The voice came from behind him, smooth and teasing, and he froze as though lightning had crawled down his spine.
"You like it?"
Arlo turned, already knowing who it would be.
Charlotte lay sprawled across his bed like she had every right to be there, her long legs crossed, one arm propped lazily under her head.
She was smiling, of course. Always smiling.
That smile that never reached her eyes, that seemed to mock the world and me with its endless amusement.
For a moment, all he could do was stare.
His jaw tightened, and before I even thought it through, the words left my mouth:
"You're the one who did this to me, aren't you?"
It wasn't really a question. The answer was obvious. Still, he wanted to hear her say it.
Charlotte's grin widened, her eyes gleaming like a cat cornering a mouse. "Well, duh."
"Why?" Arlo asked next, his voice low, searching.
Charlotte gave a delicate shrug, her hair falling over her shoulders like molten silver. "I did some thinking. And I realized you and the Council were right. I can't have my husband being the weakest man in the kingdom." Her lips curved into something sharper than a smile, almost a baring of teeth. "So I decided to change that."
Arlo studied her face, trying to read beyond the mask.
That lazy grin, the careless shrug—it was all a performance.
It always was.
Behind it, he now knew there had to be something else, something dangerous and cunning.
It made her look bored, even stupid.
But he knew better.
That smile hid fangs.
"So you really have no plans of telling me what you want from me, huh?" he asked, watching her carefully.
Charlotte pouted, tilting her head in mock injury. "Oh, come now. I've answered that question dozens of times already. Why does no one ever believe me?"
Her voice dripped with exaggerated sorrow, her lower lip pushing out just slightly.
A pitiful face.
And damn it, some strange part of him actually felt the instinct to comfort her.
To tell her he believed her, to step closer and brush away her fake sorrow.
The thought rattled through me like a foreign whisper, something I never would have thought before.
He shook my head sharply, trying to banish it.
"You know what," He said finally, exhaling hard, "I don't care anymore. Whatever you want from me, it seems you'll need me alive to get it."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Charlotte sat up on the bed, her grin turning sly, dangerous.
"Oh, that is an interesting observation."
Her tone was velvet, and every syllable brushed against me like a blade. She stood, unhurried, graceful.
And then she started toward him.
Normally, this was the moment Arlo would have backed away.
Normally, his heart would have pounded like a trapped rabbit, and every instinct would have screamed run.
But nothing like that happened.
His heart did beat faster, yes, but not with fear.
It was something else. Something primal, something in his blood pulling him forward rather than back.
And before he even realized it, he was stepping toward her too.
Meeting her halfway.
"It's the right observation," he said, my voice steady.
Her eyes lit up, and her smile stretched, satisfied.
She seemed pleased by my words, but more by my reaction—by the fact that I hadn't recoiled.
They stood close now, so close he could see the flecks of ice shards swirling in her irises, could feel the coldness radiating from her skin.
"So," Arlo began, his voice low, "what exactly did you do to me?"
Charlotte's gaze never wavered.
Her smile softened—not in kindness, but in triumph. "Simple," she murmured. "I made you my husband."
The words slid over him like silk, heavy and binding.
His breath caught.
"So," he asked, tilting my head, "does that mean we are officially married now?"
"Pretty much."
Her answer was so casual it almost stole his balance.
Almost. But he steadied himself.
At this point, they were just a breath apart.
The space between them thinned until Arlo swore I could feel her heartbeat against his.
Something inside him stirred.
It wasn't a romantic feeling, It wasn't lust as well.
It was something older, something rawer.
His blood sang with it, that same alien thrum he had felt during the ritual.
And then—
A cough.
Sharp, awkward, and completely out of place.
They both froze.
Simultaneously, They both turned their heads toward the door and snapped, "What!"
The word ripped from Arlo's throat like a whip, sharp and unrestrained.
The sound of his own voice shocked him.
"...."
Normally, he would have shrunk back, maybe muttered something half-hearted.
But this—this was loud, commanding.
It startled him almost as much as the figure standing in the doorway.
Daphne.
The queen's knight.
She stood rigid in the frame, her face caught between professionalism and discomfort.
She looked like a child scolded unfairly, her jaw tight, her eyes flicking between them.
He could see her trying to keep her composure, but the slight flare of her nostrils gave her away.
"I have prepared everything, my queen," she said stiffly. Then, as her eyes flicked to me, they narrowed. A glare, sharp and brief, before she spun on her heel and left.
"…."
Silence pressed in the room after her departure.
Arlo stood there, stunned not by Daphne's interruption, but by himself.
By the fact that he had shouted at her.
By the heat that still lingered his chest, not fear, but defiance.