by Renna Peak
Rage burns through me—is Maximilian really so depraved that he would imprison his own daughter to make a point? Justine looks just as angry, but as she opens her mouth to speak, fear rises in my throat. A dungeon is no place for her, not in her condition. And if we’re both imprisoned, there’s no hope of either of us getting out.
“I won’t resist,” I blurt out.
Justine looks at me in surprise, and I pray she can read the truth in my expression. After a moment, she drops her eyes.
“I won’t stand in your way,” she tells the guards, though there’s an edge to her voice.
The men pull me out of the bathroom, and though I ache to fight them, to wrestle myself from their grip, I push down the urge. There’s no way to escape, not right now.
Maximilian is not going to get away with this, I think as I’m marched down the hall. If my father hears about this, it will be war.
I only hope Justine and I can stop this madness before it gets that far.
Justine
I watch as the guards carry William away. Even if I wasn’t weak from the constant nausea, I’m unable to stop them. Coming back to Rosvalia was a terrible idea—I should have known that before we arrived.
There’s really only one thing I can do—I have to confront my father. I quickly wash my face and brush my teeth, which does nothing but make me want to vomit again. I consider taking one of my anti-nausea pills, but I can’t risk the drowsiness before I go to face him.
A knot of fear grips my chest, but I must push it aside—for my husband and myself.
And my babies, I think.
And for the future of Rosvalia, another voice whispers in my head.
I’ve pushed that small voice away all my life—the one that tells me ruling Rosvalia is my birthright. I might only be ten minutes older than Reginald, but those ten minutes could mean all the difference to the people of my country. A difference between living in poverty or abundance…a difference between living in war or peace.
There’s a guard posted outside my suite, not that I’m surprised. He doesn’t give me a moment to speak, standing at attention the second I step through the doorway. “Pardon me, Your Highness. I’m to take you to see His Royal Majesty at once.”
“I suspected as much.” I give the man a kind smile—he’s only doing his job, after all. “Please escort me to see my father.”
I expect we’ll be going to my father’s offices in the center of the palace, but the guard leads me on a winding path to the east wing instead.
My father had the east wing closed several years ago, but I never suspected anything about it. When my family had renovations done to the southern wing of the palace, it was closed for almost two years before it was reopened. My father had said that he was completing some renovations in this section, and had also said that our home would be housing some specialized training for the Royal Guard. Nothing about what was happening seemed that unusual at the time.
And even when William arrived after our first wedding, I still suspected nothing. He’d been so convinced that there was something untoward happening here that it was almost funny. To think that there was some secret military mission going on inside the palace had seemed ridiculous to me. I remember joking with him that this is where we kept our dragons—that notion seemed almost as plausible as my father plotting some covert attack on another country.
Officially, Rosvalia has been in “conflict” with Montovia for nearly a century. Neither of our countries has declared an outright war, though. We’ve battled over the Amhurst Valley and the claims to the mines there for years—but Montovia has always claimed that area as theirs. My great-grandfather was the first to declare that the Valley should belong to Rosvalia—and we’ve been fighting about it ever since.
Considering my country has never seen any sort of revenue from the area, I still cannot understand what the ordeal is about. The people who live there consider themselves citizens of Montovia and always have. It’s always seemed like a ridiculous claim to me, and I’ve never understood why my country would have ever wanted to stake a claim to the area.
There were rumors that my great-grandfather once courted Queen Elizabetta of Montovia, long before she reigned. I remember thinking when I was only a child that perhaps the feud had started over something that had happened back then. Nothing else made sense to me, and nothing does now.
The guard knocks as we stand in front of a set of large wooden doors.
Another wave of nausea hits me—probably more from my nervousness than from my constant battle with morning sickness—and I cover my mouth to keep myself from retching.
The guard looks over at me, a look of concern on his face. “Your Highness…?”
I wave him away, shaking my head, even as bile burns the back of my throat. “It’s nothing.” I straighten, turning to face the door.
Another guard finally opens the door, motioning me to come through.
I walk past him to the desk where my father sits on the other side of the room, turned toward the window. Several other guards are here—I recognize a few of them as the highest-ranking members.
“Leave us,” my father bellows. He’s still facing the window as the other men leave the room.
I stride to the edge of his desk. “Hello, Father.” My stomach churns again as I wait for him to turn.
He says nothing for a long moment, finally spinning in his chair to face me. “Sit.”
My body instantly reacts to his words—as usual—and I begin to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk, but I catch myself at the last moment. “I’ll stand.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but he doesn’t otherwise react to my small act of defiance. His gaze narrows only slightly. “I’ve warned you, Justine.”
“Warned me of what, Father?”
There’s a barely noticeable quivering in his bottom lip—something I recognize as a sign of his impending rage. “You know exactly what.” He glares at me for another long moment. “I’ll not have my daughter bearing a bastard child—”
“Prince William is my husband.” I straighten, lifting my chin in defiance. “And I’ll not have you take our child against my will.”
