There was a numbing quiet underwater that she couldn't resist. Her lungs burned, but it helped muffle his voice in her head.

I trust you, Jovine.

She sank deeper, her fingers digging into her palms.

One thing you'll always have of me...

Tepid water filled her breaths until her head screamed.

Trust.

Jovine lurched out of the water, gasping for air.

She glanced around the steaming bathing chamber, dark spots scattered across her vision as she sat in the wide marble tub. Still furiously panting, she drew her legs into her chest and rested her forehead against her knees.

Damn you, Richard. Damn you.

She only wanted a restful night. A hot bath before bed. Maybe even a cup of honey tea to soothe the churning in her gut. But she couldn't stop thinking of his damn words.

He was a hypocrite. A scoundrel. A deception. And she hated him.

But, did she have the right to deny his claims?

Jovine dug her forehead deeper into her bony joints.

He refused to believe any infidelity on her part because he was right. Her vows were sacred to her — her loyalty a burden. He deserved every ache and humiliation, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything further than lie. Act. Deceive.

I want you to hurt, she thought. I want you to feel as I do.

But not at the cost of her identity.

As a wave of exhaustion overcame her, Jovine abruptly stepped out of the steaming tub, the scent of citrus and orchids clinging to her dripping body. Wrapping herself in a fleece robe, she swiped a hand over the fogged mirror and stared into a pair of dead, turquoise eyes. It seemed even her eyes couldn't hide the distress.

Trailing her fingers across her skin, Jovine traced the sharpness to her face. Her cheeks were hollowed, her bones stuck out, and there were deep-set shadows beneath her eyes.

Was it the stress overwhelming her body?

No matter the fact that she slept through the night, rest never found her. She ate despite her absent appetite, but it never filled her.

Was she breaking again? Just as she did before?

A heavy sigh lodged in the base of her throat. "You're a sorry mess," she spoke into the mirror. "Pull yourself together."

Clearing her head of every thought, Jovine went through the soothing motions of routine. She dried herself with a soft cloth. Slathered an aromatic tea balm on her skin. Brushed the tangles out of her hair with a fine-toothed comb. Anything to keep her mind off the enraging man she had to call her husband.

Thump.

Jovine straightened, her pulse jolting.

Click. Thump. Thump.

The subtle snap of her chamber door closing and slow measured footsteps struck her still.

Erin was out for the night in the city with a family friend, and Jovine had dismissed her other ladies to be alone. She wasn't expecting anyone else.

Grasping her comb in a death grip, she quietly stepped up to the closed door of her bathing chamber. The sound of heavy, shuffling steps neared the wooden door.

It had to be one of the maids, coming in to light some incense or to drop off a tea set. However, a pinch of fear squeezed her chest. Gently gripping the latch, she turned the knob and flung the door open.

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Whoosh.

She jumped out, her measly comb pointed at the deadly edge of a silver steel sword that was directed at her throat, and a gasp caught in the air.

"Your Majesty?"

Recognition froze her, though it did nothing for the harsh breaths stuttering out of her parted mouth. "Duncan?"

Standing before her in leather armor and muddy boots, a rugged middle-aged man with curly sable locks and a full beard quickly retreated from a position of attack and fell to his knees in shame.

"Please forgive me, my Empress!" he rushed out in a gravel voice. "Your ladies were gone, and I feared someone had gotten to you in my absence."

Jovine exhaled in relief, her hand clutched over her pounding chest. The man was as intimidating as they came, but Duncan Hamish was familiar to her as her own family. As the Marquess's most trusted guard, she had known him as a child and was even relieved when she found that he had stayed behind to protect her at her father's request. Along with his twin sister Dana, who was most likely planted outside her palace with a scowl, they were fearsome protectors Edward Rainer favored.

"Please rise, Duncan," she urged, pulling at his thickset arms. "I was simply alarmed. I didn't expect you for another day or two."

