Chapter 46 46
MARIGOLD POV
By the time the royal investigator arrived at the villa, I had convinced myself that last night’s kiss had been… a fever dream. An illusion. A by-product of almost dying, because surely, surely, the universe would not curse me with the memory of Alpha Gregor’s mouth and the fact that my traitorous lips had kissed him back.
Unfortunately, the universe was cruel.
Because Gregor kept looking at me.
Not just looking—hovering. His storm-gray eyes flickered to my face every time I shifted in my chair, every time I adjusted the sleeve of my gown. And the worst part? His gaze kept dropping to my lips, like he was replaying that kiss over and over. Like he wanted to steal another one.
Which, for the record, was unacceptable.
Of course, Sugar noticed.
She’d been perched on the settee with her ridiculous notepad, “taking minutes” as if this was some society tea party instead of an official inquiry into last night’s attempted kidnapping. Every time Gregor’s eyes lingered on me, Sugar’s smile grew brighter—until she looked like she was about to combust.
“Your Grace,” she whispered far too loudly while scribbling. “The tension is thicker than my grandmother’s gravy.”
I kicked her ankle under the table.
She only winked at me.
The investigator himself was a hawk-eyed older wolf with an austere face and robes that smelled faintly of parchment and cold steel. Lord Caldus, one of the King’s own councilors, sent with a sealed order to “examine loyalties and intentions.” His gaze cut across the villa drawing room like a blade, measuring every detail—the guards, the curtains, the still-visible scar on the floor where Thunder’s body had fallen.
And then, he looked at me.
“Lady Margaux,” he said, voice as sharp as frost. “You are certain it was Thunder Whiteland who attempted to dose your drink?”
I straightened, willing my voice not to shake. “I am certain. I saw his face.”
Gregor shifted beside me, arms crossed tight, his shoulders a wall of protection. He didn’t like me answering questions. He wanted to answer for me. Typical alpha nonsense.
Lord Caldus noticed. His gaze slid to Gregor, cool and assessing. “And you, Alpha. You swear under oath you acted only in defense of the princess-to-be?”
“I swear,” Gregor said. His voice was iron.
But then it happened.
Our eyes caught.
It was supposed to be nothing, just a glance—but the memory of last night’s kiss flared between us like lightning. His gaze dropped, unbidden, to my mouth. Mine—traitor that it was—followed. For a breath, the air between us thickened, charged, so hot it nearly seared.
Sugar audibly squealed.
Lord Caldus’s brow twitched.
And the King—sitting in his heavy library chair when the report was delivered later—frowned. Deeply.
IN THE KING’S LIBRARY
The royal library was dark-paneled, heavy with the musk of ink and oak. Shelves groaned under the weight of tomes no one had touched in centuries. King Alaric sat behind his carved desk, the flickering firelight catching the silver threads in his beard.
Lord Caldus stood rigid before him, parchment rolled tight in his hands. “Your Majesty, I delivered the report as instructed. The Alpha killed Thunder Whiteland without hesitation. The princess-to-be corroborates his tale.”
The King leaned back, steepling his fingers. “And?”
Caldus hesitated. “There is… tension, Sire. Between them.”
The King’s eyes narrowed.
Caldus pressed on. “Subtle, but I’ve served too long to be deceived. They avoid each other’s gaze until they don’t—and when they don’t, it is… consuming. The assistant noticed as well. She all but beamed at the sight.”
A long silence stretched. The fire popped in the grate.
The King’s voice, when it came, was low and edged with steel. “Alpha Gregor is entrusted with guarding the future princess of this realm. If he forgets his place—if he dares to lay claim to what is mine to give—then he endangers not just his pack, but the stability of the throne.”
Caldus bowed. “Shall I warn him, Sire?”
The King’s eyes turned to the window, where the storm had left the gardens glistening like a battlefield. “No. Do not warn him. Watch him. Quietly. If there is truth to this… if Gregor is indeed entangled with the girl, I want proof. And when you have proof—” His voice hardened, final as a gavel. “He will not live to see spring.”
