The doors boomed shut behind me, the sound rolling across the Great Hall like a war drum. I stood at the threshold, letting the weight of it settle into the stone floor, into the silence that had fallen over the room. The court had been mid-murmur, goblets half-raised, conversations caught in their throats, and now every eye in the hall was on me.

They were lined up like a court of hungry stars.

Six women in their finest gowns, arranged by rank, each one a jewel in the crown I had just taken from Aldric's head. And at the far end, Isolde. Blonde hair falling in waves to her waist, blue eyes fixed on me with that smile I knew too well — the one that said she had already won before the game began.

The husbands stood at the edges of the hall like sentinels, goblets in hand, watching their wives' mouths as they waited for mine.

Garrison Holt was the first to catch my eye, his thin shoulders hunched over his wine, his gaze flickering between me and Seraphina with that hungry, cuckolded look I had come to know. Bartholomew Flint stood near the hearth, his beard gleaming with spilled ale, grinning like he was in on a joke no one else had heard. Cedric Thorne was a statue against the far wall, his scarred hands resting on his sword pommel, gray eyes tracking my every step. Varis Rourke was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was everywhere. And Orin Cross stood near the dais, his crystal staff clutched in white-knuckled fingers, his pale eyes fixed on his wife with a look that was equal parts worship and dread.

I walked forward.

The line waited. Six pairs of eyes, six different hungers. I had taken each of these women in private, in shadowed rooms and on altars and against walls, but this was different. This was public. This was the court watching me claim what was already mine.

Seraphina was first by rank, her chestnut hair sleek against her shoulders, her brown eyes sharp as cut glass. She wore a gown of deep emerald that matched the calculating glint in her gaze, and as I approached, her fingers began tapping against her hip — that impatient tell she thought she hid so well.

"Your Majesty," she said, the title dripping with irony as she dipped into a curtsey that was more performance than deference.

"Lady Holt." I took her hand, raised it to my lips, and held her gaze. "You look exquisite tonight."

"I always look exquisite." Her fingers tightened around mine, and she pulled me closer, close enough that the court would see. Close enough that the game was clear. "The question is whether you'll do anything about it."

I kissed her.

Her lips parted against mine before I even made contact, a soft gasp swallowed into the press of our mouths. Her hand found my chest, fingers spreading wide, a claim staked in front of every lord and lady in the hall. She kissed me like she was proving something — to me, to the court, to the husband she knew was watching with his heart in his throat.

"I've been waiting for this," she breathed against my mouth. "Weeks, Xavier. Weeks of watching you circle this hall like a wolf counting sheep."

"And which one are you?" I murmured, my thumb tracing her jaw. "The sheep — or the wolf in sheep's clothing?"

"The one who's going to make you beg." Her teeth caught my lower lip, just sharp enough to make my breath hitch. "Garrison thinks I'm discussing household accounts with you. He's probably computing the interest on my absence right now."

"Let him." I pulled back just enough to see her eyes, bright and hungry. "Let him count. I'll give him something worth tallying."

I let her have her moment, then pulled back, my thumb brushing her jaw as I released her. Her eyes were bright, her lips slightly swollen, and she stepped back into her place with the satisfied smile of a woman who had just won a hand she hadn't even known she was playing.

"Don't keep me waiting too long," she said, soft enough that only I could hear. "I'm not a patient woman."

I moved on, my blood heating.

Evangeline Cross stood at the edge of the line like a creature from another world, her silver-white hair glowing in the torchlight, her violet eyes holding a mystic's intensity. She wore white, as always, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light and seemed to shimmer with its own inner fire. Her husband was watching from the dais, his gaunt face pale, his crystal staff trembling in his grip.

"Your Majesty," she said, and her voice was a prayer.

"Lady Cross." I took her hand, and she stepped closer, her fingers rising to my jaw. They trembled against my skin, light as moth wings, and her eyes searched mine as if looking for something she had seen in a vision.

Her kiss was barely there — a brush of lips, a breath shared — but it was enough. Her fingers tightened on my jaw, and I felt her pulse fluttering against my palm. When she pulled back, there were tears shining in her violet eyes, and her lips moved in a silent prayer I couldn't hear.

She stepped back into place, her fingers still trembling.

And then there was Isolde.

She stood at the far end of the line, her golden hair a cascade of light, her blue eyes fixed on me with that slow, dangerous smile. She wore a gown of deep sapphire that hugged every curve, her full breasts rising above the neckline, her perfect ass a promise beneath the silk. She was the queen, the sex icon, the woman every man in this hall had fantasized about — and she was mine.

The hall held its breath.

