The living room is softly lit when I enter, and Dyfri is sitting on the sofa reading what appears to be an ancient scroll. He looks up when I come in, and his expression immediately shifts to concern.
“Jack? What’s wrong? You look upset.”
I can’t speak. Can’t find words for the rage and horror and heartbreak churning in my chest. Instead, I stride towards him, and he gets to his feet with that fluid grace, scroll still in his hand.
Without a word, I wrap my arms around him and pull him close.
He goes rigid immediately, his body stiff and unyielding against mine. “Ah yes, a hug,” he says awkwardly, patting my back with one hand.
I don’t let go. I can’t let go. I hold him tighter, pressing my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of jasmine that always seems to cling to him.
“Jack?” His voice is uncertain now, confused. “Is this... are we still hugging?”
I squeeze him tighter, and after a moment, I feel some of the tension leave his body. He sighs, a soft sound of surrender, and melts into the embrace. His head comes to rest on my shoulder, his body rests against mine, no longer maintaining any distance.
I whisper against his hair. “That’s right. Get comfortable.”
Because I am never, ever letting him go. Not now that I know what he’s survived. Not now that I understand what he has been forced to endure.
He’s safe now. He’s mine now. And I swear to God, I will burn down anyone who tries to hurt him ever again.
We stand in the soft lamplight, holding each other. My new promise burning through me. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, I’m going to make sure Dyfri never has to experience any kind of horror ever again.
He’s not alone anymore. He’ll never be alone again.
Not while I’m breathing.
Chapter eighteen
Dyfri
Well, that was a waste of time. It’s quite clear the chef here at Downing Street is adamant that he is doing nothing wrong. And everything I set up on the first day here is working as it should.
Which means I just have to accept that human food truly is awful. And given how very excited humans get about fey food, this news isn’t surprising. Merely disappointing.
As I make my way back through the maze of corridors, a voice stops me.
“Your Highness, may I have a word?”
Agent Morrison. Jack’s father’s MI5 liaison, with his pale eyes and perpetually suspicious expression. He’s wearing his usual perfectly tailored suit, but there’s something different about his posture today. More alert. More predatory.
I’ve been wondering when he would make his move.
“Of course,” I reply smoothly, though every instinct is telling me this conversation will be anything but pleasant.
He leads me through several turns, down corridors I’ve never seen before, past rooms that look abandoned. Thefurther we go, the more isolated we become from the main thoroughfares of Number 10. How convenient.
We arrive at what appears to be a disused office, all shadows and dusty furniture covered in white sheets. The windows are covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the afternoon light and making the space feel deliberately oppressive. Two other agents are already waiting, positioned strategically near the door and window. One blocks the exit while the other controls the sight lines.
Ah yes, intimidation tactics. How delightfully predictable.
“Gentlemen,” I say pleasantly, settling into the chair they gesture toward with the sort of languid grace that tends to unnerve humans. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Morrison closes the door with a soft click that sounds oddly final in the dusty silence. He doesn’t take a seat, preferring to loom over me while his colleagues maintain their strategic positions. The classic arrangement. One questioner, two enforcers, psychological pressure through positioning and isolation.
Rather amateur, really. The fey court could teach them lessons in proper intimidation.
“We need to know if you’re working for the unseelie court,” Morrison says without preamble.
