The Royal Lodge was not a palace. It was a fortress of stone and timber, hidden deep within the ancient oak forests of Windsor.

The carriage ride had taken three hours. Her legs were stiff when the door finally opened.

Sterling stood there. The air here was cleaner, sharper, smelling of pine and damp earth.

"Mrs. Lloyd," Sterling said, extending a gloved hand.

She looked at his hand. Then she looked at the ground. She stepped down unassisted.

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I can walk."

Sterling raised an eyebrow. He looked impressed, or perhaps just amused. "This way."

He led her through the main hall. It was lined with trophies. Stags with glassy eyes, bear skins rug on the floor. It was a masculine space, aggressive and wild.

"Mrs. Gable will show you to your quarters," Sterling said, passing her off to a severe-looking older woman in a black dress.

Mrs. Gable didn't speak. She led her up a winding staircase to the second floor. She opened a set of double doors.

"The King will join you for dinner," she said. "Bathing water has been prepared. Do not leave the room."

Mrs. Gable closed the door. Imogene heard the click of a key. Her breath hitched-a performance for any listening ears. She stumbled back from the door, her hand flying to her throat as if in terror. Only when the footsteps faded completely did she let the mask drop. She was a prisoner, yes. But a cage could also be a fortress.

She turned to look at the room.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

The curtains were pale lilac. The bedspread was embroidered with irises. The books on the shelf were poetry.

It was a shrine.

Every detail screamed Adella Lynn. Lilac was her color. Irises were her flower.

Alaric hadn't just invited a mistress; he had prepared a stage.

She walked to the vanity. A crystal vial of perfume sat there. She uncorked it. Lavender and jasmine. Adella's scent.

"He's insane," she whispered.

Maids entered through a side door. They stripped her efficiently, scrubbed her with scented oils until her skin was pink, and dressed her.

The dress they brought was deep purple velvet.

She put it on. It fit perfectly. Not a seam was out of place.

A chill went down her spine. Either Alaric had the best tailors in the world, or Adella and she shared the exact same measurements.

She sat on the velvet sofa and waited. The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the floor.

Outside, the sound of hooves thundered on the gravel.

She went to the window.

Below, Alaric was dismounting from a massive black stallion. He looked different here. In the ballroom, he was a statue. Here, he was alive. His cheeks were flushed with cold, his hair windblown. He tossed the reins to a groom.

He stopped. He looked up.

Straight at her window.

She didn't hide. She stood in the frame, a dark silhouette against the dying light.

He stared at her. Even from this distance, she felt the impact of his gaze. He stood there for a long moment, motionless. Then, he turned and strode into the house.

She heard the heavy front door slam.

She heard boots on the stairs. Heavy. Fast.

Her heart began to hammer. This was it. The rehearsal was over.

She sat back down on the sofa. She picked up a book of poetry. She forced her hands to stop shaking.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

The lock clicked. The handle turned.

The door swung open.

King Alaric stood there. He brought the cold in with him. He smelled of horse and leather and winter air. His eyes were dark, burning with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Imogene Lloyd," he said.

His voice was low, dangerous.

She didn't look up from the book. She turned a page.

"Your Majesty," she said softly.

He closed the door behind him. The sound of the lock sliding home was deafening in the quiet room.

She stood up slowly. She placed the book on the table and sank into a deep curtsy.

"Rise," he didn't say.

Instead, he crossed the room in three strides. She saw his boots stop in front of her face.

He reached out with his riding crop. He placed the cool leather tip under her chin and lifted.

She was forced to look up. To meet his eyes.

They were storm-gray, swirling with conflict. He was looking at her face, searching for her.

"Uncanny," he murmured. "Except for the eyes."

She let her lip tremble. Just a little. She widened her eyes, letting the moisture gather there. Fear. He wanted fear.

"Your Majesty?" she whispered.

He dropped the crop. He turned away, pacing to the fireplace. "Pour me a drink."

She moved to the sideboard. Her hands shook as she lifted the decanter. Wine splashed onto the polished wood.

"Clumsy," he noted, not looking around.

"I'm nervous," she said. "I've never been sold before."

He froze. He turned slowly to face her.

"Sold?"

"My husband," she said, wiping the spilled wine with a napkin. "He traded me. For a position in the Cabinet."

Alaric laughed. It was a harsh bark. "He did. And you agreed."

He walked back to her, looming over her. "Why? Why would a woman agree to such a thing?"

"For my daughter," she said.

She looked him straight in the eye. The fear was gone. This was the truth.

"Kenney is a weak man," she said. "He would have let us starve. Or worse. I did what I had to do to ensure Emily has a roof over her head."

Alaric stared at her. The anger in his face softened, just a fraction.

"Adella..." he started, then stopped. "She had no choice either."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. The monster receded, leaving a tired man.

"Sit down," he said, gesturing to the table. "Eat."

Dinner was brought in. They ate in silence. The only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"Do you play the piano?" he asked suddenly.

She knew the right answer. Adella was a virtuoso.

"No," she said.

He frowned. "Do you paint?"

"No."

"What do you do, then?" he asked, irritated. "Besides look like a ghost?"

She put down her fork. "I count."

"You count?"

"I manage the household accounts. I track the price of coal. I calculate how long a sack of flour will last." She took a sip of wine. "I am a practical woman, Your Majesty. I deal in reality, not art."

He looked at her. Really looked at her. For the first time, he wasn't seeing Adella. He was seeing Imogene.

"Reality," he mused. "I have very little of that around me."

He stood up and walked behind her chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders. His grip was heavy, warm.

She stiffened.

He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. "Don't try to be her. You can't. Be yourself. It might be... amusing."

She held her breath. Was he going to kiss her? Was he going to take her right here on the rug?

He squeezed her shoulders, then let go.

"Sleep well, Mrs. Lloyd," he said.

He walked to the door.

"Tomorrow," he said without turning back. "We ride. Be ready at dawn."

The door closed.

She slumped back in the chair. She touched her shoulder where his hand had been.

He hadn't touched her. Not in that way.

It was more dangerous than if he had. He was interested.