Ruling Destiny

Also by Alyson Noël

Stealing Infinity series

Stealing Infinity

Ruling Destiny

The Beautiful Idols series

Unrivaled

Blacklist

Infamous

The Immortals series

Evermore

Blue Moon

Shadowland

Dark Flame

Night Star

Everlasting

The Soul Seekers series

Fated

Echo

Mystic

Horizon

The Riley Bloom series

Radiance

Shimmer

Dreamland

Whisper

Standalone Novels

Keeping Secrets

Forever Summer

Cruel Summer

Saving Zoë

Kiss & Blog

Laguna Cove

Art Geeks and Prom Queens

Faking 19

Fly Me to the Moon

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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3

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10

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12

13

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15

16

17

18

19

20

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42

43

44

45

46

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48

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62

63

64

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68

69

70

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72

73

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75

76

77

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79

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81

Bonus Content

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The Liar’s Crown, by Abigail Owen

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Alyson Noël, LLC. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave., STE 181

Shrewsbury, PA 17361

[email protected]

Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Edited by Stacy Abrams

Cover design by Bree Archer

Cover images by Alexroz/Depositphotos,

Abzee/Gettyimages, Wacomka/Shutterstock,

Remuhin/Shutterstock, EduardHarkonen/Gettyimages,

and Amado Designs/Shutterstock

Interior design by Toni Kerr

ISBN: 9-781-64937-192-8

Ebook ISBN: 9-781-64937-233-8

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition June 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Saint, always.

At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage.

https://entangledpublishing.com/books/ruling-destiny

Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd!

She was a vixen when she went to school.

And though she be but little, she is fierce.

—William Shakespeare

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Fact:

All of the artwork and ancient artifacts mentioned in this novel are real.

Prologue

Braxton

Basilique Royale De Saint-Denis, France

1741

I stand beside the dead man and raise my torch high, my gaze cutting from those blank, lifeless eyes to the bloodied gash in his chest where the dagger plunged deep into his heart and claimed his last breath.

I never meant for it to go this far. I never—

Desperate to block out the sight, I squeeze my eyes shut, only to find the gruesome image burned into my brain—a bleak and wretched still life destined to haunt me for the rest of my days.

Merde. I grimace, then turn to see Killian coming to stand beside me, a cigarette tucked between his lips.

Speak English, he says, his voice booming through the ancient space. You can cut the act now. It’s just us.

He grabs hold of my wrist and, using the flaming torch like a match, lights the tip and takes a deep drag that launches him straight into a coughing fit.

Nothing like a good gasper. He chokes. My pop gave me my first taste back when I was nine. Killian looks at me sideways and laughs. Didn’t realize how much I missed it. The smoke, that is. Not my pop. To illustrate the point, he blows a series of smoke rings that hover briefly over the corpse. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not better suited for this century. You know, before all the rules and regulations and blasted surgeon general warnings.

I watch uneasily as he crouches beside the dead man and, with a tap of his finger, slides the eyelids all the way closed.

Fuckin’ giving me the creeps, the way he’s half-lidded staring at me.

Do you think it’s true? I gaze down at my boots. The toes are splattered with vomit and blood. And though my first instinct is to wipe it all off, I know that I won’t.

Mainly because I can’t allow myself to forget that, because of my actions, a young girl just lost her father and she’ll never know why. I shake my head, shake away the thought, and return to the question. About the Sun being a fake—what do you make of that?

Killian flicks a length of ash onto the dead man’s cheek. In that moment, I’ve never hated him more. Disrespectful, despicable piece of—

Do you really think Arthur would send us out for a dupe? He lets out a derisive snort.

My gaze finds the body again. No. Not a body; a person. A man who had a wife, a daughter. A man who, thanks to me—was put to a violent, premature end.

And yet, he’s not just any man, but a Timekeeper. One who, even when he sensed what was coming, remained completely unshaken, accepting a fate that was not his to change.

