How To Tame Six Husbands

They tell you death is a sudden drop, a velvet curtain falling to end the performance. They lied. Death is an agonizing burn that strips away your dignity before it steals your pulse. For twenty-four years in the opulent Val-Aethelis Empire, survival had been my only war. My father treated succession like a gladiatorial sport, throwing his nine royal children into a pit to see which would crawl out alive enough to claim his throne. I checked every lock, watched every shadow, and eliminated rivals before they could learn my name. I knew the poisoners in the East Wing, the cutthroats in dark corridors, and the generals plotting my downfall. I had anticipated them all. Except hers. My sweet, delicate, soft-spoken little sister. In a court full of vipers, I believed Lucienne was the only pure soul left. While our brothers clawed for power, Lucy clung to my sleeve and played the helpless victim. I listened to her warnings and shielded her from the succession war. I believed she wanted nothing from me—not even my crown. God, what a fool I had been. The sister I cherished dropped her innocent mask without a flicker of regret. The moment the tea touched my tongue, I knew. Fire scorched my throat, followed by the coppery sting of nightshade. Lucy had delivered this brew to my chambers every night. I was the Crown Princess, yet I had swallowed my executioner’s gift night after night. I deserved to die for being so blind. “It really is a tragedy, sister,” Lucienne murmured. Her familiar sweetness was gone, replaced by a boredom colder than any blade. “You always had such terrible taste,” she said, watching the porcelain cup slip from my fingers. “In policies, in dresses…and in your choice of companions.” The cup shattered. I collapsed, clawing at my throat as my lungs refused to draw breath. Moonlight silvered her golden curls. Her baby-blue eyes, once adoring, now held only disgust. I dragged myself toward the oak doors, smearing blood across the carpet, still hoping someone would hear me. The poison moved too quickly; every breath became a wet rattle. “Lu…” Blood bubbled over my lips. “You…” “Shh.” She stepped over my legs and crouched beside me, her curls brushing my cold cheek. Her breath smelled faintly of honey. “Don’t waste your last breath on a name you can no longer scream. Save it for the gods. I’ll make sure the court hears how you finally choked on your own malice. A fitting end for a tyrant.” She gathered her white skirt clear of my blood and flung the doors open. No one was coming. Lucy would never leave loose ends. I lay on the freezing stone, clinging to my fading pulse. Was this how the feared Crown Princess would die? Footsteps sounded in the corridor. With the last of my strength, I turned toward the doorway. A pathetic spark of hope flickered in my chest. Kaelin and Cassian. My husbands. They looked down at me like a rabid hound left to die. “Oh?” Cassian tilted his head, a wicked grin tugging at his lips. “Is she actually finished this time?” I tried to command them, but only blood spilled from my mouth. “Did she say something, Kael?” Cassian asked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Kaelin said nothing. His emerald eyes had once held warmth, before the throne corrupted us both. A forced blood oath had bound him to my bed and reign for five years. He had watched me burn the empire to keep my crown. To him, my death was an execution. Please, I begged silently, stretching a blood-soaked hand toward his polished boots. He didn’t move. “You spent five years proving how desperately we needed you underground, Marin,” he said, his voice quiet and merciless. “Just die quietly.” His beautiful, merciless face was the last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me. My life replayed in that void: every rival crushed, every ruthless choice made to protect my crown. None had saved me. My sister poisoned me, and my husbands watched me bleed with relief. I had survived a war for the throne. I refused to die like a stray dog on a palace floor. “Your Highness!” I gasped. My eyes snapped open. I bolted upright, gasping, fingers twisting in the silk sheets. I braced for nightshade, blood, and the cold stares of the men who had abandoned me. But there was no poison. No blood. No husbands waiting in the doorway. Only a cool breeze stirring the lace curtains and a pair of frightened hazel eyes staring back at me. Talia. My personal maid, who should have been executed ten days ago on a fabricated charge of treason. “Your Highness, are you all right?” she stammered, hurrying to my bedside. “You’re drenched in sweat. You’re freezing!” She touched my brow. I seized her forearms, feeling her warmth and steady pulse. She was alive. For a moment, I could only stare, afraid that blinking would turn her into another corpse. “Talia… are we in hell?” “Hell?” She pulled back, alarm widening her eyes. “Have you lost your mind? You only say strange things when your fever spikes. Should I fetch the Royal Physician?” “The Royal Physician? Is he alive?” “Alive? Of course he is! He finished stitching your shoulder only an hour ago.” My left arm throbbed. White linen wrapped the wound an assassin’s poisoned blade had made thirty days before my death. In my first life, it had healed into a jagged scar. Now it was fresh and painfully real. And Talia’s neck was unmarked. No rope had ever touched it. A terrifying realization struck me. “Talia,” I whispered. “What is today’s date?” She blinked. “The seventeenth of the Month of Plums, Your Highness.” The seventeenth. I threw back the covers and crossed the icy floor to the vanity. Wild black hair spilled over my shoulders. In the mirror, sharp violet eyes stared back—bright, fierce, and free of the dead gray haze that had clouded them at the end. I touched my throat. No blood. No nightshade. Then I rushed to my desk and opened my private ledger. The latest entry read: 17th of the Month of Plums. Thirty days before Lucienne would hand me my final cup of tea. Thirty days before my husbands would stand in my doorway and watch me die. This was no fever dream. The heavens had sent my soul back in time. A slow, vicious smile spread across my face. In my first life, paranoia had ruled me. I built fortresses, locked doors, and chained my enemies. In return, I died poisoned and abandoned. Not this time. If they wanted a tyrant, I would give them one—but not the frightened princess hiding behind guards and iron locks. I would break my own traps. I would loosen the chains around my husbands’ wrists and place weapons in their hands myself. Lucienne wanted my crown. My husbands wanted their freedom. The court wanted a monster to overthrow. They had thirty days before that poison touched my lips. I intended to make every second count.