Only one.

Finally getting a straight answer out of her should settle my mind, but instead, it only raises more questions. If the man who inspired all that poetry was the only man…he’s much more important than I initially realized. Infinitely more important.

“But…only one…?” I hear myself say. It’s more to myself than to her, but she answers anyway.

“Yes. I’ve said it four times already.”

I hear her stir on the other side of the wall of pillows. Her answer explains so much, but it makes the need to know the man’s name even more unbearable. I try to ignore the burn of jealousy in my gut, but it’s impossible.

“And you won’t tell me his name?” I ask her quietly. “This one man?”

She moves again, and when she speaks, her voice is quieter, as if she’s facing away from me now.

“This game was a bad idea,” she says. “I think I’m just going to go to sleep.”

“But it’s your turn,” I protest. “You get to ask a question of me now.”

She’s quiet for so long that I wonder if she’s outright ignoring me, but then her voice breaks through the silence.

“Those seven women you had relationships with,” she says. “Did you ever love any of them?”

“That depends on how you define love.”

“The standard way.”

I grin up at the ceiling. “One might say there is no standard way to define love, that everyone experiences it differently—”

“Stop stalling and answer the question.”

Part of me wants to laugh. The other part of me feels as if she’s tapped into something I’ve never scrutinized very closely—something I don’t want to scrutinize.

“No,” I say after a moment. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever been in love.”

She doesn’t respond. It’s my turn to ask her a question, and I can’t just turn that question back around on her—I already know the answer.

Instead, I ask, “Do you think someone can love more than once in their life?”

Again, she lets the silence drag on for far too long. When she finally speaks, her voice is so soft I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

“No.”

I know without asking that the game is over, that I won’t learn anything else from her tonight. The darkness suddenly feels very heavy and very still around us.

I lie there without moving for some time. Eventually, her breaths become slower, steadier, until I’m certain she’s asleep. But I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.

I don’t know why her answers disturb me so much. It’s not like I expected her to fall in love with me—I’m not some ridiculous romantic. I knew what I was getting into, and that the best we could hope for was a mutual understanding and respect. But her certainty that her one and only love is behind her is disheartening, even depressing—though I’m not sure whether I’m sad for her or for myself.

Fuck me, it was never supposed to be this complicated. At least not this way. I’m a prisoner is Rosvalia with in-laws who despise me and a wife who’s convinced herself she can never be happy with me. Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?

After a while, I get out of bed. On the far side of the room are French doors leading out onto a small balcony, and I open them and step out into the night air.

It’s warmer outside than I expected. It’s been a mild, dry autumn so far, but judging by the sharp wind, we should have rain in the next few days, maybe even as early as tomorrow morning. There’s already mist rising from the river flowing through the city.

Maybe I’ll explore the capital tomorrow, I think, looking out at the fuzzy, fog-wrapped lights of the city. At least it would get me out of the palace for a while.

I take a seat in one of the cushioned chairs, propping my feet up on the railing. The skin of my bare chest prickles as a gust of wind sweeps by, but I find the chill refreshing. Next best thing to a cold shower.

I should go back to bed with my new wife—after all, I was the one who fought so hard for the right to share her bed tonight—but I can’t bring myself to do it.

Just a few more minutes, I tell myself, tilting my head back and looking up at the dark sky. Just a few more minutes to think.

* * *

I wake to the feeling of raindrops pelting me.

I jerk upright, blinking as I look around. It’s morning, judging by the pale gray sky, and the rain is coming down harder every second.

My entire body is stiff. And cold. Did I really spend all night out here? My pajama bottoms are soaked.

I wrap one arm around myself, trying to rub myself warm and dry as I open the door to the bedroom.

And nearly walk right into Justine.

She looks just as stunned as I feel. Her gaze takes me in from top to bottom, and her lips curl down into a frown. “I was looking for you. Have you been out there all night?”

“Not on purpose,” I say. I have the urge to shake my head, to try and get some of the moisture out of my hair, but I have a feeling she won’t appreciate being splattered. “I only wanted to get some fresh air, but I guess I fell asleep.”

She’s still staring at me, her expression guarded. I wish I knew what she was thinking—but I can’t help but get distracted by how beautiful she looks right now, fresh out of bed. Her hair is messy, her eyes still a little sleepy. One of the straps of her tank top has fallen down over her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

If circumstances were different, I’d carry her right back to that bed and fuck her at least twice before breakfast.

I can only imagine what she’s thinking of me right now—probably nothing nearly as complimentary.

“I, uh…I should probably go take a shower,” I say. A hot shower. “After that I was thinking of going out into the city. It’s about time I saw a little more of Rosvalia.”

“In this weather?”

I can’t read her tone, so I keep my voice light. “Why not? A little rain never hurt anybody.”

“It’s going to be more than just a little rain.” She brushes past me, reaching for the French doors and pulling them open wide. A blast of rain hits us. “If I had to guess, we’re going to be hit with quite the storm.”

I stare out past her shoulder. The clouds are much bigger and darker at the far edge of the valley—and as far I can tell, they’re headed straight toward us. When I glance down at the palace grounds, I see a number of people already scurrying about, bringing in the garden furniture and decorative lanterns, preparing for destructive weather.

“Do you get bad storms here?” I ask her.

“They’re rare, but they do happen. Especially since our autumns have gotten warmer.” Shadows fill her eyes. “The river flooded last year, and a number of farms were destroyed. And we only just finished restoring the damage in the city’s southern district.” She turns back to me so abruptly that I stumble back in surprise. “Do me a favor and try to stay out of trouble today. There’s a lot that must be done, and I don’t want you underfoot. Try not to stray too far from the suite, either—last year the palace and most of the city lost power for the better part of a day. I told Father we needed to invest in some emergency generators, but he decided that money was better spent elsewhere.”

She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she closes the doors and strides over to the closet, clearly preoccupied.

“I’ll have the kitchen send you some breakfast,” she calls to me from the closet. “Oh—and stay away from the windows. Last year we had hail the size of golf balls, and it damaged a couple of priceless works of stained glass and three panels on the aviary.”

“There’s no reason for me to stay cooped up here all day,” I tell her. “How can I help?”

“Honestly, the biggest help would be for you to stay out of everyone’s way.”

That’s a lie, and we both know it.

“I’m not incompetent, Princess. And I’ve helped with a number of minor national crises in Montovia. I can help here.”

She emerges from the closet, dressed in a blouse and a pair of slacks. She’s tying her hair up on her head, chewing on her bottom lip as she thinks.

“I’ll send for you later,” she says finally. “Get dressed and be ready. I’m going to go find my father.”

It’s the best I’m going to get from her, I know.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll be waiting.”

She rushes out of the room without another word to me, worry written all over her face.

When she’s gone, I turn back to the doors, looking outside. The clouds are already visibly closer—they’re moving fast. I open the doors, and the wind that hits me is so strong it knocks me back a couple of steps. Below, a man shouts as the awning he was trying to roll up flies out of his hands and is thrown across the grounds. It’s going to be a bad one, that much is clear.

I quickly shut the doors, preparing myself for whatever comes.