But before I could draw blood—before I could carve the truth into her treacherous skin—agony exploded through my spine. Then my ribs. The soldiers were on me in an instant, their polished shoes connecting with bone, their fists driving me to the cold marble until I curled into myself like a broken marionette.
Gasps rippled through the gathering like wind through dead leaves.
Colino shoved past the crowd, his face carved from granite.
He didn't spare me a glance.
He went straight to Piper—sobbing, trembling, performing the role of wounded dove with practiced perfection—and gathered her into his arms as though she were spun from Venetian glass.
When his eyes finally cut toward me, they held the warmth of a midwinter grave.
"You've gone too far." His voice was quiet. Lethal. "Kneel. Apologize to her. Now."
I stared at him through blood-matted hair, disbelief clawing at my throat.
He wasn't finished.
"Your mother was weak. She got cast aside and died chasing scraps. Now you're blaming Piper for your own blood's failures? Everyone here witnessed what you did." His lip curled with disgust. "Are you proud of yourself, Anneliese? Is this the respect you bring to our union?"