Slowly, inexorably, he brought her hand to his lips, and on the pretext of pressing a kiss to her hand, he breathed her in, drawing her scent deep into his lungs. A faint shudder rippled through him, followed by absolute stillness.

His eyes flashed up, bright and piercing, burning through the thick layers of her veils. Khamsin froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He knew. He’d touched her hand, breathed in her scent, and without the potency of arras to muddle his senses, he’d deciphered the truth in mere seconds.

His hand shot out. Fingers curled around the corners of her veil and gave a swift yank. The pins holding the veils in place pulled loose. The unanchored layers of cloth slid free and fluttered to the ground. Cool air swirled around Khamsin’s bare head, tugging at the white-streaked curls dislodged by the sudden removal of her veils.

“The little maid,” he muttered, sounding dazed. The moment of shock didn’t last long. His other hand shot out. He grabbed her by the throat and dragged her close. His eyes flared with ice-bright magic, and frost crackled on every surface of the room, leaving Khamsin and all the Summer King’s court shivering with the icy force of Wynter’s fury.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “And no more lies.” His voice was so cold and throbbing, the chandelier shivered overhead, and several of its frozen crystal drops shattered.

Khamsin forced herself to lift her chin, forced her eyes to meet his with as much calm as she could muster. “I am the princess Khamsin Coruscate. Your wife.”

Wynter paced the gleaming, intricately inlaid parquet floor of the luxuriously appointed private parlor Verdan had led them to after Khamsin’s unveiling. All three of the Seasons—Autumn included—stood pale and silent, ringed protectively around the little storm-eyed maid who bore the Rose and claimed she was Wynter’s bride. Verdan stood off to one side, smug and arrogant despite the pallor that testified to the torment he’d suffered last night. Valik guarded the door, silent and watchful. He knew how close his king’s temper was to breaking, and he knew what that would mean.

Wynter stopped pacing. The sudden cessation of motion left the restless, wild energy of his magic with no outlet. He held himself still, letting the power gather and his anger grow so cold it burned.

“I offered you peace, Verdan,” he said softly. “You answered with deception.” In a sudden explosion of motion, he spun around and lunged towards the Summer King. Gunterfys whipped from its sheath in single, flashing moment, and the business end of the razor-sharp blade kissed the vulnerable skin right beneath the Summer King’s jaw. “Give me one reason why I should not separate your head from your shoulders right now.”

“I did not deceive,” Verdan retorted. The edge of his arrogance wilted a little, but he still met Wynter’s cold eyes head-on, without flinching. “You asked for a princess to wife—one of my daughters. I gave you one.”

“Liar! It’s well-known you only have three daughters.”

“It’s well-known I have only three? Or only three are well-known?” Verdan countered.

Wynter’s eyes narrowed. The girl bore the Rose. He couldn’t deny that. He considered trickery—that Verdan had somehow managed to fake the royal mark—but there was no way to fake the surge of energy that sparked whenever Wynter’s Wolf covered the girl’s Rose.

“A by-blow?” he asked. That would explain why he’d not heard of a fourth princess.

“I wish she had been. Then, at least, my wife would still be alive.”

“Father!” Summer and Spring exclaimed in unison. Autumn just curled her arm more tightly around the girl as if to ward off the king’s cruel claim.

The girl—Wynter’s wife—winced and extracted herself gently from her sisters’ protective clutches. Her chin lifted. “King Verdan has four daughters,” she said. “All of us are legitimate heirs to the Summer Throne, though until our wedding last night, he’d only officially recognized my three older sisters. He blames me, you see, for my mother’s death.”

Though she spoke softly, defiance sparked in her eyes. Wynter noted the pride, too, made obvious by the way she held her small chin so high. The pain, however, was so carefully shuttered he almost missed it.

“He couldn’t banish me outright,” she continued, “so instead he kept me confined to a remote part of the palace, away from the court, and away from him. Then you came.”

Images spun in Wynter’s mind like leaves on the wind. His first sight of the girl, standing in the oriel near the Queen’s Bower, garbed in cast-off gowns, as neglected as the tower around her. The way she’d snuck into his room—not a thief, just a girl retrieving her dead mother’s treasures. The gloating and open malice of Verdan’s toady, that Newt woman. The servants who claimed they knew nothing about her.

The corner of Verdan’s lip pulled up in a sneer. “You wanted a bride, Winter King. Well, now you have one. And may she deliver upon your House the same plague of misfortune and heartache she’s brought to mine.”

Wynter stepped back and sheathed Gunterfys before the urge to slay Verdan overcame reason. Though his bride was not the Season he’d come for, the terms of the peace had still been met. He would not be the first to break them, no matter how strong the temptation.

His enemy had outwitted him, he acknowledged grimly. He’d come to claim a beloved daughter, to make Verdan suffer as painful a loss as Wynter had when Garrick was slain. Instead, Verdan used the terms of peace as an opportunity to rid himself of a daughter he despised. The wedding was no punishment for Verdan. It was a boon.