Chapter 2

Rafe didn't look at me. His attention stayed on the soldiers moving in from both sides.

"You've got three breaths," he said. "Give me one reason I shouldn't hand you over."

"Because they'll cut out my Shadow Core before sunset."

"That's not a reason. That's a schedule."

I yanked against his grip. He tightened it. His palm was rough, hot, and annoyingly steady around mine.

"Fine," I snapped. "If the Directorate takes me, the western fortress falls in six days."

That finally got his attention.

His dark eyes dropped to my face. "You're bluffing."

"You want to test me while your cannon's aimed at my heart? Go ahead."

Behind us, Marek laughed.

That same lazy laugh. The one he'd used when he broke our engagement in front of the court. The one he'd used after calling me a traitor and telling everyone to watch me beg.

"She's lying because she knows she's finished," Marek said. "Take her, Rafe. The Directorate might forgive you for delivering one useful prisoner."

Rafe's thumb pressed once against my wrist. A warning.

"You brought a map?" he asked.

"Blackstone's eastern defenses."

"The fortress you claim will fall?"

"The fortress you were exiled for failing to hold."

The soldiers shifted.

A few of them looked at Rafe's back, then at the black iron badge on his coat. He'd lost his rank, but armed men still watched him like one wrong move would cost them a hand.

His mouth flattened. "Careful, Helen."

"You asked for a reason. I gave you one."

"You gave me an insult."

"Be offended after you stop them from carving me open."

Marek stepped closer. His white court uniform was spotless, even with blood splashed across the platform near his boots. He always looked polished when he ruined someone's life.

"She has nothing," he said. "No rank. No family protection. No fiancé. I ended that in front of the throne. Remember?"

"You ended it after selling weapons to the rebels," I said.

The court went silent.

Marek's smile slipped.

I saw it. So did Rafe.

"Watch your mouth," Marek said.

"Why? Afraid someone will ask why your private seal was found on the rebel shipment?"

Rafe turned his head. "You have proof?"

"Enough to get Marek executed before he finishes the order to kill me."

Marek's hand dropped to his sword.

Rafe moved first.

He dragged me against his side and caught Marek's wrist before the blade cleared its sheath. My back slammed into Rafe's chest.

His coat brushed my cheek. Heat soaked through two layers of cloth. His breath touched the shell of my ear.

"Don't move," he murmured.

"I wasn't planning to."

"Your heart's racing."

"There's a cannon pointed at it."

"No. You were like this when I touched you."

I turned my head just enough to glare at him. "Keep talking, and I might make the cannon useful."

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

Not for long. Long enough.

Then he shoved Marek's arm down.

"Your man reaches for steel again," Rafe said, "and I break the hand."

Marek stared at him. "You think marrying a condemned traitor will restore your title?"

The words hit the crowd harder than the cannon blast.

I went still.

Rafe's arm tightened around my waist. "What did you say?"

Marek's smile returned, thin and ugly. "She didn't tell you? Helen came here planning to use you. She always did prefer desperate men."

"Marek," I said, "stop before I read the shipment records aloud."

His face hardened.

Rafe looked down at me. "Marrying me?"

"A pact. Not a wedding."

"You came to the judgment platform with a marriage pact hidden under your sleeve?"

"I came prepared. Unlike you."

He pulled me around to face him. His hand stayed at my waist, keeping me between his body and the soldiers. His fingers spread over my ribs.

Too close.

Too warm.

I hated that I noticed.

"Explain," he said.

"The Directorate can't execute your legal wife without opening a throne hearing. Your exile order blocks that hearing unless you gain a recognized blood claim. Marry me, and you get access to the royal archives. You get your command back. You get the fortress map."

His grip tightened. "And what do you get?"

"Protection."

"That's all?"

"For now."

His eyes narrowed. "You expect me to believe you want protection from the court that just humiliated you?"

"No. I expect you to believe I want to live."

Marek tore his wrist free. "This is absurd. She's trying to trap you. She has no royal blood. Her family lost its claim years ago."

My fingers curled around Rafe's coat.

He noticed.

"How much does the Directorate know about your family?" he asked.

"Enough to want me dead. Not enough to understand why."

"And you do?"

"I know Blackstone. I know where your generals failed. I know which council member paid Marek's rebels. I know the throne will fall before winter."

"You know a lot for a woman with no rank."

"I read."

"You lie."

"So do you."

For one sharp second, neither of us moved.

The cannon hummed behind me. Red light painted Rafe's jaw and the hollow of his throat. My hand was still tangled in his coat. His pulse beat beneath my fingers.

He looked down at it.

"You can let go," I said.

"No."

"Afraid I'll run?"

"Afraid you'll do something stupid."

"I was about to marry an idiot. I know what stupid looks like."

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something meaner.

Marek stepped toward the cannon officer. "Fire."

The officer froze. "The prisoner is still under tribunal review."

"I am the tribunal's acting voice. Fire."

Rafe's head snapped toward him.

