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"You going to tell me what I just agreed to?" Wantang pulled at the ropes. Still tight. The carriage jolted and her shoulder hit the panel again.
Rowan Vale didn't look up. He sat across from her, arms crossed, face blank. The frontier heir who'd just dragged her off a burning platform.
"You didn't agree," he said. "I invoked a contract clause. You were present. That's binding."
"Binding to what?"
"Marriage."
She laughed. It came out sharp. "You saw a woman about to burn and thought, perfect wife material?"
Rowan leaned forward. The dim light caught his face—pale eyes, scar through his left eyebrow, jaw that looked like it could crack stone. "I need a bride for thirty days. You need to not be dead. We both win."
"Why thirty?"
"Frontier law. Minimum contract term. Thirty days, then annulment."
Wantang filed that away. Frontier law had made the tribunal hesitate. That meant leverage.
"And after?"
"You're free. New papers, transport to any border you want, enough silver to start over."
Too easy. She'd negotiated with enough desperate people to know when someone was overselling.
"What do you get?"
Rowan sat back. "A bride."
"For thirty days. Then you let me go. You don't know me. Don't owe me. So what's the real reason?"
The carriage turned hard. She grabbed the bench.
"You're smarter than the reports said," Rowan muttered.
"What reports?"
"Eveline Vey. Minor house, decent dowry, no political weight. Broke two engagements. Turned down a royal match last year and the crown stopped smiling."
Wantang's stomach dropped. Eveline pissed off the queen. That's why the trial was fast.
"You still didn't answer."
Rowan pulled a folded paper from his coat and tossed it on the bench. "Read."
She held up her bound wrists.
He pulled a knife.
Wantang froze.
Rowan cut the ropes, slid the knife back into his belt, and nodded at the paper.
She rubbed her wrists and unfolded it. Expensive script. Dated three weeks ago.
*Lord Rowan Vale. Your petition to wed within six months is noted. Failure to present a bride by the Midsummer Offering will result in the reclamation of your family's territorial claim and the dissolution of House Vale's frontier seat.*
Signed by High Curator Orin Vael.
Wantang read it twice. Looked up. "You're on a deadline."
"Yes."
"And if you don't marry by Midsummer, you lose everything."
"My house. My land. My people."
"When's Midsummer?"
"Thirty-two days."
So that's why thirty. He needed the minimum term to meet the deadline. If she died early, no bride, no marriage, no claim.
Wantang leaned back. Her pulse was still racing, but her head was clearing. This was a negotiation. She knew negotiations.
"Why me? You could've grabbed anyone."
"You were convenient."
"Bullshit."
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "You're already condemned. If you run, the crown hunts you, not me. If you talk, no one believes a convicted poisoner. And if you die—"
"Your contract dies with me," Wantang finished. "So you need to keep me alive."
"Yes."
Leverage. She tucked it away.
"What happens during the thirty days?"
"You stay at my estate. You appear at the Midsummer Offering as my wife. You don't leave the grounds, don't contact anyone, don't make trouble."
"So I'm a prisoner."
"You're a bride."
"Same thing."
Rowan's jaw tightened. "I'm offering you thirty days of life you wouldn't have had. You want to negotiate the thread count too?"
Wantang met his eyes. He was angry. Good. Angry people made mistakes.
"I want to know what you're not telling me."
The carriage slowed. Voices outside—guards, maybe. Rowan glanced at the door, then back.
"The crown wants the frontier bloodlines gone," he said quietly. "My house is the last one with a valid territorial claim. If I don't marry and produce an heir, the claim dies. The land goes back to the crown. Two thousand people lose their homes."
"So find a real wife."
"I had one. She died two months ago."
The way he said it—flat, clipped—made Wantang stop pushing.
"The crown's watching," Rowan continued. "Any noble house I approach will refuse or report me. I needed someone who couldn't say no."
"Someone disposable."
"Someone already dead."
She hated that it made sense. But she'd been a crisis negotiator for eight years. Talked down armed suspects, hostage-takers, people with nothing left. She knew how to buy time.
Thirty days was time.
"If I do this, I want it in writing. A real contract. Not just your word."
Rowan reached into his coat and pulled out a second paper. Thicker, sealed with black wax. "Already drafted."
He held it out.
Wantang took it. The seal had a wolf's head pressed into the wax. She broke it and skimmed.
Thorough. Thirty-day term. Annulment clause. Safe passage and funds upon completion. Her obligations: appear as his wife, stay at the estate, make no public statements. His obligations: keep her alive, provide security, release her unharmed.
