“How touching,” the woman says dryly, flipping through her own file. “According to our intelligence, unseelie naming conventions are quite different from seelie ones. More... personal. Less focused on political hierarchy.”
She’s fishing now, trying to get me to reveal information about unseelie culture, to confirm suspicions about my loyalties.
“I wouldn’t know,” I lie smoothly. “I was raised seelie.”
Morrison leans forward, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair. The move brings his face uncomfortably close to mine, his pale eyes searching for cracks in my composure.
“Your husband claims your motives are revenge and spite,” he says softly. “He says you want to see the seelie court brought low because of how they’ve treated you. But we all know that intelligence is not Jack Caxton’s strength.”
White-hot fury blazes through me so suddenly and violently that I have to clench my hands to keep from reaching for a blade. How dare they? How dare they insultJack, dismiss him as if he’s some sort of bumbling fool who can’t see past his own nose?
Jack is brilliant. He sees connections others miss, understands people in ways that would put most diplomats to shame. He defended me when no one else would, trusted me when he had every reason not to. He’s kind and brave and decent in ways these bitter, calculating agents could never comprehend.
He looked at me, truly looked at me, and saw someone worth defending. Someone worth caring about. Someone worth protecting.
And these small-minded, suspicious little people want to reduce him to a useful idiot.
But I say nothing. I force myself to remain silent, to let them think they’re right about him. Because if they underestimate Jack, that’s an advantage we can use. Let them think he’s simple, straightforward, easy to manipulate.
They have no idea what they’re dealing with.
Even if it makes me want to tear their throats out.
“Your silence is interesting,” the woman observes.
“My husband’s assessment of my motivations is accurate enough,” I manage through gritted teeth.
Morrison straightens, apparently satisfied with my non-response. “So you admit it. Revenge against the seelie court for a lifetime of slights and humiliations.”
“I admit nothing. I merely acknowledge that Jack understands me better than I might have expected when we first married.”
“And yet you ask us to trust you with sensitive Resistance operations,” the thin agent says, moving back into my line of sight. “How do we know you won’t simplyuse that information to settle personal scores? How do we know you care about human freedom at all?”
It’s a fair question, actually. And a dangerous one, because the honest answer is complicated. I do care about human freedom, but not for the noble reasons they might hope. I care because Jack cares. I care because this world and its people have shown me more kindness than the Seelie Court ever has.
I care because somewhere in this tangled mess of politics and Resistance and arranged marriage, I’ve found something worth protecting.
But they’re not ready to hear that.
“Perhaps,” I say slowly, “the question isn’t whether my motives are pure. Perhaps the question is whether pure motives are necessary for effective action.”
Morrison tilts his head. “Explain.”
“Revenge can be a powerful motivator. It’s focused, it’s personal, it’s sustainable over long periods of time. Someone seeking revenge doesn’t give up easily, doesn’t lose interest when things get difficult.” I lean back in my chair, projecting calm confidence. “Someone seeking revenge can be very, very useful to your cause.”
“And when your revenge is complete?” the woman asks. “When the seelie court is gone and humans rule their own world again? What then?”
Before I can answer, the door flies open and Jack himself strides in, his face thunderous with an anger I’ve never seen from him before.
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t interrogate my husband,” Jack snaps, his voice carrying an authority that makes all three agents step back instinctively.
The transformation is remarkable. Gone is the affable, slightly bumbling public persona. This is Jack Caxton the constitutional law expert, the strategic thinker, the man who can dissect political crises with surgical precision.
This is the Jack they don’t want to acknowledge exists.
The agents exchange glances, clearly caught off-guard by his sudden appearance and the force of his presence.
“Mr Caxton,” Morrison begins, “this was simply an informal chat...”