Or at least until he heard the threat leveled against his girl. Because in that instant, he switched from loyal, oath-keeping Timekeeper to desperate father willing to do anything to save his daughter.

Hey, Posh Spice—

I look to Killian and frown. His constant digs at my upper-crust accent never fail to get under my skin.

He pushes himself off the ground until he’s towering a good three inches above me. At fourteen, he’s a bit older than me, but he’s also tall for his age. Built, too. In case you haven’t noticed— He reaches into his pocket and retrieves an engraved silver flask. We did the damn thing. So take a load off—have a drink. Still enough time to stash the body and be on our way.

I don’t want the drink, but knowing it’s easier to go along, I take the flask and fake a swig. But Killian’s onto me, and before I can stop him, he tips the bottom with a whack of his hand, causing a jolt of whiskey to slip down my throat, leaving a fiery trail in its wake.

That’s more like it, he grunts, reclaiming the flask, he takes a hefty swill for himself. One Timekeeper down, another to go, he shouts, then seeing my look of confusion, he says, I’m talking about the girl, of course.

But that’s impossible, I say. There are no female Timekeepers.

There are now. He shrugs. "As his first and only child, that makes his daughter a Timekeeper, too. And I, for one, can’t wait to meet this miracle girl. I plan on showing her the one true wonder of the world before it’s time to end her. Send her out with a bang, as they say."

My stomach rolls as I watch him thrust his hips back and forth, all the while making crude gestures with his fingers and tongue. This guy is so crass, so vulgar and obnoxious, I vow right here and now that if I should ever meet this girl, this supposed Timekeeper, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her from him.

Or, on second thought, maybe I should take care of it now. I’m pretty sure no one will miss him. Or at least not for long. Hell, people disappear all the time. What’s one more?

C’mon, he says. Help me dump the body so we can get back to Gray Wolf and celebrate for real.

Hide it where? I ask, but then I see it. King Dagobert’s tomb. It was left open from when the Timekeeper snatched the Sun from its centuries-old hiding spot. And though it still contains a pile of old royal bones, it can easily fit another body.

But can it fit three?

I’ll lift the shoulders—you get the feet, Killian says.

On a quick count of three, we haul the corpse to the crypt and chuck it inside. When the Timekeeper’s head crashes onto King Dagobert’s skull, resulting in a dull, crushing sound, my throat burns from a retch of bile I’m forced to swallow down.

That man deserved better, and if I have any hope of atoning for the part that I played, I’ll need to move now, before it’s too late.

I watch as Killian tosses the burning cigarette butt into the tomb like the insolent ass I know him to be. Then, retrieving the golden sphere from his pocket, he steals a moment to admire our work. Arthur’s gonna be so happy when he sees this Get!

I stare at the back of Killian’s head. Why would he be happy? I say, my tone gone as dark as my mood. The Sun is a fake.

Killian whirls on me. What the hell are you talking about? He shoves the golden ball close to my face, but I’m quick to wave it away.

The Timekeeper was right. The Sun is a decoy, I insist, committed to putting my new plan into place.

It’s one of the worst acts a Tripper can commit against a partner, but it’s the least I can do for the girl, considering all I’ve taken from her.

Besides, didn’t Killian just brag about how he’s a much better fit for this century? Well, now’s his chance to find out.

Killian’s eyes are ablaze. And how the bloody fuck would you know— he starts.

But before he can finish, I throw a punch that lands square on his jaw.

In an instant, his head snaps hard to the side as his knees fold out from under him, and his body slumps to the ground. A quick and easy knockout. But since there’s no telling how long he’ll stay down, I drop to my knees, yank the leather cord with the plain silver cross from his neck, then leap to my feet and race for the portal.

With my knuckles still throbbing from the impact, and my blood- and vomit-soaked boots pounding hard against the ancient dirt floor, my mind fills with thoughts of the girl.

Is she really a Timekeeper? The first female in a centuries-long lineage of males?

A ghost of a smile forms on my lips, and I hope that someday I’ll have the chance to meet her. Because that would be something to see.

