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

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  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

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  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.