Dyfri’s smile is sharp and utterly fey. “That would depend on how badly you want Scottish cooperation.”
Dad sighs. “Of course it would.”
But I can see the way people are looking at Dyfri now. Not only as a threat or exotic curiosity, but as someone with valuable insight and political acumen. Someone worth listening to.
And when Dyfri glances at me, there’s something almost like approval in his expression. As if he’s seeing me differently too.
“Right,” I say, shifting the position of my laptop. “I’ll start drafting the legal framework for a subsidiary agreement. Dyfri, if you could reach out to your contacts in the fey court...”
“Already composing the message,” he says, producing his phone with a fluid gesture.
We work in surprisingly comfortable synchronisation for the next two hours, bouncing ideas off each other, building a framework that might actually solve the crisis. Dyfri’s insights into fey negotiation tactics prove invaluable, while my knowledge of UK constitutional law helps shape an agreement that might actually be legally binding.
By the time we break for lunch, we have the bones of a deal that could work.
“Excellent work, both of you,” Dad says as the meeting disperses. He looks genuinely impressed, which is not an expression I see from him very often.
As we walk back toward our quarters, Dyfri is unusually quiet.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask.
He glances at me sideways. “I hadn’t realised you were quite so... competent.”
“Thanks?” I say. “Is that a compliment or just an observation?”
“It was definitely a compliment,” he says, and there’s something almost warm in his voice. “Your father’s advisors clearly underestimate you.”
“Most people do,” I say without thinking, then immediately regret the admission.
Dyfri stops walking, turning to face me fully. “Then most people are idiots.”
The simple certainty in his voice does something strange to my chest.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I tell him. “About you being my husband. About this affecting both of us. I want your perspective on these things. I want us to be... partners.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his features. “Partners?”
“In whatever way works for us,” I say softly. “I know this isn’t what either of us planned. But maybe it doesn’t have to be terrible.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Dyfri takes a step closer, close enough that I can see that there are flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“No,” he says quietly. “Maybe it doesn’t.”
And for the first time since our wedding, I think we might actually have a chance at making this work.
For everybody.
Chapter ten
Jack
The carriage ride to the fey court gives me time to think, which might not be entirely a good thing. My mind keeps circling back to this morning’s crisis meeting, to the way Dyfri had stepped in without hesitation when I’d asked for his help.
I’d taken a gamble, bringing him into the negotiations. Dad’s advisors had looked sceptical, worried and suspicious. And I’d half expected Dyfri to decline or find some way to make me regret the offer. Instead, he’d been brilliant. Sharp, insightful, politically astute in ways that had clearly surprised everyone in the room.
Including me.
The thought that’s been nagging at me all day finally crystallises. What if Dyfri isn’t a spy at all? What if he’s exactly what he appears to be, a fey prince who got handed off to the humans as part of a diplomatic arrangement he had no more say in than I did?
