To die from coffee is embarrassing.
To wake up in the body of the legendary black widow is worse.
Especially when next to you lies the corpse of your sixth husband and the guard is shouting:
Again?!
Now I’m Widow Mortis—a woman from whom men (and maybe even indoor plants, if you believe rumors) die.
The king ordered that I not be executed. The courtiers avoid me, and around me suddenly swirl three strange handsome men:
— the prince with a permanent migraine,
— the necromancer with a god complex,
—and the lord who was supposed to execute me, but now he’s riding alongside me.
And me? I just want to survive, get my coffee back, and not end up married.
Because here, it seems, marriage is a death sentence.
A reincarnated girl. A black widow.
And way too many men with a savior complex.
Don’t propose marriage. Seriously.