She would be someone worth knowing.

Either way, at least I’ve managed to save her from the likes of Killian fucking du Luce.

I’ve just reached the glowing doorway when I glance over my shoulder to see Killian back on his feet and barreling toward me.

You better not leave without me! he shouts, eyes wild, face enraged. I’ll fuckin’ kill you! I’ll—

I hold up the cross that doubles as a clicker, and with a single tap on its center, I soar two and a half centuries forward in time…leaving Killian far behind.

1

Natasha

Gray Wolf Academy

Present Day

A slim beam of light slips between the drapes and hits me square in the face.

But that’s not why I’m awake.

It’s Braxton. Caught in yet another one of his nightmares, his body thrashes against some unseen enemy as he mumbles a string of mostly indecipherable words.

I didn’t… I should’ve… Merde…

It’s okay, I whisper, rolling to my side. I lay a hand on his chest. His skin is cool but slick with sweat, and his heart is pounding so hard I can feel the thump of it just under my palm. It’s just a nightmare. It’s not real.

I watch as he sneaks an eye open. The other soon follows. And for a moment, I’m sure I catch a glimpse of something that straddles the border of fear and remorse, something that reminds me of dread. But then he wipes a hand over his face and whispers my name, and whatever I saw disappears.

Tasha, he says. I’m sorry. I—

It’s okay, I tell him. It was just another night terror—that’s all. I press a kiss to his shoulder, then another to the crook of his neck. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.

He turns his head toward me, and when his eyes meet mine, I’m sure he’s about to finally reveal what’s been haunting his dreams nearly every night. But then his hand finds my waist, and he pulls me down to him. Drawing me even closer, he says, "You mean the doctor is in?"

It’s a reference to Lucy from the Peanuts comic strip, but also to the Gray Wolf psychiatrist who happens to be named Lucy, and it always makes me laugh.

Speaking of… My fingers slide to his navel, where I trace the contours with the edge of my thumb. Today’s my last day. I still my hand and arch my neck to get a clear read of his face. The confused look I find prompts me to say, Of therapy. Today’s my last day of therapy.

Braxton’s jaw tightens. His brow slants with concern. And while I’m not exactly sure how I expected him to react, I know it wasn’t that.

But—are you ready? Because it hasn’t been very long.

I flip onto my back and stare at the swoop of forest-green fabric hanging over our heads. Actually, it’s been nearly three weeks since my last Trip to Versailles. Or six sessions with the doctor—however you want to track it. But yeah. I shrug. I’m as sure as I can be.

And what does Dr. Lucy say? Braxton slips onto his side, bunches a pillow under his head, and peers down at me.

Don’t know, don’t care. I frown. "I’m free to come and go as I please. And honestly, I’m just so sick of talking about it. How did it make you feel? How is it impacting your daily routine? Do you want to further explore the day your dad walked out of your life and never returned? I roll my eyes. I mean, no, I don’t want to explore any of it. I’ve said all I can, and now it’s time to move on."

Braxton makes a small sound—one I can’t easily pin down. Though if I had to describe it, I’d say it’s something between a gasp and a groan.

For some strange reason, talking about my dad always results in an immediate downturn in Braxton’s mood. Like my dad’s abandonment somehow affects him more than it does me.

"Annnyway… I drag out the word. Sometimes I wonder if all that incessant talking is just keeping the trauma alive. I mean, maybe it really is like Arthur said—that we’re always writing our own stories, and it’s the ones we play on repeat that determine our destiny. And if that’s true, then by constantly reliving what happened in Versailles, aren’t I just cementing my status as a victim of a brutal attack?"

"But you’re not a victim. Braxton shakes his head. You beat the hell out of that duke."

Despite the glow of pride worn plain on his face, I can’t help but wish I’d kept the whole horrible story to myself. It would’ve been just as easy to explain my injuries by reminding him that as a female, Tripping alone to 1745 Versailles—a time in which women held little value and virtually no inherent rights—the usual time-travel dangers were only multiplied.

