Malachi pivots on the balls of his feet and then lunges toward me, grabbing at the jewels still wrapped around my neck. He pulls the necklace tight enough to constrict my oxygen supply again, and then growls, “You go ahead and do that, Duchess. You would be doing me a favor because the last thingmy lineageneeds is offspring that shares DNA with connivingfilthsuch as yourself.”
With a sharp, cutting jerk, he snaps the necklace away from my skin, and it breaks apart in his hands. There’s a glittering clatter of rubies and diamonds showering the marble at our feet, and he pitches the remaining pieces of it onto the floor with the rest of it.
Malachi shoves past me, his large, hard shoulder muscle slamming against me as his shoes crunch atop the pile of jewels while he grabs the pistol and marches away.
Heisthe devil, and this is hell.
SEVEN
ISLA
Present
TWO WEEKS AFTER MALACHI decided to consummate our marriage, I still haven’t gotten my period, and now I’m freaking the fuck out a little.
To be fair, it’s still kind of early for my period, but I am nevertheless worried.
It’s been three weeks since the wedding, and the Christmas season in Corwick has officially begun. The small island nation kicks off the holidays with a day of celebration, including a parade and a festival in Gallarney. This means that I have to appear in public alongside Malachi and his family as the Duchess of Corwick for my first official royal event. All of which would actually be really exciting and a lot of fun, except that Malachi and his entire family hates me.
King Andrew and Queen Deirdre are riding in a separate horse-drawn carriage than the one Malachi and I are sharing with Philipp and his wife, Cordelia, the Princess of Corwick. Their two-year-old son, William is riding with his grandparents, which means there’s not an innocent child present to act as a buffer for any discreet, but stinging shade the other three royals in my carriage might throw at me.
We ride in silence through the ancient, cobbled streets of Gallarney’s old city center, and the nineteenth-century buildings and lampposts are bedecked with fanciful holiday garnishes. Holly and garland drape the iron balconies where well-wishers stand and wave small Corwickian flags at us, while excitement lights up their faces even brighter than all the lights that twinkle gold amidst the festive decorations. Traditional Celtic-style Christmas songs fill the crisp, damp air from a band that leads the small parade, and the children who are lining the streets with their parents bounce and skip and dance in place.
“Duchess Isla!”sweet little voices ring out. “Duke Malachi! Hi! Hello! Hi!”
I smile and wave at each individual child as best as I can keep up, and Malachi, sitting to my right, lifts his white-gloved hand in dignified acknowledgement. He’s dressed in another of his black military uniforms, as is Philipp, and they both are admittedly the picture of perfect, dreamy princes. A form-fitting, deep garnet winter coat was selected for me to wear, along with a diminutive tiara of yellow gold and diamonds styled after a traditional Celtic knot. Cordelia is dressed in a similar emerald green coat, a perfect complement to her fiery, Irish-red ringlets and fair skin. Her tiara is a lover’s knot design, fitted with six large drop emeralds that frame the crown of her head. Hers isnotdiminutive. Thereisa pecking order amongst the four of us, and I am at the bottom of it.
Nevertheless, everyone looks stunning, and none of the enamored onlookers have any clue of the tension in the small, vintage carriage.
“Your face has healed quite well, Isla,” Philipp says after about fifteen minutes of riding.
I cut a glance at him, still waving demurely with my hand at the level of my chin. “Yes, thank you. It feels much better.”
“Yes, we’re certainly glad for that,” Philipp says with a smug-as-fuck air. “We’d hate to have a repeat of that press incident from a number of weeks ago.” He nods his sharp, distinguished chin at Malachi. “Aye, Malachi?”
“Indeed,” Malachi murmurs in acknowledgement.
“Perhaps next time you could ensure that your wife’s appearance is acceptable before leaving the palace, baby brother,” Philipp goes on. “I realize you’re new at this, but there’s a certain public perception required once you’re—”
“Iam notnewat anything,” Malachi clips, his expression deceptively and expertly pleasant, belying his nasty tone. “I can’t help the fact that my wife chose to defy me and cause a scene. I did what I could to remedy it, and it was,indeed, remedied. In fact…” He drags his glinting silver eyes toward his brother. “If you haven’t noticed from the follow-up press, that incident actually garnered quite a bit of sympathy for us because everyone believed exactly what I told them to.”
“‘Tis true,” Cordelia finally speaks up in her dainty, bird-like Irish brogue. “The people seem to have great affection for Isla.”
“And ‘tis because they know nothing of her true characternorher treatment of the Duke,” Phillip remarks, mimicking her accent in a snide manner.
Cordelia merely bats her long, fluffy eyelashes and flits her fingers in a wave.
“It seems both youandthe Duke have been duped regarding my treatment of him,” I can’t help but clap back, albeit maintaining my demure smile and lifted hand. “And regarding mycharacter, it seems you both conveniently forgot eighteen years’ worth of my loyalty to him.”
“Neither of us have been duped, Duchess,” Malachi says with an even-keeled, yet completely cold tone. “Despite it conveniently slipping your memory, Philipp is fully aware of what you did. As are my parents. As is Cordelia. And if your faulty brain could actually recall it, you would understand how reasonable it is for it to have negated any previous behavior.” He lifts his hand in another dignified wave before leaning toward me to speak in my ear. “Everyone in this family knows you’re a whore. Consider yourself fortunate that we’re protecting your reputation by keeping it a secret. And perhaps consider how petulant that makesyoufor pulling the stunt that you did weeks ago.”
I fight the urge to make any kind of face that gives away the surge of anger and righteous indignation through my veins, and then turn my head to speak in his ear.
“I amnota whore, Malachi. I don’t who lied to you, but you are theonly manI’veeverbeen with. Even after you disappeared and deserted me, I never so much asspoketo another man, let alone slept with one.”
He offers a pleasant nod to the cheery, rosy-cheeked onlookers, then tenderly wraps his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close to my side and finds my ear again. “The only personlyingisyouright now. In fact, the person who informed me of your whorish behavior wasyou.”
I’m facing forward, and Philipp’s smug-as-fuck expression is right in my line of sight. He’s a handsome, older, near-carbon-copy of Malachi, and just like his younger brother, he has transformed from a sweet boy into a sinister, hateful man.
