“The longest,” Logan agrees. “She believes lasting change comes slowly, through careful maneuvering rather thandramatic gestures.” His expression turns wry. “Which is why she’s so frustrated with my current approach.”
“The rebellion, you mean.” I glance toward the sleeping child, lowering my voice further. “She thinks it’s too indirect? Too slow?”
Logan nods, moving toward the door and gesturing for me to follow. We step into the hallway, closing the nursery door softly behind us.
“She wants to risk everything on a single throw of the dice,” he explains as we walk. “I want to build support carefully and quietly, over years or months, rather than weeks.”
“You really think we can hold out that long?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I can’t challenge my father directly,” he says quietly. “I won’t win. He’d tear me apart. The only way to beat him is through political maneuvering."
It’s impossible to miss the change in Logan's voice. There's a vulnerability there, a rawness that I've never heard from him before.
"You're afraid of your father," I say, the realization dawning on me.
It's strange to think of Logan being afraid of anyone. But there it is, written in the tight lines around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself despite his injuries.
He looks away, jaw working as if chewing on words he doesn't want to say. "I'm Realistic. My father destroyed everyone who ever challenged him directly. Mercilessly, violently..." He trails off, swallowing whatever he was about to say.
I study him, seeing him properly perhaps for the first time. Not the monster who haunted my nightmares after he forced our bond, nor the calculating prince plotting rebellion. Just a man – flawed, wounded, trying to navigate impossible choices.
"I don't want to watch you die," I admit, the words surprising even me with their honesty.
Logan's head snaps up, his golden eyes searching my face with almost painful intensity. "Is that all?" he asks, a hint of his old teasing humor returning. "Just an aversion to witnessing my murder?"
I roll my eyes, oddly grateful for the break in tension. "Maybe a few inches past that. Maybe. Don't push your luck."
"I'll take what I can get." He laughs, wincing slightly as the movement jostles his ribs. "For what it's worth, I don't particularly want to die either. Not before I've had the chance to make things right."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard again. This new Logan, the one who acknowledges his mistakes, who speaks of making amends rather than simply taking what he wants, is harder to hate.
Harder to keep at a distance.
Enough that I have to ask myself if that's even what I want anymore.
CHAPTER 28
Cillian
I stand at the mirror, adjusting the collar of my uniform, my fingers working through the familiar motions while my mind drifts elsewhere. The pale stranger staring back at me looks better than he did a week ago—the shadows beneath my eyes have lightened, and my skin has lost that gray undertone of near-death. For the first time since the doctor’s compound, I’ve managed to stay out of bed for more than an hour without feeling like my lungs are collapsing.
Progress, however incremental.
My fingers brush against the scar forming beneath my shirt, a raised line of puckered flesh that pulls uncomfortably when I move too quickly.
“You look better.”
I don’t startle at Logan’s voice from the doorway. I felt his approach through what remains of our bond—a subtle warming, like sunlight breaking through clouds. Once, that connection was as natural as breathing. Now it flickers like a candle in a draft, unreliable but persistent.
“Better than what?” I ask, turning to face him. “A corpse? The bar was admittedly low.”
Logan leans against the doorframe, golden eyes assessing me with the clinical precision I’ve come to expect. He’s dressed like a courtier—crisp white shirt, tailored pants, polished boots. Ever the prince, even in exile. The bruising around his eyes has faded to a sickly yellow, and his nose, while still swollen, looks less like he lost a fight with a brick wall.
“Better than yesterday,” he says, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. “Maya would have made a good medic.”
“Unlike the butcher who set your nose all those years ago?” I can’t help the small jab, a habit born from years of being the only person who could speak to him this way. “And reattached your ear.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Careful. I might start thinking you care.”
