Ophelia of House Valdieri, nor was I his wife. The thought should have comforted me. Instead, my stomach twisted hard enough that I wondered whether I might disgrace my naming day by emptying breakfast onto the courtyard stones. Ramiro's gaze remained fixed on me even after he came close enough to properly greet Father. "The Kingdom of Valdoren welcomes His Majesty Ramiro of House Ardelune, King of Monteluce," the herald announced. Father cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, welcome to our humble kingdom." He bowed, then gestured toward us. "My daughters. Ophelia, whom you seem rather familiar with already, and Elizabeth, my youngest. It is an honor that you accepted our invitation." That finally made Ramiro look at him. "Please, Your Majesty. The pleasure is mine." The King before me was becoming less and less like the Ramiro I remembered. My Ramiro -- no, not mine anymore -- had never enjoyed theatrics. Nor would he have stared at an unmarried woman in front of her father as though considering a marriage proposal before even exchanging courtesies. Perhaps eighteen years had turned him into a philanderer. That would be fitting. "Your Majesty," Ramiro said, "may I greet Princess Ophelia?" Perhaps this was the right time to faint. Before I could invent a convincing illness, Father answered for me. "Of course. Your Majesty need not ask." Ramiro stepped toward me with a confidence I did not remember, but his stride was painfully familiar. "Princess Ophelia." He reached for my left hand. The moment his skin touched mine, my breath caught. The same callouses roughened his palm. His thumb passed slowly across the back of my hand, and the familiarity of the gesture was almost worse than seeing his face again. My body remembered him too easily. I could feel something warm in my belly with just that act alone. No. This man had forsaken me. Whatever warmth remained in my heart had apparently not been informed. Ramiro bowed and brushed his lips against my fingers. The very fingers that, in another life, had worn the ring he gave me. I wanted to tear my hand away. I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to demand whether he had known what would happen to that carriage. Instead, I stood still. I was no longer the Second Prince's wife. "I am glad your dear mother gifted you to this world, Ophelia." My heart stopped. He had said those exact words to me at my first debutante's ball. For one absurd moment, I wondered if he knew. Then reason returned. Of course he did not. Apparently the years had simply transformed my traitor of a husband into the sort of man who reused old courtship lines on young women. I would have pitied Isolde if I did not loathe her. "I thank you, Your Majesty." I pulled my hand free before my resolve melted beneath his gaze. Father, mercifully, stepped in. "Your Majesty, you must be weary from the journey. Please, come inside. I shall escort you and your entourage." He turned to me. "Ophelia, see that your guests feel our hospitality." "Of course, Father." Ramiro looked between Father and me as though he wished to object, but Father had already begun leading him away. Good. Let him go. I turned toward the arriving guests before I did something foolish, like forgive a man I believed had arranged my death simply because his hand still felt familiar around mine. I was Princess Ophelia Kastark now. I was not his wife. I was not his responsibility. I was not his mate. At least, I did not think I was. "Sister." Beth tugged at my hand. "You are staring again." "I am greeting our guests." "You are staring at the King." Children were dreadful creatures. "I am making certain our most important guest is comfortable." Beth looked unconvinced, but Catherine chose that moment to dart across the courtyard between two servants carrying flower garlands. "Catherine!" Beth ran after her. I nearly laughed. Perhaps that was what I needed. Something ordinary. Something belonging entirely to this life. For the next hour, I did my duty. I welcomed minor lords, smiled at ladies I had known since childhood, and accepted more compliments about my gown than any one woman should reasonably endure. Still, my attention kept drifting toward the great hall. I told myself it was sensible curiosity. After all, I knew almost nothing of what had happened in Monteluce after my death. Why was Ramiro king? Where was Tristan? And where was Bernan, who once followed Ramiro like a second shadow? By midday, curiosity defeated good sense. Lady Marcella Deyne gave me my opportunity. Her husband served as Valdoren's envoy to Monteluce, and she possessed the useful habit of knowing everything before anyone thought to ask. "You are staring toward His Majesty again," she said as we stood beside the long tables being prepared for the feast. "Everyone is staring at him." "Not quite the way you are." I ignored that. "Lady Marcella, may I ask you something?" Her smile sharpened at once. She adored questions. "How long has King Ramiro ruled Monteluce?" She blinked. "Nearly twelve years." Twelve. Then Tristan had inherited after all. I kept my expression pleasant, though today has proved it will be increasingly difficult. "And before him?" "His brother, of course. King Tristan." Of course. My mouth went dry. "What happened to him?" Lady Marcella's expression changed. For the first time all morning, she seemed uncertain whether she wanted to gossip. That frightened me more than any answer could have. "You truly do not know?" "Valdoren is far from Monteluce." "That it is." She lowered her voice. "King Tristan's reign ended in rebellion." I stared at her. "Rebellion?" "A dreadful business. The brothers had once been close, or so the old stories say. Then Prince Ramiro raised his banners against the Crown." That could not be right. Ramiro had never wanted Tristan's throne. Maybe others had wanted it for him but Ramiro had despised them for it. "Who won?" I asked, though the answer stood somewhere inside my father's hall wearing a crown. Lady Marcella studied my face. "Ramiro did." "And Tristan?" She hesitated. Then she leaned close enough that no one else could hear. "They say King Ramiro killed his brother with his own hands." For a moment, the courtyard vanished. I saw only Ramiro as I had known him: standing beside Tristan at council, arguing with him, laughing with him, defying him on my behalf, but always returning. Brothers. Then another memory intruded. Isolde. The woman who had loved Ramiro despite being Tristan's mate. I turned toward the great hall. Through the open doors, I could see Ramiro speaking with Father. He smiled at something Father said. That same fraudulent smile. My husband had sent me away. I had died in the carriage he arranged, and then he had killed his brother and taken his crown. Isolde. I could only make the most reasonable assumption.