I blink. "Why?”
“Something about him also rubs me wrong.”
“What kind of wrong?”
“The kind that comes from other worlds.”
“But not through Hewhay’s?”
“No.” He picks up the document again, but his eyes aren't reading it. They're calculating. "Definitely not from Hewhay’s.”
“So what do we do now?” I ask uneasily. Because if Amos is one of the others, and he’s the one in charge of investigating the murder he himself may have committed—
Ten minutes later, and we’ve moved to another room in his estate, one I didn’t even know existed...until now.
"If you're going to be my queen, you need to understand my world."
This room is much larger than most, with maps on the walls and a table covered in documents. The light slants through high windows at a harsh angle, the kind of light that flattens everything it touches, makes shadows stark and unforgiving. My photographer's brain catalogs it automatically: high contrast, blown highlights, the kind of lighting you'd use for an interrogation scene, not a lesson.
A war room, I realize. The kind of space where serious decisions get made by serious people who know what they're doing.
Two soldiers stand by the door, faces carefully blank.
I am not a serious person who knows what she's doing.
"This is New England." Devyn gestures at a map that's been divided into four colored sections. "Four territories. Four kings. The treaty keeps the peace, but peace is a negotiation, not a guarantee."
I nod like I understand.
I do not understand.
"Each king maintains his own forces. Intelligence. Security. Tactical response."
"Like...James Bond?" I venture. “Or Rambo?”
One of the soldiers by the door makes a sound. It might be a cough. It might be a strangled laugh. It's hard to tell.
Devyn's gaze cuts to him. The soldier's face goes pale.
"Something in your throat?" Devyn's voice is silk over steel.
"No, sir. Apologies, Your Majesty."
Devyn turns back to me. His expression softens—just a fraction, just enough that I notice.
"Let’s just say they’re trained to protect, and they’re known to mean business.”
“That’s um, impressive. But they’ll make sure...to give warning shots before doing anything. Right?”
Dead silence.
I look at his men, whose shoulders are shaking, and then at Devyn.
"Warning shots," he repeats.
"Is that not...a thing?"
"No." But his voice is gentle. Almost amused. "It's not a thing."
