Secrets ❧

The polished heels of Jocobo's boots echoed softly through the vaulted corridor as he led Caralee back to the study. The same study. The same room where, just the night before, her world had fractured into splinters—each revelation more grotesque, more unbelievable than the last. Yet here she was, drawn back into the lion's den with silken hands and velvet chains.

The heavy doors opened without creak or groan—well-maintained like everything in this impossibly grand estate—and Jocobo gestured her in with a practiced, courtly motion. She offered him a weak smile, unsure if it ever reached her eyes. The short man gave a short bow and closed the doors behind her with a soft click.

Merrick was waiting by the hearth.

He had not turned toward her yet, standing as if in reflection, a glass of something dark and red—far too thick to be wine—cupped in one pale hand. The firelight danced across the edges of his broad shoulders, his silhouette perfectly still. Regal. Unfathomable.

It took him a beat too long to turn and acknowledge her. When he did, he smiled. Polished, polite. But not warm.

"Caralee," he said, voice like crushed velvet. "Please, come in."

She did, cautiously, as if her feet had minds of their own. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken things, tension so palpable she imagined she could trace its shape in the air. And still—still—he opened his arms to her.

The same as the night before.

A silent invitation. A lover's embrace. A king's claim.

Caralee hesitated, just long enough to be noticed. Then stepped forward and allowed herself to be gathered into his arms. She felt the weight of him—his certainty, his command—and yet there was a rigidity to the moment, a stiffness that had not been there before.

Neither of them spoke.

Not for a while.

Then, softly, Merrick said, "Have your thoughts shifted at all since yesterday?"

Caralee pulled back slightly, just enough to look up into his face. It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, her voice came out more fragile than she intended.

"It all still feels... surreal," she admitted. "Like I've stumbled into a dream and can't find my way back out."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"I never knew my parents," she continued, more to herself than to him. "I wouldn't know how to feel about their legacy. About anything. I only ever had Adele. She lived simply. Her world was small and kind and ordinary. There was peace there."

Merrick's jaw tightened. The faintest flicker of tension flashed behind his eyes. But he said nothing.

She saw it, though. Filed it away. And pressed on.

"All of this—this court, this destiny—it feels like a story that belongs to someone else. I don't know how long it will take for that to change. I only know it won't be overnight."

Merrick stepped back then, slowly. He returned to the hearth and stared down into his cup, his reflection warped in the dark surface.

"I understand," he said quietly. "But I'm afraid time is not a luxury we possess."

He turned toward her fully, his tone hardening just a touch—not unkind, but unyielding. "You are dangerously behind in your training, in your understanding of our people. Of your people. The sooner you embrace what you are, the sooner you may become what you were always meant to be."

Her gaze did not falter, though her fingers twitched at her sides.

"I know this is much to absorb," Merrick added, softer again. "And I will not press the matter today. But soon, Caralee. Soon it will be imperative."

There was finality in his tone, like a blade sheathed just beneath velvet. She nodded, cautiously.

"For now," he continued, stepping back toward her, "we turn our attention to more immediate matters. You'll have daily sessions with Miss Lydie. She will instruct you in etiquette, posture, court customs. You'll be expected to choose a discipline—chess, sport, or an instrument—for weekly instruction. Something noblewomen of your station are expected to pursue."

Caralee blinked. "What?"

His lip curved into a faint smile. "Your mind must be honed as keenly as any blade, and your reputation must be beyond reproach. There's much to learn."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand gently.

"In addition, I've arranged weekly combat training. My personal sparring partner will oversee it. You may not like it, but it is necessary. You are heir to a legacy that demanded centuries of sacrifice. Tens of thousands of lives, carefully-laid plans, alliances, wars, blood spilled across continents."

He stepped close again, his eyes dark with fierce sincerity.

"My vow to your ancestors. My contract with your father. My duty to our people. My duty to you. As your king. As your partner. As your betrothed."

The last word hung in the air like a gong strike. It resonated through her bones. Caralee's breath caught.

She looked up at him, her gaze unflinching now. "As my betrothed?"

Her voice was soft, but it sliced through the silence like a blade of ice. The moment pulsed between them.

"Yes," Merrick said after a pause, quieter now. "You are mine, Caralee. Not by convenience. By design. By blood."

She took a slow step back. Her mind raced. Her heart—silent thing though it was now—seemed to echo in her skull.

She remembered Donovan.

His eyes.

His pain.

His blood on her lips.

She remembered Merrick's unyielding grip. His temper. His sorrow.

His power.

He knows, she thought, with a creeping dread. He must know what I did.

And yet… he didn't say it. Not yet. Not directly. Which meant perhaps he didn't know everything. Perhaps he hadn't pieced it together. Or perhaps—like her—he was biding his time. Circling the other's secrets like predators in the same cage.

"I understand," she said at last, eyes cast down. "There's… a lot to catch up on."

"Yes," Merrick agreed softly. "There is."

And though he reached for her hand again, his touch careful, intimate, almost tender…

…the weight of everything unspoken settled around them like the smoke curling from the fire.