"Neither was I," he said, hesitantly standing with his eyes averted from her state of her undress.

Immediately conscious of only donning a wet robe, Jovine stepped back and crossed her arms. "If you're back this soon, does that mean you were able to..."

Duncan reached into his cloak and promptly handed her a bound ledger. "My report of all I could find about her. Just as you requested."

She accepted the thin draft of papers, a frown creasing her brows. "I trust you didn't run into any trouble?"

"None I couldn't handle," he nodded. "However, I did run into Lord Rainer on my way back."

She straightened. "Easton?"

"Elias."

Her eyes widened, but she wasn't surprised. Of course, he had intercepted even this small secret. "Does he know?"

"No, but he did want me to pass a message to you." He gestured to the record, and she noticed a folded note sticking out of the front page.

"I see," she sighed. "You did well, Duncan. Thank you."

"Your Majesty, one of my findings —"

Jovine clutched the bound record. "Let us debrief tomorrow morning," she interjected. "I'd like the night to read over it first."

Duncan closed his mouth. "Of course. I'll leave you to rest."

With one more bow and a tense grimace, he retreated to the hall where he would stand guard all night.

Once she was alone, Jovine stalked over to the nearest divan and seated herself with bated breath. Duncan was thorough and a briefing over his report would have been insightful, but Jovine wanted a chance to process it for herself. However, before she could delve into Duncan's report, she unfolded her brother's note first.

I was worried you'd gotten complacent. Are you finally giving her hell?

P.S. I'll be away for a day or two. Don't miss me too much.

As exasperated as she was that he saw through her every single time, her lips twitched. He was always too perceptive for his own good.

Settling in the cushions, uncaring of the way her damp robe made her shiver, Jovine sifted through the bound records to read over the investigation she ordered Duncan to overtake.

An investigation of Emilia Syrene.

Her efforts may have been occupied by the Empire, but she didn't forget of the mistress who had murdered her. It was, after all, the reason she was back.

Revenge.

Justice.

She didn't abandon any of it. Nor was she complacent.

Emilia had been quiet for the past few weeks. Too quiet, stuffed in her room instead of hosting the lavish banquets and tea parties she always insisted, and strangely missing from the Emperor's chambers.

She was hiding from something. Or waiting. Jovine couldn't know.

So, it was only time to burrow into the past of the Empire's little red-haired Royal Concubine.

Gnawing on her inner cheek, Jovine began to scan over Duncan's report of the city Fane, the town Emilia called home before Richard. Most of the pages were scribbled notes, names, places, dates, but at the very end, a neatly penned report listed his findings. Her blood stirred as she read through his paragraphs.

The known story of Emilia Syrene was of an impoverished young woman who was sent to live with her great aunt in the Capital after her father's untimely death in the winter. Taking on a vocation for song, her voice captured the attention of Lord Harrison Ballio at a local tavern, in which he later invited her to the Coronation to share her talents as his gift.

A morose dejection shadowed her when Duncan's words mirrored the same terse story. There was nothing new.

But as she neared the end, a highlighted note turned her blood cold.

Emilia of Fane was known to the townspeople as a shy, meek girl , a butcher's daughter, not a singer, with shorn brown hair and doe brown eyes.

Emilia of Fane was said to be mute.

Mute?

Her hands quivered uncontrollably.

How could Emilia Syrene be a mute?

- - -

The late night bled into darkness as sleep ultimately took Empress Jovine. Her frail fingers crumpled over pieces of paper and her head lolled on the divan cushions, searching for respite, when a small figure stepped into the room.

Softly pacing to the far corner of the Empress's private chambers, the small figure placed a red candle in a hanging sconce by the closed windows. With shaking fingers, it lit a small flame upon it and abruptly fled with a cloth over their mouth.

Still shackled in a fitful sleep, Empress Jovine was unaware of the sickly sweet smoke that slithered through the air and surrounded her in its bane.