Chapter 2

Eleanor Kensington POV:

“Take the servants' stairs,” Victor said quietly. “You can still get out before they arrive.”

I glanced at him, then at the rumpled bed behind us. The silk sheets were stained with blood and sweat, the lingering evidence of what had happened in this room. The drug still simmered through my veins, and the marks on my skin were impossible to miss.

Running would buy me a little time, but it would also leave Tristan free to tell whatever story he pleased.

I had no intention of letting him write my story for me.

I crossed to the fireplace and seized the stained sheets. One by one, I fed the silk into the flames, watching the fabric curl, blacken, and disintegrate. The fire consumed the physical evidence, leaving only wisps of smoke and the faint, bitter smell of scorched silk.

The marks on my skin were another matter. They would take time to fade, and no amount of burning could erase them before the others arrived.

I lowered my gaze to the red traces along my body, my expression hardening as a plan took shape.

If Tristan intended to use those marks as proof that I had willingly participated in whatever scheme he had arranged, I needed a way to undermine his story. Hiding the marks wouldn't be enough. I needed a visible explanation for the sudden change in my skin—and I needed it before the others arrived.

My gaze swept across the chamber and stopped at the vase beside the washstand.

Fire-leaf.

I recognized the plant. Once dried and ingested, Fire-leaf could trigger a distinctive reaction in werewolves: angry red patches that spread across the skin, obscuring other marks beneath them. If the reaction appeared in time, anyone examining me would have to consider another explanation for the redness.

A cold calculation settled in my mind. I didn't need to convince everyone of my innocence on the spot. I only needed to make Tristan's version of events less certain—and give myself room to challenge it.

Victor noticed my expression. “Eleanor?”

I didn't answer. I crossed to the vase and tore off several leaves, then carried them to the fireplace.

I held them near the heat, turning them until the moisture evaporated and the leaves shriveled into brittle, darkened fragments. There was no time to waste. I crushed them into a small ceramic dish and swallowed them, forcing down the bitter taste.

Victor went still.

For a moment, he simply stared at me, as though he couldn't decide whether to stop me or acknowledge what I had chosen to do.

“Do you understand what you've just taken?” His voice had lost its usual composure.

“Every bit of it.”

“You know what Fire-leaf does when it's dried.”

“I do.”

His gaze dropped to the empty dish, then returned to my face. Shock flashed across his features, followed by something harder to conceal: admiration. He understood that I wasn't acting out of panic. I had recognized the plant and the reaction it could cause, then deliberately accepted the risk because it gave me a chance to make the evidence against me less conclusive.

“You'd risk poisoning yourself just to give yourself a chance to clear your name?” he asked.

“I'd rather choose the risk myself than let Tristan decide my fate.”

For several seconds, Victor said nothing. Then the tension in his expression shifted. The concern remained, but it was no longer the only thing in his eyes.

He seemed to recognize that I wasn't a sheltered merchant's daughter waiting for someone stronger to rescue me. I was willing to make a ruthless choice when the situation demanded it. The realization earned me a measure of respect—and a flicker of interest he made no effort to explain.

I had no time to dwell on his reaction. The plant's effects would take a little time to appear, and I needed to finish preparing the room before anyone came through the door.

I turned back to the washstand and searched the surrounding floor, checking the narrow spaces between the furniture and the wall. Something metallic caught the light near the basin.

Three silver buttons.

I crouched and picked them up. Each bore the royal twin-wolf crest, the insignia used on Victor's uniform.

My fingers tightened around the buttons.

“Victor.” I held them out to him. “These belong to your uniform.”

He looked down at the silver in my palm, and the last trace of softness vanished from his face.

“Where did you find them?”

“Beside the washbasin. Someone may have missed them when they left.”

He took the buttons and examined the crests. “If these are found here, they'll be used against me.”

“Then don't let anyone find them.” I met his gaze. “Hide them somewhere no one will think to search. And don't let them distract you from what Tristan is really after.”

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. “You think this is about more than what happened in this room.”

“I know it is.”

He had inherited the hereditary Alpha decree, and Tristan wanted it. My family's charter was another prize Tristan had been maneuvering to obtain. If he could discredit me and put Victor on the defensive at the same time, he could use the scandal to advance both objectives.

Fire-leaf gave me a way to challenge the simplest interpretation of the marks on my skin. If the characteristic rash appeared, I could point to the sudden change in my skin as a reason to question the accusation. It wouldn't prove Tristan had framed me, but it would make it harder for him to pass those marks off as unquestionable evidence of my willing participation.

I rose and surveyed the bed. The scorched sheets were gone, but the bedding beneath them remained rumpled. I straightened the covers as much as I could, smoothing the fabric until the bed looked almost undisturbed. Then I adjusted the curtains and returned the vase to its original place.

The ceramic dish, now empty, remained near the fireplace. I left it where it was.

A faint prickling began beneath my skin. I glanced down as fresh red patches started to emerge, spreading beyond the original marks. The reaction was taking hold. I gripped the edge of the washstand until the brief wave of dizziness passed, then forced myself upright.

Victor's jaw tightened. “You don't have to prove your strength by enduring this alone.”

“I know.” I drew a slow breath. “But I do have to make sure they can't twist what happened into whatever story suits them.”

His eyes lingered on me. Whatever he saw there seemed to settle something in his mind. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Outside, the first chime rang through the corridor.

Then a second.

I counted each one, keeping my breathing steady as the red patches spread across my skin, making the original marks harder to distinguish. The footsteps beyond the door grew louder, accompanied by low voices and the unmistakable rustle of people gathering to witness a scandal.

Six chimes.

They were almost here.

The footsteps stopped outside.

I straightened my shoulders, hiding the tremor that threatened to betray me. My skin prickled beneath the spreading rash, and I knew the next few minutes could decide far more than my reputation.

If this reaction bought me even a moment's doubt in their minds, it would be worth the risk. Tristan had come expecting to use those marks to condemn me. Now, when he looked at my skin, he would have to reckon with something he hadn't planned for.

The handle began to turn.

The monsters who had destroyed my first life were marching right into my parlor.