"Good."
He nods once, already shifting into action. "The mystic is in her chambers—I'll send word you're coming. And I'll have your room prepared. Fresh sheets, food waiting, whatever you need." He pauses, and something flickers across his face—not uncertainty, but a brief crack in the armor. "I've been sleeping there. Since you left."
He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. The bond carries the rest—the grief, the desperate need to be surrounded by my scent when I was gone.
"I'll have my things moved within the hour," he continues, voice steady again. "You won't be kept waiting."
The image still hits me—Rhystan in the bed we shared, face pressed to pillows that held my scent, breathing me in because it was all he had left. But he's not asking for sympathy. Just stating facts and solving problems.
Somehow that's worse.
"Fine." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I'll wait in the library until it's ready."
"The library." He's already turning, leading the way. "I'll have food sent. You need to eat—" He catches himself before I can snap at him, holds up a hand. "I know you know what you need. I'm just making sure you have it."
Not a command. An offer. The alpha instinct to provide, channeled into something I can accept.
I follow him into the castle, keeping careful distance between us. But the bond pulls with every step. And when we pass through corridors I remember—the training yard where we sparred until we cracked the stone walls, the weapons rack where he bent me over and fucked me until I couldn't stand, the dining hall where he recited forty-seven names and I watched something in him crack open—my body remembers too.
Heat pools low in my belly. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress. The twins shift restlessly, responding to hormones I can't control.
He knows. I see it in the set of his shoulders, the controlled precision of his movements. The bond carries my arousal to him the same way it carries his to me, a feedback loop of want neither of us is acting on.
But he doesn't falter. Doesn't slow down or try to use it. Just keeps walking, keeps leading, keeps giving me exactly what I asked for.
By the time we reach the library, I'm the one who's shaking.
"Here." He pushes open the heavy doors, stands aside to let me enter. "Everything you need should be in the east wing—cursed bloodlines, war god texts, forbidden histories. I'll have the mystic pull anything else that might be relevant."
"Thank you."
He nods, lingering in the doorway. Making sure I don't need anything else before he goes.
"Kess." His voice is quiet but steady. "We're going to save them. Both of them. Whatever it takes."
I don't answer. Can't answer, not with my throat tight and my eyes stinging.
He seems to understand. Dips his head once—almost a bow, a king acknowledging his equal—and pulls the door closed behind him.
The bond still aches. Still pulls. But underneath the wanting, I feel something else bleeding through from his side.
Determination. Absolute and unwavering.
He's not going to let their daughter die.
And despite everything—the lies, the tea, the betrayal that still burns—I believe him.
I sink into the nearest chair, pressing my hands to my face. I came here to save my children.
That's what matters. Not the way my body remembers his. Not the image of him sleeping in my sheets. Not the way he looked at me like I was still everything, even after I told him to stay away.
Save the children first.
Figure out the rest later.
If there's anything left to figure out.
29