I walked toward her, and the distance between us felt like a battlefield. I had taken her against the window in her solar, in her own bed while her husband watched and begged, and now I was claiming her in front of everyone who mattered.

She didn't curtsey. She didn't speak. She just watched me approach, her smile fixed and unmoving, her eyes tracking my every step with the patience of a predator.

I stopped in front of her, close enough to smell her perfume — something floral and dark, like night-blooming jasmine. Her hand rose, and her fingers brushed my jaw, feather-light, before she pulled me down to her.

Her kiss was a brand.

She kissed me like she owned me, like she was claiming me in front of every lord and lady in the hall, and I kissed her back with the same ferocity. Her lips parted, her tongue sliding against mine, her hand tangling in my hair to hold me there. I tasted wine on her, and something sweeter — the taste of a woman who had just watched her husband dragged away in chains and felt nothing but relief.

When she finally pulled back, her smile was restored, perfect, fixed. The hall's held breath broke into applause, a wave of sound that crashed over us, and I saw the husbands moving — Garrison already stepping toward me through the crowd, his eyes hungry, his wife's kiss still fresh on my lips.

Isolde stepped back into her place, her blue eyes holding mine a moment longer than the brand required, and I saw the promise there. The public kiss was just the beginning.

The court had witnessed the line. Now they would witness what came after.

Garrison reached me before the applause had fully died, his thin fingers closing around my elbow with a grip that belied his reedy frame. He leaned in, his breath sour with wine, his eyes darting to where Seraphina stood talking with the wife of some minor lord.

"The east terrace," he murmured, low enough that the nearest courtiers couldn't hear. "After the dancing. She'll be waiting."

I didn't answer. I let his hand linger a moment longer than necessary, let him feel the weight of my silence, before I turned to accept a goblet of wine from a passing servant. The red was heavy on my tongue, rich with the taste of a cellar I now owned.

Bartholomew found me next, his beard gleaming with ale, his laugh already booming before he reached me. He clapped me on the shoulder with a hand the size of a ship's anchor and leaned in close, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried exactly as far as he wanted it to.

"She's got a hunger on her tonight, lad. I know that look." He winked, and I caught Isadora watching us from across the hall, her honey-blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her smile a slow promise. "Don't keep her waiting too long. Woman like that, you let her simmer, she boils over."

He laughed again, loud enough to rattle the chandeliers, and I raised my goblet to him, a salute between men who understood the arrangement. He was a good man, Bartholomew. Honest to his marrow. And he had just handed me his wife with a blessing and a wink.

The music started then, a slow swell of strings that pulled couples onto the floor. I watched them move — the lords and ladies of a court I had conquered without a single sword drawn. They danced in their silks and their jewels, their goblets gleaming, their laughter bright, and none of them knew that the man watching them from the edge of the light had already taken the throne from under their feet.

Mirabel appeared at my side without a sound, her leather corset creaking softly as she fell into step beside me. She didn't look at me, her green eyes fixed on the dancers, but her voice was low and precise.

"Cedric wants a word. The war council meets in three days, and he wants to know what you intend to do about the northern border."

"Tell him I intend to hold it," I said. "With half the men he thinks he needs, and a strategy he hasn't considered."

She turned to look at me then, a slow smile spreading across her face, the wolf's grin I had grown to recognize. "He'll hate that."

"I know."

She stayed beside me a moment longer, her shoulder brushing mine, a contact that was both a claim and a challenge. Then she moved away, melting back into the crowd like she had never been there, and I felt the space beside me fill with someone else.

Celestine's voice was a breath against my ear, so soft I almost missed it. "Varis is watching the east door. He thinks I don't know, but I always know."

I turned to find her standing closer than I had expected, her pale blue eyes wide and innocent above a smile that was anything but. Her delicate fingers brushed my wrist as she passed, a touch so light it might have been an accident, and then she was gone, a ghost in pastel silk.

I drank my wine and watched the dancers turn. Isolde was at the center of the floor, her sapphire gown spinning around her like a captured piece of sky, her golden hair catching the torchlight. She danced with a lord I didn't recognize, her smile fixed and perfect, but her eyes found mine across the turning bodies, and I saw the question there, the hunger, the promise that the public kiss was only the first move in a game she intended to win.

The husbands circled like wolves around a fire, each one waiting for his moment, each one ready to offer me his wife and his loyalty in exchange for a place in the new order. And I took their wine, and I took their hands, and I let them believe they were the ones making the offers.

They didn't understand yet. They were the conquered, and I was the conqueror, and every kiss I had taken in front of this court was a blade I had already drawn.