“Your child is a bastard, conceived out of wedlock—”
“No,” I interrupt. “It was very much conceived in wedlock.” Part of me is relieved that he’s referring to my pregnancy as a single child. He doesn’t know everything.
“Be that as it may, you were given strict orders regarding that marriage.” His gaze bores into mine. “Very strict orders. It was to be nothing but a ruse. And you agreed—”
“I did. But things changed.”
He shakes his head at me slowly. “Because you are a whore. I suppose I should have known this would happen. I send the first member of our royal family to America to college—the first female royal to ever attend college outside of Rosvalia—and you spread your legs for every man you see.”
Though it feels like he’s punched me in the chest, I don’t waver. “Pardon me, Father, but I only spread my legs for one man—”
He pounds his fist hard on the desk, sending a stack of papers flying. “You will not disrespect me, Daughter.”
“And yet, you’re allowed to disrespect me.” I return his glare. “Frankly, Father, I don’t care if you believe me to be some whore. I don’t care what you believe.” I glance down at his desk for a moment—the papers that flew away have revealed something else. I’m looking at it upside down, but it appears to be a map of the Amhurst mines.
I look back up at him. “Like it or not, Prince William is my husband—”
“Your marriage was annulled.” His eye twitches. “And whatever it was you did in America wasn’t legal.”
“It was legal.” I take a deep breath. “We were married before we left the country. Legally. So you are in violation of international law, holding my husband prisoner—”
“Consider him a prisoner of war,” he interrupts. “He’ll be treated
under the same conventions as any other prisoner of war.”
“Then I suppose you’ll be imprisoning me, as well? Under Montovian law, I’m now a citizen of their country. I—”
“Under Rosvalian law, you are not married to that filth.” Though his gaze is still narrowed, his lips tick up into a sly smile. “Under Rosvalian law, a father must consent to his daughter’s marriage. Like it or not, I own you until I say otherwise.”
His words are like a knife to my heart. It is something I hate about our country—something I will change if I am ever allowed to rule.
And it’s almost as though he reads my mind. “You may consent to have the child removed from your belly, or we can do it the way we did last time.”
“Father—”
“I’m giving you the option, am I not? I can be very progressive when I care to be.” He cocks his head. “So I’ll give you the choice.”
“That is not giving me a choice, Father. And…and…” My voice finally begins to falter. I had felt so strong—so capable—until he reminded me of how little control I actually have. How even if I can somehow manage to stand up to him with words, there is no way I can stand up to him if he uses force.
I’m going to lose my children.
“And…?” He gives me a mocking smile as he knocks on his desk. A few of the guardsmen return to the room.
My father gives them a nod before he returns his gaze to mine. “Return my daughter to her suite.” He smiles up at me. “You have twenty-four hours to make your decision, Daughter.”
William
This is not exactly how I planned for this to go.
With a sigh, I lean back against the wall, trying to get comfortable on the hard stone bench in my cell. I’m surprised the Rosvalian palace even has a dungeon—my grandfather converted ours into storage rooms some seventy years ago. I wonder how much use these cold stone cells actually get these days—I mean, it’s not like they regularly have Montovian princes hanging around. I didn’t see anyone else as the guards led me to this cell. As far as I know, the only other person down here right now is the man they’ve stationed just outside my cell door. I have no idea why he’s there—he won’t talk to me or answer my questions, and I don’t believe for a minute they think me capable of picking the three large locks and breaking my way out of here. The guard is probably just there for intimidation purposes. As if I might be terrified of some lumbering idiot in a uniform.
I take a good look around the small room I’m in. The walls and floor are both stone, but they’ve been well-maintained—no sign of damp or desperate messages etched into them by past prisoners. The iron grate across the door shows no sign of rust, the air doesn’t smell like unwashed bodies or piss, and there are no rats scurrying about. All in all, it’s all rather underwhelming—you could hardly call this a proper dungeon at all. Shouldn’t I be chained to the wall or something?
I reach into my pocket, fumbling for something I might use to carve a few words into the wall. If I’m going to be held prisoner, then I’m going to leave some proper graffiti. I bet they’d love to have my name etched into their palace for all eternity. Or better yet—William + Justine forever, with a giant heart around it.
Thinking of Justine brings my thoughts crashing back down. I can only hide my fears behind humor for so long.
God, I hope she’s all right. Of all the times for them to come bursting into our room… It was hard enough to watch my wife be sick and be unable to do anything about it, but to know that she’s on her own now, after the promises I made her… When I remember what her father did to her, what he could still do to her, rage rises up in me. I’ll kill him if he lays a hand on her…
But in spite of my restlessness and fear for her, another part of me reminds myself to have faith in her. If my experience with Justine has taught me anything, it’s that she’s resilient and resourceful—and whether I want to admit it or not, she has a better chance of getting through to her father than I do. She’ll figure out what to do—I trust her.
That doesn’t mean I have to sit idly around, though. Finding a Euro in my pocket, I lean over toward the wall and begin scraping the edge of the coin against the stone. To my delight, it easily leaves white streaks against the grayer stone. I throw a glance at the door, but if the guard hears what I’m doing, he makes no sign.