Caldus inclined his head. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
The King leaned back, shadows deepening across his face. “Let the Alpha think he is safe. Wolves always show their hunger when they believe no one is watching.”
Back at the villa, I sneezed.
Sugar gasped. “See! Even your body betrays you! That’s a kiss sneeze.”
Gregor pinched the bridge of his nose like he regretted not killing Thunder slower.
And me? I kept my eyes locked on the floor. Because if I looked at Alpha Gregor again, even once, I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
GREGOR POV
The villa had never felt smaller.
It wasn’t the walls—they were grand, high, lined with velvet curtains and chandeliers heavy enough to crush a man if they ever gave way. No, it was the eyes. Every corridor I turned down, every damn sitting room I stepped into, I felt them. The council had stationed their little watchers here—maids with eyes too sharp, guards who shuffled too close to doorways, even a gardener whose hands were too clean. I wasn’t stupid.
This was the King’s game.
And the message was clear: one wrong step, one wrong glance, and you’re a dead man, Alpha Gregor.
I wore gray trousers that night, simple cotton, no finery. Wolves like me didn’t need the trappings of a court. But I still caught one of the maids—Luda, her name was—staring like the shade of my pants was a sin against the kingdom. As if she could measure desire in the cut of fabric.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking for signs. For proof.
And I knew what she wanted to catch: the flick of my eyes toward her.
Marigold.
The woman I was supposed to call Margaux in front of the world. The woman who had almost been stolen out from under me. The woman whose lips—damn it—still haunted me.
And there she was, across the salon, perched like a spoiled princess in silks and diamonds, her chin tilted at a haughty angle. She was acting again, the perfect image of Margaux—the brat who demanded imported chocolate before bed, the brat who tapped her nails against her wine glass until someone jumped to refill it.
To the untrained eye, it was flawless. To me? I could see the tightness in her shoulders. The effort it took to sneer. The flicker of panic when the maid “accidentally” brushed against her skirts, eyes darting for reaction.
And gods help me, I could see her lips.
The same ones that had kissed me back.
The same ones that had trembled and then pressed firm, like they belonged against mine.
I clenched my jaw and looked away, hard, fixing my gaze on the rain-streaked window. My wolf snarled in the back of my mind, restless. It wanted to turn, stalk across the floor, and claim what it already considered ours.
But I couldn’t.
Not here. Not under the King’s watch.
So I shoved it down. Again.
“Alpha.” Luda’s voice was sugar-sweet, too sweet. “Lady Margaux requests her nightcap be prepared with cinnamon. Would you like me to taste it first? For… reassurance?”
Her smile was sly. A test.
I gave her my coldest glare. “Do it. And if she chokes, I’ll know where to bury you.”
She flinched. Good.
Marigold shot me a look then—a flash of sass that almost undid me. Like she was saying, did you really just threaten to bury a maid in my living room? I ignored it. Had to.
The King’s men weren’t subtle, but they were thorough. They wanted cracks. They wanted me to slip—to stare too long at her, to brush her hand, to let the hunger in my wolf show. If they caught even a glimmer, it would be enough to end me.
So I didn’t look at her lips. I didn’t let myself drown in the memory of her kiss, the way her breath had hitched against my mouth. I didn’t think about the truth—that she fit against me like she’d been carved there, that my wolf had howled like it had finally found home.
Instead, I scowled at the rain, barked at guards for sloppy patrols, and reminded myself over and over:
She is the Prince’s bride. She is not yours. She is not yours.
But when I went to bed that night—alone, restless—I swore I could still feel the ghost of her mouth on mine. And it was the most dangerous thing in the world.
Because no matter how I ignored her in daylight, my wolf knew the truth in darkness.
She wasn’t Margaux.
She wasn’t the Prince’s.
She was mine.
And if the King or his spies caught me believing that…
Then the blood spilled in this villa would make Thunder’s death look like a child’s quarrel.