The heavy mahogany doors had barely settled into their frame after Kaelen’s exit before the silence of the solar rushed back in to greet me.
I sat alone for a long moment, my fingers tracing the polished grain of the desk.
My heart was still performing a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a lingering aftershock of the sheer, unadulterated heat Kaelen had left behind.
“Are you going to arrest your Queen for bad behavior?”
I pressed my palms to my cheeks, feeling the warmth blooming beneath my skin.
God, I was bold.
In my past life, I had been confident, sure, but playing a high-stakes game of chicken with a six-foot-three, brooding fantasy knight took an entirely different kind of nerve.
And the best part?
I was winning.
His stoic armor was cracking, one agonizingly slow inch at a time.
But as the minutes ticked by, the playful smirk faded from my lips, replaced by the cold weight of reality.
I had just completely vaporized Duke Cedric’s primary leverage, but I had also set a massive boulder rolling down a hill.
Lord Alistair was not a pawn.
According to the fractured memories rattling around in my head, the man was a brilliant military strategist, fiercely loyal to his people, and completely unyielding.
The original Evangeline had broken his body, but I doubted she had broken his spirit.
When he walked through those doors, he wouldn’t see a modern woman trying to fix a broken kingdom.
He would see his torturer.
Nearly an hour passed before the quiet corridor outside erupted with the heavy, synchronized thud of marching boots.
The doors to the solar swung open, and two royal guards stepped inside, their expressions tight with a distinct, underlying panic.
Between them stood Lord Alistair.
I swallowed hard, keeping my expression entirely neutral as I took him in.
Even after a year in the dark, damp belly of the castle, the man carried himself like a king in his own right.
The guards had followed my orders to the letter—he had been washed, his wild dark hair trimmed and pulled back cleanly, and he wore a tunic of fine slate-grey velvet.
But no amount of expensive fabric could hide the stark weight loss, the sharp, hollowed angles of his jaw, or the pale, jagged scar that cut across his left eyebrow.
His eyes—a striking, predatory amber—locked onto mine the instant he stepped into the room.
There was no fear in them.
Only a deep, resonant hatred that felt heavy enough to drop the temperature in the room by ten degrees.
Right behind him, moving with a silent, watchful grace, Kaelen stepped back into the room.
He took his position at my right hand, his silver eyes instantly scanning Alistair with a cold, territorial intensity.
The dynamic in the room shifted instantly; it felt like placing two apex predators in a cage that was far too small.
“Lord Alistair,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence.
I kept it smooth, devoid of the cruel mockery the old queen would have used.
“Please, take a seat.”
Alistair didn’t move.
He stood completely rigid, a dark, humorless smile tugging at the corner of his cracked lips.
“A seat, Your Majesty?
Forgive me if I am slow to adjust.
The last time I was in your presence, you had me dragged out by my hair because I refused to sign over the western grain reserves to fund your summer gala.”
Behind me, Kaelen shifted, his leather armor creaking softly.
Alistair’s amber eyes flicked to him, noting the guard’s defensive posture, before dropping back to me.
“I am not here to mock you, Alistair,” I said calmly, leaning forward and resting my hands flat on the desk.
“I ordered your release because your imprisonment was an act of short-sighted greed.
An act that I am officially overturning.”
Alistair let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter.
“A change of heart?
From the Tyrant of Solis?
Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe.
What is the catch, Evangeline?
Do you need me to sign something before you send me to the chopping block?
Or is this just a new, psychological flavor of torture you’ve dreamed up?”
“The only thing I need you to sign,” I countered, pulling a fresh, official parchment toward me and dipping a quill into the black ink, “is the royal decree restoring your titles, your ancestral lands, and your seat on the high council.”
The room went dead silent.
Alistair froze, his cynical expression completely fracturing.
For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock pierced through his hardened exterior.
He looked at the parchment, then up at my face, searching for the lie, the trap, the punchline.
Even Kaelen, who usually stood like a marble statue, cast a sharp, probing look down at me.
“You’re restoring my lands,” Alistair repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.
“Why?”
“Because Duke Cedric intended to use your execution to spark a civil war in the west,” I said directly, holding his amber gaze with absolute, unblinking honesty.
“He wanted to use your blood to line his pockets and tear this kingdom apart.
I am putting an end to his reach in my court.
But more importantly…
I need a man of honor on the council, not a sycophant.”
I signed my name at the bottom of the decree with a swift, elegant flourish, the ink catching the sunlight.
I pushed the paper across the desk toward him.
“You have every right to hate me, Lord Alistair.
I do not expect your forgiveness,” I said, standing up slowly.
“But I expect your intelligence.
Look at that decree.
It gives your people their grain back.
It gives you your freedom.
If you think it’s a trap, you are welcome to leave the capital today and never return.
But if you want to actually save the west from the winter famine…
you will take your seat at my table.”
Alistair stared at the paper.
His chest heaved with a slow, heavy breath as the reality of the situation battled with a year’s worth of resentment.
Step by step, he approached the desk.
His gaunt, scarred hand reached out, his fingers brushing the parchment as if expecting it to turn to ash.
He didn’t sign it yet.
Instead, he folded the decree cleanly, tucking it into the breast of his tunic.
“I will take my leave for the evening, Your Majesty,” Alistair said, his voice entirely devoid of its earlier mockery, replaced by a deep, calculating sobriety.
“I will read your…
proposal.
And I will give you my answer in the morning.”
“Fair enough,” I replied with a tight nod.
“The servants have prepared the obsidian suite for you.
Rest well, My Lord.”
Alistair gave a slow, measured bow—the first real sign of respect he had shown since entering the room—and turned, walking out of the solar with the guards trailing behind him.
The doors clicked shut.
I let out a long, ragged breath, my shoulders dropping as the immense pressure in the room finally evaporated.
“Well,” I muttered to myself, “that could have gone significantly worse.”
“You gave him everything.”
I jumped slightly, turning to look at Kaelen.
He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his entire aura had changed.
His silver eyes were incredibly dark, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line.
He wasn’t looking at me with the playful tension from earlier.
He looked…
possessive.
Dangerous.
“I gave him what was legally his, Kaelen,” I said, tilting my head.
Kaelen took a sharp step forward, closing the distance between us until he was leaning over the desk, his massive frame completely cutting off the light from the window.
“He is a dangerous man, Evangeline.
A man who looks at you with a vendetta in his chest.
And yet, you looked at him with…
softness.”
I blinked, a sudden, thrilling realization washing over me.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
“Sir Kaelen,” I purred, a slow, entirely unbothered smile curling my lips as I stepped closer to his side of the desk.
“Are you jealous of a political prisoner?”
Kaelen’s breath caught, a fierce, stormy light erupting in his silver eyes as my words hit their mark.
Chapter 6 is going to bring even more heat, so make sure add Crown of Lust and Lies to your reading list!