Which means there was no need to go on about how I was tossed in jail, assaulted, and nearly raped before I saved myself by stabbing a duke.

But at least I had the good sense not to reveal that it was Killian who stopped me from finishing my attacker.

I can still smell the putrid scent of that cell, feel the pinch of the makeshift shiv held tight in my hand as I plunged the blade into the duke’s chest. I was just about to do it again when Killian walked in and saved me from myself—insisting that once I kill, I can never go back, that the course of history is not mine to change—and a bunch of bullshit like that.

Only, it’s probably not actually bullshit.

There’s a pretty good chance he was right.

Still, sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake by leaving that duke alive.

Either way, I’m just glad I kept the Killian stuff to myself. Because for reasons I don’t fully understand, Braxton and Killian are sworn enemies. And since they’re unwilling to provide any details, all I know for sure is that Killian blames Braxton for leaving him behind in eighteenth-century France, and Braxton claims Killian is pretty much a liar and a psychopath.

Where’ve you gone? The clipped lilt of Braxton’s English accent draws me away from Versailles and back to Gray Wolf, Braxton’s luxurious suite, and his plush canopy bed. Because you’re clearly not present.

I rise onto my elbows and return my focus to him. I was thinking about what Arthur said.

Braxton’s lips curve into a grin. Arthur’s a bit of a windbag. You’ll need to be more specific.

I push a hand to my belly, and, deepening my voice, I say, "You alone are the alchemist of the reality you create." It’s my best impression of our…boss, leader, mentor, king? I’m still not sure how to refer to the reclusive tech trillionaire responsible for bringing me here. The man whose first initial is on the gold signet ring I wear, proclaiming me to be a member of the AAD, or Arthur’s Artful Dodgers. The man who, I’m starting to suspect, is tracking our every move. And though I didn’t sound anything like him, Braxton laughs, and that alone feels like a win.

Aw, yes, Braxton says. Amor fati.

What did you say? I turn onto my side, my gaze poring over his ridiculously beautiful face, moving from those ocean-blue eyes to the bit of a bend in his nose to those warm, inviting lips that really know how to kiss.

Amor—

No, I cut in, "I know the phrase. It’s just—how do you know it?"

My dad used to say it. It’s about learning to make the best of what happens—transforming the unwanted experiences into something meaningful.

I gaze at him in wonder. Our connection was undeniable from the start, no matter how hard I tried to fight it at first. But this—well, I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s too strange and specific to be a coincidence.

What? He shoots me an inquisitive look as he cups a hand to my cheek. Why are you looking at me like that?

Because my dad used to say it, too, I tell him. And what are the chances of that?

Braxton’s gaze burns into mine. Probably about the same chances as the two of us ending up here, in this gilded cage.

A lovely rush of warmth blooms in my chest when his fingers find the talisman that hangs from the slim gold chain at my neck. The gift he commissioned for my eighteenth birthday. The blue lapis moon and the diamond pavé star nestled inside the fine golden cage act as both a symbol of us and our lives lived inside this snow globe–like fortress, and a sort of insurance against getting lost in a Fade—lost in time, never to return.

Like what happened to Anjou, and probably Song, and once upon a time to Killian, too. The idea of it is so horrible, I instinctively shudder.

You all right? Braxton smooths a hand down my arm, erasing the chills. And when his eyes meet mine, his gaze is so open, so caring, I know in my heart that either Killian is lying, or he’s completely mistaken.

Braxton just doesn’t have it in him to ever leave anyone stranded in time.

Of course I’m all right, I tell him. I’m here with you, aren’t I? I look him square in the face, and the weird thing is, I don’t even blush when I say it.

With Braxton, there’s no need for pretending my feelings either don’t exist or, worse, that he shouldn’t concern himself with them. And there’s absolutely no shame in showing up as my real, flawed, totally authentic self.

As for the L word… We’re not quite there yet. But, like everything else with us, there’s no rush. Here at Gray Wolf, we have all the time in the world.