As I begin working on a W, I hear footsteps coming down the corridor outside. I counted about a dozen other cells between the entrance to the dungeon and this tiny room, and there are maybe another dozen past it. Plenty of corridor for someone to walk.
I don’t look up as the steps approach. I don’t want to appear too interested. A moment later, the steps slow and stop outside my cell door, next to the guard posted there.
“What do you want?” says my guard in a gruff voice.
The voice that answers is much less rough, even a little uncertain. “Sir, Captain Wolfe has requested your presence. Sir. He says I’m to relieve you and you’re to report to him at once.”
Wait—I know that voice.
“What’s this about?” growls my guard.
“I don’t know, sir. The captain didn’t say. But the king… That is, His Majesty—”
“Fine, I’ll go.” My guard doesn’t sound too happy about it. “I don’t have the patience to stand here all day listening to you blabber on.” He gives a hmph. “Just stand here until I get back. The prisoner’ll try to mess with you, but just ignore him.”
“Yes, sir.”
My guard’s heavy footsteps retreat down the stone corridor, and when I’m sure he’s gone, I pull the coin away from the wall. I’ve only managed to carve the W, but the rest will have to wait. I stand and walk casually over to the door, peering out through the grate.
“Oh, I thought that was you,” I say cheerfully, as if we’re in the middle of a park or a party, in the best of spirits.
The young man turns to look at me—it’s Julian, the young trainee I had the chance to meet in the kitchens what feels like ages ago. He still looks as awkward and uncertain as he did back then.
“Hello,” he says, a bit uncertainly. He quickly adds, “Your Highness.”
“How have you been? Doing well, I hope.”
“I’m doing all right,” he says, straightening. “And you?”
Even though I’m sure the question was automatic, his cheeks still color slightly when he realizes how absurd it is to ask me that.
“I’ve been better, Julian. I’m not going to lie,” I say with a grin. “But I’ve been worse, too. Things always seem a little better when the woman you love is in your life. I’d do anything for Justine.”
Julian looks at me from beneath his helmet. I can tell the kid still has some sympathy for me, but how much? Enough to help me get out of here? Enough to tell me what’s going on in this accursed palace?
I decide to test the waters.
“I have to admit, I’m worried about Justine,” I tell him, and I let an edge of genuine fear come into my voice. “We knew it would be awkward, coming back here, but I didn’t expect to be thrown into the dungeon within ten minutes of walking through the door. I have no idea what’s going on, and no one will tell me anything. I just want to know that Justine’s okay.” It’s not even a lie—Justine is my top priority. I’d rot in this cell for the rest of my days if I thought it would guarantee her safety.
Julian glances down the corridor, toward the door by which he entered. When he turns back to me, he looks nervous.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I don’t think I’m allowed… That is, I’m under strict orders, Your Highness. We might both get in trouble if I break them.”
“I have no intention of asking you to break any orders,” I say. “A man must make his own decisions about such things, and I’m in no position to advise you otherwise. But just tell me that Justine is safe. That she’s free and well.”
Julian shoots another nervous look at the door. “As far as I know, Your Highness.” He looks guilty. “But I’m not awa
re of everything the Royal Guard does. Some orders are kept secret.”
That doesn’t do much to reassure me. But I can tell he wants to help me, for better or for worse, and though I don’t want to put him at risk, I also don’t want to lose this small advantage.
“I’m not asking you to break any orders,” I say slowly, “but if you have chance to learn how she’s doing, if you could find a way to let me know…” I grip the bars and lower my voice. “And if you happen to see her, will you give her a message for me, just so I know she won’t worry?”
Julian looks uncertain for a second, then nods.
I smile, beckoning him closer so I can whisper the message in his ear.
Justine
My father doesn’t say another word to me. He must have had this conversation planned from the moment he found out I was returning to Rosvalia with William.
My shoulders sag, and I clutch my arms to my body, almost trying to hold myself together as I’m led back to my suite by a member of the Royal Guard.
The man doesn’t speak to me the entire journey—he’s not someone I recognize, or I might try to persuade him to help me.
There is no help for me, I think. I may as well fling myself from the balcony of my suite—it might be the only way I ever achieve any freedom.
Returning to Rosvalia was stupid. If I had been thinking clearly, we would have gone to Montovia, and I wouldn’t have insisted on coming here. We might not have been able to do anything to stop my father from William’s home, but at least we’d be free.
I can’t bear to lose my children—not again. And my father told me nothing of what will happen to William. I doubt very much that my father will be able to convince my husband that I’m lying about my pregnancy as he did with James. I suppose William wasn’t there to view the ultrasound with me, but he’s held me enough after my violent morning sickness to know something is amiss.
None of this will matter, of course. Somehow, some way, my father will prevail. He always does. Even if I should escape the palace before my twenty-four hours are up, William is still captive here. I’m sure he would protest my reasoning, but I can’t leave without him.