I shoved the folded map into Rafe's chest.

"Read it. Now."

He caught it without taking his eyes off Marek. "If this is blank—"

"Then hand me over and watch them cut me open. But if I'm right, the first rebel strike hits Blackstone's lower gate tonight."

Rafe unfolded the map.

Ash stained the paper. My blood marked the edges. I'd copied the fortress tunnels from memory, including the sealed passage beneath the old throne chamber.

His eyes tracked the lines.

"This passage doesn't exist."

"It does."

"I ordered a search."

"Your engineers searched the walls. The entrance is under the chapel floor."

"The chapel was destroyed."

"The floor wasn't."

He looked at me again.

The doubt in his face had teeth now.

Marek saw it too.

"Rafe, don't be a fool. Take her to the Directorate. They'll give you a pardon."

"They gave me exile," Rafe said.

"They can undo it."

"Can they?"

Marek said nothing.

That silence answered him.

I leaned closer to Rafe. My shoulder brushed his chest. "He's stalling. The order to fire came from him because he knows the records are real."

"You want me to trust you because of a guess?"

"No. Trust the fact that Marek's sweating through his collar."

Rafe looked down at me.

"And the marriage?" he asked.

"Sign the pact. Publicly. Let the court see you claim me. Then no one can take me without starting a war between your army and the Directorate."

"I don't have an army."

"You will when you open Blackstone's war vault."

His fingers dug into my waist. "You know about the vault too?"

"I know where the key is."

"Where?"

"Sign first."

His face went cold. "You don't get to set terms while standing in front of my cannon."

"Your cannon?"

I pointed past him. "The officer's waiting for your order, not Marek's. He answers to the exile who still owns this battlefield. So decide. Hand me over and spend the rest of your life begging for scraps from the men who betrayed you, or marry the woman carrying the only map that can save your fortress."

Rafe stared at me.

Then he leaned down.

The space between us vanished. His breath warmed my lips. The crowd blurred at the edge of my vision, but I still heard Marek cursing under his breath.

"If I sign," Rafe said, low enough for only me to hear, "you stay in my fortress. Under my protection. Under my rules."

"I don't take orders well."

"You will take mine."

"Try me."

His thumb dragged over the inside of my wrist, right over the red mark his grip had left.

My breath caught.

I hated him for hearing it.

His eyes dropped to my mouth again.

"You want me close enough to protect you," he said. "Don't pretend this is only strategy."

I lifted my chin. "You want my map badly enough to marry me. Don't pretend you're above using me."

His stare sharpened.

"Fine," he said. "We make the pact."

Marek barked a laugh. "You can't. The royal seal will reject her."

"Then it rejects her," Rafe said. "And I hand her back."

He drew a knife from his belt and cut across his palm.

Blood welled at once, dark against his skin.

I held out my hand.

Rafe caught my wrist before the blade touched me. "One more thing. No hidden terms. No secret orders. No attempt to use my name against me."

"Agreed."

"Say it properly."

"I won't use your name against you."

"And you obey the protection clause."

"Define protection."

"You stay beside me until the threat is gone."

"That's not protection. That's imprisonment."

"Call it whatever helps you sleep."

"I don't sleep well."

"I noticed."

He cut my palm.

Pain flashed hot and clean. Our blood struck the contract at the same time.

The paper lifted off the stone table.

Black lines crawled across its surface, forming the old royal seal. The crowd shouted. The cannon's red core flared brighter, and the platform shook under our boots.

Rafe grabbed my shoulder and hauled me against him.

"Don't break contact."

"You didn't put that in the terms."

"I'm putting it in now."

The blood seal burned through the paper and into my skin.

I gasped. Rafe's arm locked around my waist, holding me upright as heat raced from our joined palms to my chest. His heartbeat slammed against my back.

"Rafe," I said through my teeth. "The pact is taking more than blood."

"What did you write?"

"Nothing."

"Helen."

"I said nothing!"

The cannon fired.

Rafe turned, shielding me with his body. The blast struck the black barrier around the platform and exploded into white fire.

Stone cracked beneath our feet.

When the light cleared, the pact still floated between us.

The seal had changed.

New words burned across the page in black-red ink.

I hadn't written them.

Rafe read them first.

His body went rigid around mine.

"What does it say?" I demanded.

He didn't answer.

I tore my hand free and caught the contract before it spun away. The letters crawled down the page, one at a time, while the royal mark burned through Rafe's palm.

KEEP THE ANCHOR ALIVE UNTIL THE THRONE OPENS.

My stomach dropped.

"Anchor?" I whispered. "What anchor?"

Rafe's eyes lifted from the pact to my face. The cannon began to reload behind us. Every soldier on the platform took one step back.

His blood-marked hand closed over mine.

"You didn't write this," he said.

"No."

"Then why does the throne think you belong to me?"

The seal flared between our hands. Rafe pulled me closer as the words shifted again, forming one final line—

"THE ANCHOR IS—"