Before I have a chance to talk to Peter, though, I wake up. I don’t just wake up like usual, though—I wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks.

So seeing a guy die won’t make me cry but talking in front of a group of people will? To be fair to myself, though, this might be more cumulative stress than anything. I feel exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. My mind is struggling to compute much of anything, and I don’t feel like I have it in me to get out of bed just yet. Another five minutes . . . which turns into another five hours . . . which turns into me laying down until I get hungry or have to pee.

At least I don’t have work today.

I decide to be brave and read the Wiki. I don’t know if I’m about to hurt my own feelings, but I can’t stop thinking about everything that’s transpired so far, and I’m nervous to jump back into a conversation with Peter about what I’m sure will be my little speech.

The Wiki is largely unhelpful, as it always is, and I have to dig around for certain key things like the “Alvione politics” page to get any sort of answers. It seems the people’s response to my speech was a mixture of denial and acceptance, which I suppose I could’ve guessed from the way Miri and my advisors had reacted—or, rather, from the looks on their faces, since I’d basically fled further accountability right away. The main storyline remains unchanged. When I never return to Alvione (which seems to be the recurring theme of the story whenever I read the damn Wiki), Martin falls into despair regarding the progress of the nation and wastes time trying to get to me, to my world, before he ultimately dies. Yada yada.

God damn it, Martin, you single-minded idiot.

Eliana, another single-minded idiot, fails to have the iron hold on her nation that a queen in a medieval fantasy world should, and Alvione falls to ruin, burned to ash by the kingdom of Ward. Peter and Leon, to my credit, seem to be much more interested in me than Eliana, which would feel like a compliment if it didn’t mean that I’d have to keep going back into the story to entertain them, because clearly Eliana’s demure charms start to come off as weird after they’ve gotten to know me—the so-called “spitfire” (though I doubt anyone in my real life would call me that).

Though, I wouldn’t know how not to go back into the story at this point without reading ahead. And . . . would that mean I’d have to read all three books in the series? Because there’s no way I’m reading three books in a series without falling asleep at least a few times. I’m not some kind of speedreading legend. Or maybe I could just skip to the last page of the last book and read that?

It sounds like a viable option.

I love that it does, and I hate it too. I didn’t ask for this. And I can give up whenever I want. But the thought of Martin searching for me endlessly, Alvione burning, and Eliana doing nothing of use is all pretty unsettling.

I’ll keep my options open for now. I can quit when I want. But I won’t quit yet. I’m not that much of a pussy.

It takes a day of getting groceries and laying out in the sun at the park before I finally find myself falling asleep again. In the grass in a public area, no less. It doesn’t matter though, as I find myself once again looking up at Peter.

But something has changed.

I’m in my bedroom now—Eliana’s bedroom, I mean—laying atop the lush blankets and furs and staring up at Peter’s face, which interestingly, is colored with concern.

I sit up with no difficulty, though my head and arms throb slightly from the effort, giving off a muted kind of pain. “What am I doing here?” I look around, then at Peter, and joke, “You’re not supposed to be in my room with me. It’s not decent.”

He rolls his eyes and steps back, crossing his arms. “You fainted. And you were quite far from me, so I failed to catch you. You’re lucky you didn’t come to more harm than you did. You landed rather ungracefully, but fortunately, you mostly just crumpled from the top down, so at least you did not fall flat upon your face and smash up your lovely features.” The smile he gives me is weak. It seems the whole ordeal kind of freaked him out. He seems . . . tense. “Perhaps speeches are too much for the little queen to handle,” he adds dryly, clearly trying to maintain his air of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.

I study him for a moment. There’s something that’s been bothering me about Peter’s presence for a while now. And it’s all beginning to bubble to the surface. “Why are you here?”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he hides it. “Whatever do you mean?”

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“Why are you in my castle? Why did you arrive with no announcement? How come none of my guards told me that you’d come here? It wasn’t for my coronation; I don’t believe that for a second. So tell me the truth. Why are you here at all?”

It was a question I hadn’t given much thought to until now, but it is bizarre. Eliana meets Peter at Alvione’s yearly summer solstice festival, and that shouldn’t be for several more weeks. Me coming into the story should not have motivated him to arrive earlier, which must mean that he’s been here all along—and that Eliana just never met him. He’d been hiding from her. Why?

He shrugs and dodges the question. “I was curious about the forgotten child of the late King Richard. Many were. I am not the only noble who walks your halls. Leon Viridia is here as well, in case you hadn’t realized. Though, from what he’s told me, you’re quite aware of his presence.”