Braxton lets go of the talisman and watches it slide down my chest, falling beneath the deep V of my silk camisole. Then he slips a finger under the strap, tugs it down past my shoulder, and presses a trail of soft kisses along the ridge of my collarbone.

Despite having kissed well into the night, kissing ourselves to sleep, I can never get enough of the warmth of his lips, the electric charge of his fingers questing over my skin.

I push closer, losing my hands in his soft tousle of hair. And when his mouth finally finds mine, my lips instantly part, surrendering to his kiss—to the heated thrum that begins at my core, radiates through my skin, and straight into his.

Do you feel it? he whispers into the kiss. This energy between us. This frisson.

Always, I murmur. Always when I’m with you.

I pull away, needing to see his beautiful bottomless gaze.

But instead of Braxton, I find the duke’s hideous face staring right back.

2

My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out.

My body is frozen, my throat closing in on itself.

Tasha— Braxton speaks in the sort of reassuring whisper you might use with a small child or sleepwalker. Darling. He places a careful hand on my arm. Please—look at me.

I want to, but I can’t. Not while there’s a part of me that’s still caught in the duke’s grip.

I haul myself up against the headboard, drop my head in my hands, and fight with all I have in me to will the duke’s image out of my brain.

No, I silently scold his arrogant face. Go the fuck away. You are dead to me, and I’m done talking about you—done thinking about you…

It’s not real, Braxton says. You were having a flashback. He can never harm you again, never get anywhere near you. Arthur will never send you back to that timeline.

It’s a few beats for my breath to grow steady and my heart to resume a more regular pace. And when I finally open my eyes to find Braxton keeping a close and careful watch over me, I’ve never been more determined to banish that stupid duke from my mind, whatever it takes.

Maybe this week’s session doesn’t have to be your last. Braxton eyes me cautiously.

I turn away, trying to hide my humiliation. Claiming I’d been cured, only to fall into a full-blown relapse just a few moments later, leaves me feeling deeply embarrassed.

Okay, I say, feeling even worse when I see how worried I’ve made him. No quick fixes, no rushing toward a conclusion. I promise.

Tasha— Braxton’s voice is edged with concern. "It’s not about me—it’s for you. I just want to see you feeling whole again, safe in the world. I see Dr. Lucy sometimes, too, you know. There’s no shame in it."

I guess we each have our nightmares. I sigh, hoping to put an end to it, when I’m struck by a telling sting at the back of my eyes. And I quickly lower my chin, blinking away the threat of tears until I’m sure it’s passed for good.

After years of taking care of my mom and putting my own needs aside in the struggle to fill all of hers, it’s been a big adjustment for me to get used to being cared for, looked after, in the way Braxton cares for and looks after me. And the truth is, while I’ve gotten so much better at sharing my feelings and being open to his, there are also times when his big-hearted displays knock me so sideways, I have to fight the urge to push him away.

For so many years, being alone felt safe. Even now, despite all the self-work I’ve done, there’s still a shadowy part of me that insists I don’t deserve Braxton’s affections—that I’m not the sort of girl worth sticking around for.

Of course, somewhere deep down inside, I know it’s not true. But it’s not always enough to stop that persistent voice of gloom.

A long stretch of silence swells like an ocean between us until I finally lift my chin, level my gaze on his, and breach the quiet by saying, "I will feel safe again. Someday soon, I’m sure. But for now, I was hoping you could remind me just exactly where we left off."

I attempt a sexy grin, but it feels so awkward on my face, I’m sure I’ve fallen short. Still, what I lack in skill I make up for in determination, and I push away from the headboard and lean closer to him until my fingers are grazing the bold curve of his biceps.

There was a time when I used to make out with random boys in a quest to escape the monotony of my life.

Am I doing that now?

Seeking physical affection as a way to avoid real emotions and a hard conversation?

Maybe.

Probably.

For me, intimate conversations always feel like a much bigger risk than an intimate act.

