I wake to grey morning light filtering through the schoolroom windows and the uncomfortable realization that my neck is cramped from sleeping on the floor. Domnall's arm is still around my waist, his breathing steady and deep against my back.
For a moment, I let myself exist in this—the warmth of him, the safety of being held, the stolen peace before reality crashes back.
Then a clock chimes somewhere in the house. Six in the morning. Servants will be moving through corridors soon.
"Domnall." I shake his shoulder gently. "We need to move."
He stirs, pulls me closer for a moment before awareness returns. "What time is it?"
"Early enough to get to our rooms unseen if we hurry."
We dress quickly, fingers clumsy with urgency. He helps me re-lace my dress, his hands steadier than mine. We check the corridor—empty—and slip out separately. Him first, then me five minutes later.
I make it to my room without encountering anyone. Lock the door behind me and lean against it, heart racing.
What did we just do? What have I just committed to?
The answer settles warm in my chest: everything. I've committed to everything
***
Three days later, I'm walking through a corridor on the second floor when I hear his voice coming from a partially open door. I slow my steps, not intending to eavesdrop but recognizing something in his tone that makes my skin prickle.
"—and I want to be very clear about the consequences of failing to cooperate." Domnall's voice is cold. Controlled. Utterly devoid of warmth. "Your family's holdings in the northern provinces depend entirely on favorable trade agreements my office controls. One word from me, and those agreements disappear."
A man's voice responds, too quiet for me to make out the words.
"I don't care about your personal feelings on the matter." Domnall cuts him off. "I care about ensuring cooperation. You will support my announcement when I make it. You will speak favorably about my decision to the other lords. And if you betray this confidence—if you run to my mother with what we've discussed—the consequences will be swift and permanent."
Silence. Then the other man mumbles something that sounds like agreement.
"Good. I'm glad we understand each other."
Footsteps approach the door. I step back quickly, pretending I was just walking past.
Domnall emerges with Lord Ashford, one of his mother's political allies. Or former ally, apparently.
The moment Domnall sees me, his expression transforms. The cold, dangerous edge vanishes completely, replaced by pleasant warmth. He smiles, nods in greeting. "Mrs. Farren. Good morning."
"My lord." I curtsy automatically, but my pulse is racing.
Lord Ashford hurries past without looking at either of us, his face pale.
Domnall's expression doesn't change. Still pleasant, still warm, like he didn't just threaten a man's entire livelihood with the same calm tone most people use to discuss weather.
The shift is jarring. Terrifying, even.
Elspeth's warning echoes: Men who smile when they're angry are the ones who'll surprise you.
He walks past me down the corridor, whistling softly, and I stand there trying to reconcile what I just heard with the man who held me tenderly three nights ago.
That evening, a knock at my door. A servant with a message: Lord Morvaine requests my presence in his study. Documents have arrived.
I find him surrounded by papers, maps spread across his desk, a sealed box sitting prominently on the side table.
"Close the door." He doesn't look up from whatever he's reading. "Lock it."
I obey, heart already racing.
"These arrived this afternoon." He gestures to the documents. "Everything I could find about House Carraig. Orlaith's lineage, the political purge, witness testimonies, financial records. It's all here."
I move closer, examining the papers. Birth records. Marriage contracts. Letters. Detailed family trees showing Orlaith's descent from the old royal line.
"This is enough." My hands tremble as I sort through documents. "This proves everything—that my mother was legitimate nobility, that Catriona orchestrated the purge, that I'm—"
The door rattles. Someone trying the handle, finding it locked.
Then a knock. "My lord? It's Thomas. Urgent matter."
Domnall crosses to the door, unlocks it. His most trusted servant—the one who delivered his investigator's reports—stands there looking genuinely shaken.
"What is it?"
"My lord, I just heard from the kitchen staff. Lady Catriona was speaking with her personal advisor this afternoon. They know. About you and Mrs. Farren. She has proof—servants who've seen you together, witnessed the locked doors, heard—" He stops, glances at me uncomfortably.
"How much time do we have?" Domnall's voice is calm, controlled.
"Days, my lord. Maybe less. She's planning something."
"Thank you, Thomas. You may go."
The servant leaves. Domnall locks the door again.
"We're out of time." He turns to face me. "I'll break the engagement within the next three days. Acknowledge the children publicly. Use the evidence of your heritage to protect you from whatever my mother tries in retaliation."
"Domnall—"
"I need to retrieve the legal documents I've prepared. They're in the vault in the east wing. Stay here, look through these records. I'll be back in ten minutes."
He's gone before I can argue, leaving me alone with boxes of documents about my murdered mother and destroyed house.
I sink into his chair, pulling papers toward me systematically. Birth records, death records, witness statements. A picture emerging of deliberate, calculated destruction.
Then I find the sealed letter.
It's addressed to someone whose name has been carefully removed. The wax seal shows it was opened, read, then resealed. I break it again, unfold yellowed paper covered in cramped handwriting.
To whom it may concern:
I served as royal midwife for seventeen years before retiring to the northern provinces. In that capacity, I attended births for both the royal family and connected nobility. Two births in particular weigh on my conscience as I approach my final days.
Eighteen years ago, I was summoned to attend Lady Orlaith Carraig in secret childbirth. The lady was in hiding, fearing for her life.
She delivered a healthy female infant who bore the Aeldmoor royal birthmark—the crescent moon on the left wrist that has marked legitimate royal descent for six generations.
That same year, I attended Lady Catriona Morvaine at the King's request, as she claimed to carry his child. I examined the infant boy carefully after birth.
He bore none of the King's physical markers. No birthmark. His features, his build, his coloring—all matched descriptions I'd heard of Lord Brennan Faulke, a nobleman known to have visited Lady Catriona's chambers frequently.
I reported my observations to the royal physician. He advised silence, said speaking would endanger my life and change nothing. I kept silent. But my conscience demands this testimony before I die.
Lady Orlaith's daughter carries legitimate royal blood. Lady Catriona's son does not.
The letter is signed with a name I don't recognize, dated eighteen years ago.
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it.
I grab more documents from the box.
Financial records showing payments from Catriona to Lord Brennan Faulke during the exact period she would have conceived. A physical description of Faulke—dark hair, dark blue eyes, tall build. A perfect match for Domnall.
More testimony from servants who witnessed Catriona's affair. Letters between them, carefully preserved, discussing their arrangement.
The truth assembles itself with horrible clarity:
Catriona had an affair with Lord Faulke while serving as the King's mistress. She became pregnant. Passed the child off as royal. Convinced the King to legitimize her bastard son.
Meanwhile, Orlaith Carraig—who had actually been considered for royal marriage—gave birth to a daughter who bore the legitimate royal birthmark. The King's child, most likely, from their earlier connection.
Catriona discovered the truth. Realized Orlaith's daughter had a stronger claim than her bastard son. Orchestrated the entire purge to eliminate the threat.
I'm not just Orlaith's daughter. I'm the true heir.