Instead of answering directly, he glances around the garden with those unsettling emerald eyes. “Tell me, how do you feel about the current state of affairs? Happy with how things are progressing?”
The question feels loaded, like a trap waiting to spring. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.” He moves closer again, close enough that I can see the sharp intelligence in his gaze. “The fey occupation. The way your own people look at you like you’re a collaborator.”
My heart starts hammering. “I think you should leave.”
“Should I?” He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m an interesting specimen. “Even though we both know you’ve been having the same thoughts? Wondering if there might be another way?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
“No? Then why do you look so worried every time your husband briefs your father’s cabinet? Why do you ask so many questions about fey military positioning? Why do you study those cultural briefings like you’re looking for weaknesses rather than understanding?”
The accuracy of his observations hits me like a physical blow. How the hell does he know about any of that? And if he knows, then Dyfri must know too. My husband knows I have suspicions about him, and the thought of that is breaking my heart.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Someone who thinks the current arrangement isn’t sustainable,” he says simply. “Someone who believes humans should be allowed to govern themselves. Someone who might have friends who share those beliefs.”
Friends. He’s talking about The Resistance. Freedom fighters who cause Dad so many problems but who I can’t help admiring.
“Even if that were true,” I say carefully, “even if I agreed with you, which I’m not saying I do... I’m married to a fey prince. Whatever I hear, whatever I know, he knows.”
“Does he?” The man’s smile is sharp as a knife.
Before I can respond to that loaded question, I hear footsteps on the gravel path. My heart sinks as I recognise the graceful gait, and when I turn, Dyfri is walking toward us with that fluid stride that marks him as unmistakably fey.
When I look back, the blond man has vanished. Simply gone, as if he was never there at all.
“Jack?” Dyfri’s voice is carefully neutral, but his dark eyes are scanning the garden with sharp attention. “I thought I heard voices.”
My mouth opens and closes uselessly. How do you explain that you were just approached by someone who is organising Resistance against the fey when your husband is literally one of the fey?
“I was just... getting some air,” I manage. “Talking to myself, probably. You know how it is after those meetings.”
Dyfri stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the way his nostrils flare slightly, as if he’s scenting the air. “Hmm. Talking to yourself in a Welsh accent?”
Shit. Fuck. How did he...?
“Dyfri, I can explain...”
“Can you?” He steps closer, and for a moment I’m reminded that for all his beauty, he’s still a creature that could probably kill me without breaking a sweat. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds rather like someone was trying to recruit you for something.”
Terror claws at my throat. This is it. This is where everything falls apart. Where I get arrested for treason or hauled before some fey tribunal or some other terrible thing that means I never see Dyfri again.
I should yell for security. I should have Dyfri contained, if that is in any way possible. I should inform Dad immediately about this catastrophe.
“Are you going to report this?” I ask quietly.
The question seems to surprise Dyfri. His eyebrows rise slightly, and something shifts in his expression.
“Report it to whom?” he asks.
“The fey court. Your brother. Whoever you’re supposed to tell when humans start talking about Resistance.”
For a long moment, Dyfri just stares at me. Gravity thickens around us. It feels like a standoff in an old Western film.
“I should call someone,” I croak.