Blank line at the bottom for her signature.
She looked up. "You were pretty sure I'd say yes."
"You're a survivor," Rowan said. "I looked into your eyes on that platform. You weren't ready to die."
He was right. Eveline might've been, but Wantang had fought too hard in her own life to give up now.
She reached for the quill he offered.
The carriage door slammed open.
A woman stood in the doorway, breathless, wild-eyed. Servant's clothes. Hands shaking. Two royal guards flanked her.
"Lord Vale," one of the guards said. "We have new testimony. This witness claims—"
"I saw her." The woman pointed at Wantang, hand trembling. "I saw Lady Eveline in the apothecary. I watched her mix the poison herself."
Wantang's fingers tightened on the contract.
Rowan's hand went to his knife.
The guard stepped forward. "Lady Eveline Vey, you're under re-arrest by order of the crown. The marriage contract is void. Step out of the carriage."
"She's my wife," Rowan said. His voice was ice.
"The contract isn't signed."
"Frontier law doesn't require a signature. Verbal consent in the presence of witnesses is binding."
The guard hesitated. "The High Curator will—"
"The High Curator can take it up with the Frontier Council." Rowan's hand stayed on the knife. "This carriage is my household. She's under my protection. You want her, you go through me."
The second guard's hand moved to his sword.
Wantang's pulse hammered. The contract was still in her lap. Unsigned. If they dragged her out now, she'd burn before sunrise.
The servant woman stepped closer. Her eyes locked on Wantang. "I know what I saw. She killed LordAmer. She deserves—"
"Did you see her drink the poison herself?" Wantang asked.
The woman blinked. "What?"
"You said you saw me mix it. Did you see me drink it? Test it? Taste it?"
"I—no, but—"
"So you saw someone in an apothecary. Mixing something. Could've been medicine. Could've been tea. You didn't see me put it in LordAmer's cup. You didn't see me hand it to him. You didn't see anything."
The woman's face flushed. "I know what I saw!"
"You know what someone paid you to say."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "That's a serious accusation."
"So's perjury," Wantang shot back. "Who sent you? Who told you to come here right now, right when I'm about to sign a frontier contract that puts me outside the crown's reach?"
The woman's mouth opened. Closed. Her hands were shaking harder now.
Rowan leaned forward. His voice dropped. "I suggest you think very carefully about your next words. Frontier law has its own penalties for false testimony. And they're not pretty."
The first guard shifted. "Lord Vale, we're acting on orders—"
"From who?"
Silence.
Rowan's smile was cold. "That's what I thought. Tell your employer the contract's done. Tell them Lady Vale is under my house's protection now. And tell them if they send another assassin dressed as a witness, I'll consider it an act of war."
He reached over, took the quill from Wantang's hand, and held it out to her.
She stared at it.
The guard's hand was still on his sword. The servant woman looked ready to bolt. Rowan's eyes were locked on hers, pale and unreadable.
Thirty days.
Or thirty seconds before they dragged her back to the pyre.
Wantang took the quill, pressed it to the paper, and signed.
The ink was still wet when Rowan pulled the contract away, folded it, and shoved it back into his coat.
"Lady Vale is tired," he said. "And this conversation is over."
He slammed the carriage door in the guard's face and banged twice on the roof.
The carriage lurched forward.
Wantang's hands were shaking now. She pressed them flat on her knees.
Rowan was watching her again.
"That woman didn't see anything," Wantang said.
"No."
"Someone sent her."
"Yes."
"Who?"
Rowan leaned back and closed his eyes. "Someone who really doesn't want me to have an heir."
The carriage hit another rut. Wantang grabbed the bench.
"What happens when they try again?" she asked.
Rowan opened his eyes. "Then we make sure you're still alive to disappoint them."
Outside, the sun was setting. Through the narrow carriage window, Wantang could see the road turning from cobblestone to dirt. The city walls were behind them now.
She'd just signed her life over to a man she didn't know, in a country she didn't understand, in a body that wasn't hers.
And someone was already trying to kill her.
Again.
"How far to your estate?" she asked.
Rowan pulled a pocket watch from his coat and checked it. "Three hours. Maybe four if they send another welcoming committee."
"They will."
"I know."
He snapped the watch shut and met her eyes.
"Welcome to the family, Lady Vale."
Wantang didn't answer. She turned to the window and watched the trees thicken along the roadside. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a wolf howl.
Rowan's hand moved to his knife again.
And the carriage rolled on into the dark.