But I also know what I want. And right now, I want Braxton.

My fingers trail up his arm, and while I know he wants me, too, there’s no mistaking the tightening of his jaw, the stiffening of his spine, or the way he holds himself in check, refusing to fully give in.

Darling, he says, his brow slanting, lips pulling into a frown. You don’t have to—

But I don’t let him finish. I have something to prove, partly to him, but mostly to me. I need to show us both that we can enjoy a romantic moment without the duke constantly intruding.

It’s fine, I say, practically begging him to believe it so that maybe I’ll believe it as well. Really. It was just a glitch. It won’t happen again.

My hands slide over his shoulders as I lay claim to his mouth. My tongue playfully nudging until he opens to me, to the kiss, to the unspoken promise to come.

A low groan sounds deep in his throat as he pulls me closer and kisses me so thoroughly that all traces of the duke are long gone. Then, he slides us both down the mattress, centers my body over his, and wastes no time reclaiming my mouth, my neck, the lobe of my ear. His lips leave a tingling trail in their wake that sets my body aflame.

This, I whisper, conforming my body to the hard contours of his. This is exactly what I want. I sink my teeth into his shoulder, biting playfully but still leaving a faint, crescent-shaped mark.

All this and then some more. So. Much. More. The words trill through my head, but I don’t speak them. I’d much rather show than tell.

There’ve been so many nights when we’ve kissed for what feels like forever—wearing ourselves out with the searing scrape of our tongues, the sweet sweep of our fingers exploring each other. We’ve done all we can to take it slow—to build a solid foundation of comfort and trust. But now it feels like time to move on to… Well, everything else.

And I know he feels the same. I can feel it in the feverish roll of his hips, the urgent brush of his thumbs as they slide under my camisole, along the crook of my waist, where they pause at the curve of my breasts.

I press a palm to his chest and angle myself to his side so I can drag my gaze down the length of him, tracking my hand as it skims along the muscled valley of his abs, drawing a slow circle just south of his navel that sets his heart drumming so hard I can feel the pulse of it under his skin.

Then I inch my hand lower.

And then lower still.

Slipping past the waistband of his briefs until I find him. Laying claim to the warmest part of him. My lips curling with anticipation when I see the way he trembles under my touch, immediately ceding all power, yielding to whatever I want.

Tasha, he groans, turning until his lips find mine, the kiss growing so heated we’re forced to withdraw. You have no idea how much I want this, he says. "How much I want you."

His lips return to a crushing, fiery grind before skimming their way down my throat, all the way to where his hands are now cupping my breasts.

Show me. Show me exactly how much, I command, and Braxton is quick to obey.

Between the push and pull of his kiss and the sweet rhythmic circling of our hips, I don’t want this to end. I only want more. More of us. More of him.

I tug at his briefs, desperate to remove all barriers left standing between us. See? I say, gliding my tongue around the shell of his ear, watching his eyes glaze as my hand begins to move. There’s no need to worry. Clearly, I’m cured.

Braxton’s mouth falls slack as he draws in a long, tortured breath. And just when I think we’re going to actually, really, finally go there, his fingers circle my wrist, stopping my hand.

But Tasha—are you sure? His voice is a rasp, telling me it’s taking every ounce of his strength to hold back and do the right thing. The gentlemanly thing. The Braxton thing.

Which only makes me want him more.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip. I’m so, so ready for this.

"Are you sure?" I ask. My tone is teasing, convinced I already know the answer.

He lifts his hands to my face, his gaze brimming with such unbridled reverence it simultaneously scares me and makes my heart sing.

We close the space between us, our lips finding each other once more, when, from seemingly out of nowhere, a blast of Beethoven crashes into the room.

3

Well before the first four notes of da-da-da-dum that mark the opening motif of Beethoven’s Fifth can sound, I know it’s a message from Arthur.

Which also explains the speed with which Braxton rolls out from under me, makes a leap for his nightstand, retrieves his Gray Wolf–issued tablet, and gives