My fingers trembled—not from fear, but rage. The scalpel felt alien in my hand, yet familiar. Not battlefield steel, but this antique silver letter opener was all I had. I stared at the man in the bed: Prince Henry York, pale as death, breath shallow, veins threaded with faint black lines. They told me he’d been like this for three years. That I was lucky to be his wife, even in name.

I wasn’t lucky. I was trapped. One moment, I was in Afghanistan, patching up a lieutenant after an IED blast. The next—this. A body too young, too soft. A marriage contract signed in blood I didn’t spill.

But they made one mistake.

They left me alone with him.

I pressed the blade to my palm, slicing open skin. Blood welled—real, human, mine. I let a drop fall onto Henry’s lips.

His fingers twitched.

I froze. That wasn’t possible. Comatose patients don’t react to stimuli like that. Unless… he could feel it.

Then the door creaked open.

"My lady," the chambermaid whispered, eyes wide. "The steward says you’re not to touch the prince. It’s… unnatural."

Unnatural.

I wiped the blade clean on my skirts, smiling. "Tell the steward the doctor is making house calls now. And the next person who questions my authority gets disinfectant enemas until they learn hygiene."

But outside, footsteps gathered. Not just the steward. Boots. Guards.

They weren’t coming to check on the prince.

They were coming for me.