Series1 The Wicked Beauty Of The Virgin Red

Kalea POV:

"Emory Lambert is destined to be mine," Dessie Richmond, my sister, whispered, her voice a poisonous thread slipping through the frigid breeze of the Royal Lunar Garden. "A wolfless cripple like you should crawl back to the gutter where you belong."

Her amber eyes gleamed with malice.

Before I could even process the violent sting of the freezing air on my face, Dessie tilted her body backward, angling herself toward the black waters of the royal ice pond.

She was setting up the exact same trap from my past life.

She wanted the entire court to see her fall, to hear her screams, and to watch me take the blame for attempting to drown the favored younger daughter of the Richmond Pack.

In that past life, everything had favored her. I had screamed in panic and lunged to grab her, my fingers clamping hard around her wrist and leaving livid grip-bruises on her skin.

When we fell, I thrashed and begged Emory to save me, so when he swam straight past me to lift Dessie first, onlookers called it justice — the Champion saving the victim from her attacker.

The healers found my marks on her, and nothing of hers on me. That was enough for a charge of attempted murder.

Now, everything is different. The terrace is crowded with high-ranking nobles, and I know exactly where her nails will land.

I had already seen through her act completely. I would play along — and turn her own trap against her.

I did not flinch. Instead, I calmly extended my left arm toward her, offering the loose silver-blue cuff at my wrist as if trying to catch her. Dessie, already falling backward to fake her accident, instinctively clawed out and seized my wrist hard to make it look real, her nails digging deep into my sleeve.

Dessie's smug grin instantly froze.

Her eyes widened in shock as she realized she had grabbed me first. Before she could let go, I stopped resisting. I leaned into her pull and let her own backward momentum drag us both off the marble edge together.

A chorus of shrill gasps erupted from the noble onlookers lining the snow-dusted terrace.

Then came the deafening crash of freezing water.

The shock of the sub-zero pond slammed into my chest, squeezing every drop of air from my lungs.

The weight of our velvet winter gowns pulled us straight into the dark depths.

Dessie thrashed wildly, her arms flailing like a dying bird as her silken skirts tangled around her legs.

Even as she thrashed, her right hand remained locked around my left wrist, her nails tearing frantically at my silk cuff.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream under the water, bubbles bursting around her terrified, contorted face.

Unlike my past self, I did not scream, did not beg, did not leave a single mark on her. I stared back at her through the murky blue, cold and completely still.

Pain tore through my limbs, but my mind was clearer than it had ever been in my two lifetimes.

Above the surface, muffled shouts vibrated through the water.

"Someone help! The Richmond ladies have fallen in!"

Through the rippling surface, I saw a familiar silhouette on the bank tear off his heavy velvet cloak.

Emory Lambert.

The newly crowned Champion Knight of the Grand Royal Trials, and my betrothed.

He dove into the water with a clean, powerful slice.

His eyes scanned the depths, searching desperately.