He’s already moving toward the door, but I catch his wrist as he passes my chair. He freezes, looking down at my hand on his skin with an expression I can’t quite read.
“I meant what I said,” I tell him. “About not wanting to dissolve this marriage. Whatever’s happening between us... I want to see where it goes.”
His breath catches, so softly I almost miss it. “Jack...”
“I know it’s complicated,” I continue. “I know we’re still figuring things out. But I want to try. We’re good together.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, slowly, he turns his hand palm up, his fingers threading through mine.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “We are.”
It’s not a declaration of love. It’s not even a promise. But it’s something. A beginning, maybe. A tentative agreement that what we’re building is worth protecting.
And for now, that’s enough.
“Right then,” I say, reluctantly releasing his hand. “Let’s go save our marriage by writing the world’s most intimidating diplomatic briefing.”
Dyfri’s smile is small but genuine. “Now you’re talking my language.”
As we head toward my office, I catch myself stealing glances at him, marvelling at how much has changed in just a few days. We’re not in love. But we’re something more than strangers now, something that might eventually become a partnership in every sense of the word.
And if this morning taught me anything, it’s that Dyfri is full of surprises.
I can’t wait to discover what else he’s hiding behind that carefully controlled facade.
Chapter thirteen
Jack
Ineed air. Fresh air, and five minutes away from the endless parade of MPs who seem to think the solution to every diplomatic crisis is to shout louder and gesture more emphatically.
The rose garden behind Number 10 is mercifully quiet this afternoon, the weak winter sun filtering through the bare branches of the old oak trees. I sink onto one of the new wooden benches and let my head fall back, closing my eyes against the weak sunshine.
Today’s emergency session was particularly brutal. The Scottish situation is not calming down as fast as we would like, and now there are rumours that Wales might follow suit if we can’t demonstrate that the fey treaty actually benefits the constituent nations. Meanwhile, reports are coming in from other human settlements around the world about increased fey military presence, which has everyone wondering if we’re heading toward some sort of totalitarian occupation rather than this mirage of cooperation.
And through it all, I kept catching myself glancing at Dyfri during the briefings, looking for any sign that he knew more than he was letting on. The way hisjaw tightened when certain topics came up. The careful neutrality of his voice when discussing fey military strategy.
I hate that I sometimes wonder if my husband is as committed to this alliance as I hope he is. I hate that it is sensible to wonder if he is a spy.
I was told to keep him happy. That anything else was above my paygrade. But I’m not capable of turning my brain off. I want to know who my heart is falling for.
The intimacy we shared, all the small gestures and glances, made me feel close to my husband. Hopeful that we had a future together. But now, after hours of the real world crashing in and stark reminders that he is a prince of an occupying force, all my doubts have come rushing back.
“Rough day?”
The voice comes from directly behind me, Welsh accent thick as honey and just as smooth. I jolt upright, spinning around to find a tall man with pale blond hair watching me with vivid green eyes that seem to see right through me.
I’ve never seen him before in my life, but something about his presence makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He’s wearing an expensive suit that fits him perfectly, but he moves like a predator barely contained by civilised clothing.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I ask, getting to my feet.
“Not yet.” He steps closer, and I’m struck by how bloody tall he is. I’m six foot seven, and he’s easily matching me for height. “But I know you, Jack Caxton. Son of the Prime Minister. Husband to a fey prince. Man caught between two worlds.”
My mouth goes dry. “If you’re press...”
“I’m not press.” His voice is quiet, but there’s something dangerous in it that makes me want to take a step back. “I’m someone who thinks you might be useful.”
“Useful for what?”
