Chapter 1

After five years as queen, my ex-fiancé Frederick Dunstan had the nerve to show up, asking me to give up my throne and become his concubine.

He gazed at me with what he thought was deep affection, saying, "Even though you've been married, I don't care. I'll treat you as my main wife and give you everything you deserve."

Before I could even scoff at his foolishness, the king, Ambrose Valemont, stormed in, his sword still dripping with blood.

He didn't even glance at Frederick, who was kneeling and begging for mercy. Instead, Ambrose fixed his eyes on me, like I was something he owned. "She is my queen. How dare you try to take her from me?"

It hit me then. Ambrose wasn't just after my body. He wanted to lock away my soul, to make it his and his alone.

*****

I sat on the queen's throne, my backside going numb. The chair was made of hardwood, beautifully carved. It was nice to look at, but after sitting for a while, it got uncomfortable.

Philippa, one of my maids, brought over a plate of peeled grapes. They were plump, purple, and seedless. I grabbed one and tossed it into my mouth. It was sweet with a hint of tartness, and the chill ran down my throat.

Five years as queen, and this was my life, eating, sleeping, watching heads roll, or seeing which family's daughter got sent to the palace.

The king was Ambrose Valemont. He didn't like me, and I didn't like him. We were just decorations, like statues. People paid their respects, but no one really cared about us.

Today was a scorcher. The sun blazed down, making the golden floor tiles blinding. Philippa fanned me, but even the breeze she made was hot.

"Your Majesty," Philippa paused her fanning and lowered her voice, "Lord Frederick Dunstan is waiting outside the hall."

My hand stilled, nearly letting grape juice drip onto my dress. Frederick Dunstan. Five years ago, we stood beneath the old locust tree at the edge of the village, swearing we'd be together forever.

Then came the imperial selection, and a sedan chair carried me behind these red walls and golden tiles. Frederick hadn't said a word. He just stood there, his back ramrod straight, jaw clenched.

Five years. Just like that.

"Let him in," I said, placing the grape skin neatly into my handkerchief.

Frederick walked in, dressed all in white, bareheaded, his hair pulled up in a high knot. He'd gotten thinner, his face more angular, but his eyes were still sharp.

He strode over, taking big steps, almost kicking up a breeze. When he reached me, he didn't kneel. He just stood there, staring straight at me.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

Frederick rasped, "Agnes, I'm here to get you out of here."

I stayed seated, unmoving. "Get me out? Where exactly?"

"Come with me," Frederick said, stepping closer and grabbing my sleeve. "This palace chews people up and spits them out. I passed the imperial exams. I've made something of myself now.

"My rank isn't much, but I can take care of you. I don't care that you were married, or that you're no longer queen."

Not longer queen? I raised an eyebrow. Ambrose never said anything about stripping me of my title.

"I'm not leaving," I said, pulling my sleeve free and smoothing out the wrinkles.

Frederick's face turned red with frustration. "Don't be stupid! Ambrose is cold-blooded. He treats you like a chess piece! I'm doing this for you.

"Come back with me. I won't take any other women. Even if you can only be my concubine, I swear I'll treat you like my wife, hold you above everyone else."

A concubine? I laughed, then stood up and walked right up to him.

Frederick was tall, so I had to look up to meet his eyes. His throat moved, and his gaze slid down to my neckline, catching a glimpse of pale skin and the deep hollow of my collarbone.

I asked, "Frederick, you want me to be your concubine?"

"It's just a title!" Frederick grabbed my hand, his palm slick with sweat. "On paper, you'd be my concubine, but in reality, we'd be together. Not like here. You're the queen, but you live like a widow."

Living like a widow? He wasn't wrong. Ambrose barely showed up once a year, and when he did, he was all business.

He was cold, distant, just handling paperwork before leaving. No one had ever laid a hand on me.

Frederick's hand brushed over mine, his fingers rough and scratchy. He carried the scent of sweat and ink. It smelled masculine, raw, not exactly pleasant but strangely familiar.

"If I go with you, what about all the palace rules, the servants and maids, and my family, the Egberts, backing me?" I asked.

"Forget all that!" Frederick panted, his eyes rimmed red. "Even if the Egbert family collapses, I don't care. As long as I've got a bite to eat, you'll never starve.

"Agnes, I've missed you so much it hurts. Do you know what these five years have been like for me? Every night, I dream of you."

He leaned in as he spoke, his chest pressed firm against my shoulder. I heard his pounding heart.

I listened, but my heart didn't even twitch. Five years ago, just hearing that heartbeat would've made me blush and go weak in the knees. Now, it was like hearing the night watch drums. I didn't feel a thing.

"Frederick," I said, giving him a shove that didn't move him an inch. "Do you even know who you're talking to? I'm the queen."

"Of course I know! That's why I feel so damn miserable!" Frederick's voice rang out, echoing in the empty hall. "I'm supposed to be your man, and now I have to grovel and beg you to be my concubine? How is that fair?"