Is he teasing me? I don’t really care. I ignore the jab. “But the kingdom of Viridia is an ally. And Leon came for my coronation. In fact, he was late, because of a storm. Viridia and Ward follow the same road to the castle, but he didn’t mention seeing you. Does that mean that you’ve been here longer? Could you have been here . . . for weeks? And your boots. When I first met you, they were muddied, but from what? Even when it rains, the castle doesn’t muddy to that extent. Which means you must have been going in and out of the castle walls while you’ve been staying here. What for?” I straighten up, feeling like a real CSI-level, kickass detective. “You’re not supposed to be here at all.”

So I may have made a bit of that up. But if I can make him feel like I’m seeing right through him, then won’t he have to admit something?

Unfortunately for me, Peter’s expression doesn’t change. He seems both unsurprised and unentertained by my analysis, which is a little bit insulting, because I feel like I was kind of doing something cool just now. His dark eyes hold mine, unflinching. “Are you suspicious of me?” He pauses. “And the castle grounds do muddy. I have not left them since my arrival.”

Okay, maybe he’s right about that, but he’s still acting weird as fuck! What happens next in the story? I wrack my brain. After the elven caravan is . . . the orc invasion. One of the bridges across the moat breaks, preventing the people from more easily escaping the attack and alerting the nearby villages for assistance. The slaughter is immense, and though the humans of Alvione come out on top, due to having the home field advantage, many die. And while it can be assumed that Ward was aware of this orc attack or maybe even orchestrated it, in the book, they never admit to it, claiming it was perpetrated by a rogue tribe. Could it be . . . that he . . . no, there’s no way, right? “You would’ve told her,” I murmur, mostly to myself. Peter married Eliana. He loved her in the original story. Surely he wouldn’t have kept secret his involvement in the slaughter of her people. Unless he thought . . . he would lose her. “Why didn’t you tell her?”

Peter studies me, his eyes trailing across my face, searching for clarity. “You must have injured your head worse than I’d initially thought.” He reaches out and takes my face in his calloused hands, gently turning it from side to side to search for injuries. I let him, too focused on my thoughts to even recognize what’s happening.

“You break the bridge, don’t you? To ensure the success of the orc attack.”

Peter freezes, and it’s all I need to know that I’m right. Then he continues to check me for injuries, his hands a bit more rough now. He lets out a frustrated little noise and says, “There won’t be an orc attack.” He releases my cheeks and grabs my chin, his other hand going through my hair, feeling for bumps. “If you agree to merge your kingdom with Ward.”

“So . . . I’m right.”

With a grip that tightens, he turns my face to his, forcing me to look at him. It almost looks like he’s . . . pleading with me. Trying to be tough, to be menacing, and suddenly failing. He’s a mouse in a trap. My trap. “What are you really?” he growls quietly, his hand sliding down to my neck. Wrong! All wrong! I’m a mouse in his trap. And I just gave him a reason to get rid of me.

Shit. Is Peter Ward about to kill me?

“A sorceress queen is better dead,” he whispers. His eyes search mine worriedly as he seems to realize what he thinks he needs to do. Though he looks conflicted, I’m sure he won’t hesitate to kill me if he believes he should. If he believes it’s what his father will want. If he believes it’s what will keep him out of trouble and put him back in that vile man’s good graces.

It would not be the first time the prince of Ward had dirtied his hands. And I don’t know what to say back to him, the feeling of his hand on my neck making me freeze like a rabbit. Peter’s brows are lifted in a way that makes him seem more afraid than angry. Worried. Guilty. His eyes seem empty with what I can only describe as a look of total hopelessness. He’s resigned himself to having to kill me. That’s what that look says.

Still, it’s hard to care how bad he feels about this, given that he seems to be going through with it anyway. No way I’m about to get Eliana offed . . . Wait, if I die in the book, will I die in real life? I gasp for air and—actually, I can still breathe. He's not squeezing at all. He's kind of just holding me there, and I get the feeling that he can't do it. Just as I start to give him a confused look that says, You gonna do this thing or what? a familiar voice cuts in—

“She’s from the future.”

Peter’s hand falls away as his head whips around to face Martin, who’s standing in the doorway, his eyes and palms flickering with flames. His green eyes look almost red from the magic fire that rages within them, his body tense and ready to pounce. I blink at Martin in surprise. Damn. Didn't know he had that in him. As he catches my gaze, Martin’s expression softens, and his flames fade slightly.

“I just came to tell you . . . Iliyan is dead.”