Content warning: mentions of blood

I’m going to kill Messalina if I ever see her. Some iteration of that thought has been looping through my head for the past week. During court meetings, at fittings, when taking breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it’s the only thing I can think about.

I hate her more than I hate Nico, which is no small feat.

Images of my head—my actual head, my Annie head—detached from my body and on the floor next to Nico’s keep coming to me. I can’t think of a worse possible way to die.

It’s this I’m thinking about as I’m walking away from breakfast this morning. I’ve instructed the guard who’s meant to follow me around to walk at least five paces behind me at all times because I can’t bear the thought of another person breathing down my neck. My first appointment of the day is at Madame De Vries’. I don’t know how many dresses Messalina owns or what she does with all of them, but I’ve yet to wear the same thing twice.

“Your Majesty!” Prince Griffin jogs up to me. He wasn’t at breakfast, and his empty seat felt like it was burning a hole in the dining room.

“Prince Griffin, where have you been?”

I want to throttle myself for asking the question. The last thing I want is to seem too eager to talk to him, or like I’ve been looking for him. Messalina isn’t the type of woman who waits around for men, even if I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit hung up on guys who definitely weren’t worth it.

Griffin smiles and holds out his arm.

“I was caught up in a meeting with foreign emissaries. They’re trying to establish new trade routes between some of the kingdoms.”

“That sounds really interesting.” I take his arm and fall into step with him.

“You don’t have to lie for my sake.”

“Honestly, I’m not,” I say and when he rolls his eyes genially, I carefully add, “International relations is something I’ve always wanted to learn more about.”

“I suppose you haven’t gotten a chance to do a ton of that, what with the way my brother was.”

“Uh, no, not really.” I hope it’s the truth. For all I know, Messalina could’ve been the head of international relations at the palace.

“Things with my brother couldn’t have been easy,” Griffin says.

“They weren’t that bad.” I’m trying for light, confident, breezy, but Griffin levels me with a look.

“I mean it. My brother tried to control everything. He would’ve set the sun and moon on his schedule if he could’ve. He’s always been like that.”

“He did like things to be done punctually,” I say, thinking back to the day of the anniversary. He seemed more concerned about my being ready than he did the fact that his wife had literally collapsed on the floor.

Griffin’s led us towards the orchards. The trees hang heavy with ripe fruit just waiting to be plucked off the branches.

“I’ve been thinking, Your Majesty,” Griffin says.

“About what?”

“Those guards who brought you to the interrogation room.”

“That was an interrogation room?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t know why, but I’m shocked by the violence of it.

“You didn’t see where the guards were leading you?” Griffin asks, tipping his head at me.

“I couldn’t see anything but the blood,” I whisper, staring at the train of my dress, looking for blood that isn’t there.

“What those guards did was tantamount to treason,” Griffin says. “They should be punished accordingly. You’re next in line for the throne, and you shouldn’t show any weakness. Those guards should be dealt with as my brother would have dealt with them.”

“I don’t want them dead,” I say. I don’t want anyone’s head on the other side of an axe or anyone’s blood on my hands.

“There are other ways to punish someone without killing them,” Griffin says. Then, “Do you recall anything my brother might have said or done to merit his murder?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your five years of marriage, do you think he might have made any enemies?” Griffin steps towards me, the space between us suddenly too small and wide as a chasm. “Anyone close to home?”

My blood feels like ice in my veins. Before I’ve even managed to get my footing, the rug is being pulled out from under me. There’s no way he knows, unless Nico managed to get to him, but that feels like a conspiracy theory at best.

“Prince Griffin?”

“Queen Messalina, you’re a smart woman,” Griffin says. He lifts a hand and brings it to my face, cupping my cheek. His hand is smooth, save for a few rough callouses. “Enterprising, creative. A man as bull-headed as my brother probably spent years trying to control you, rather than making you an ally.”

I’m so thrown by his words. I didn’t even know Evren long enough to know how he liked his eggs in the morning, much less what he spent the past five years doing with Messalina.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to,” he says, voice pitched low.

When I don’t say anything, Griffin leans in and stops just inches from my mouth. This close, I can see the streaks of grey in his eyes, the small scar above his lip. It’s a crazy thought, but I want to kiss it.

Griffin brushes his thumb across my bottom lip, and my lips part. He presses his mouth to mine. His lips are soft and he kisses me gently, gentler than I would have expected.

Sirens go off in my head. This is wrong, it’s all so wrong. Griffin is Evren’s brother. But I hardly knew Evren. What loyalties do I have to a man I spent less than twenty-four hours with?

Griffin brings his other hand to my waist, and I push all my concerns to the side. My hand finds the curve of his jaw and I push closer, deepening the kiss.

Too soon, Griffin pulls away, resting his forehead against mine.

“So, how did you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?” I reply, a little breathless.

“Kill Evren?” The way he’s smiling sours the kiss, sours all of his kindness up until now. “You must’ve been the one to do it. There’s no one else.”

“Are you…happy that Evren is dead?” Even as I ask the question, I hope it’s all some giant misunderstanding, that we’re speaking the same language but the words are jumbled.

“Are you not?” Griffin asks, quirking a brow.

“No I—” I tear myself away from him. “Why would I be?”

“You’re not the one who killed Evren?” he asks, brows knitting together.

“No,” I say, trying not to scream. “Why on earth would I?”

Griffin’s goes rigid. “Your Majesty, forgive me. I seem to have misread this conversation.”

He stalks away, leaving me staring after his back until it vanishes into a speck, wondering what the hell just happened.