Lyanna looks up from the ancient scroll she’s examining, her hands steadying as she shifts into analysis mode. The trembling has subsided, replaced by the sharp focus I’ve seen when she’s performing complex healing.
“That’s referring to diplomatic marriages, not political hostage exchanges,” she says, reaching for the document. Our fingers brush as she takes it, the mate bond humming between us. “The language here is deliberately ambiguous. In fae contract law, ambiguity favors the less powerful party.”
She’s explaining court law with the precision of a battle tactician. Her voice grows stronger with each passing minute.
“Here,” she says suddenly, tapping a faded paragraph with slender fingers that now glow with soft sage-green light.
I grab a notepad, scrawling notes as she speaks. “You think someone arranged her death to force this contract substitution?”
“The timing is too convenient.” Her eyes narrow. “Someone orchestrated this, but we’d need evidence to prove it.”
I pull down another reference text, this one detailing investigation timeline provisions. “How long can we legally delay while gathering evidence?”
She’s already flipping through another document, mind racing ahead. “There’s precedent here from the Eremnor case. A challenge based on manipulation of circumstances grants a thirty-day investigation period.”
We work in seamless tandem with her explaining fae terminology I don’t understand, me connecting the political and strategic implications. When she mentions historical cases, I map out potential allies who might remember those precedents. When I identify weak points in the contract language, she provides the exact legal framework to exploit them.
Hours pass as we build our framework of resistance.
Her hair falls across her face as she leans forward, and I resist the urge to brush it back. Even in crisis, the pull between us remains undeniable. The mate bond pulses with determination rather than despair now, satisfaction growing as we find thread after thread to pull.
“There’s something else,” she says, eyes brightening with discovery. “Look at this clause about ‘binding compatibility’ ...”
I gently take the ancient scroll from Lyanna’s hands as her eyes begin to droop. She’s been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes now, fingers tracing the same line over and over. The silvery blue glow from her magic has dimmed to barely a flicker.
“We should rest,” I say, setting the scroll carefully aside.
She blinks up at me, confusion momentarily crossing her face. “But the provisions for undue influence—“
“Will still be there in the morning.” I stand and offer my hand. “Four hours of sleep will help us see what we’re missing.”
She hesitates only briefly before placing her hand in mine. The connection hums between us, a gentle current of relief at the contact. I lead her from the office, aware of how her steps drag slightly with exhaustion.
At the Lodge entrance, I grab my jacket from its hook and drape it around her shoulders. The leather nearly swallows her—sleeves hanging past her fingertips, hem reaching mid-thigh on her slender frame. She pulls it closer without a word, disappearing into the warmth that still holds my scent. We step into the cold night air, our breath misting as we walk the short path to my cabin, the stars impossibly bright overhead, indifferent to the chaos below.
Inside, I switch on just one small lamp, keeping the light low. The cabin is simple— bed, dresser, small bathroom, weapons on the wall. A warrior’s space. I move to my dresser, finding a clean t-shirt to serve as a nightshirt for her.
“Here,” I offer, placing it on the edge of the bed. “Bathroom’s through there if you want to clean up.”
She takes the shirt, her fingers brushing mine. “Thank you.”
While she’s in the bathroom, I change into sleep pants, my back to the closed door. I fill two glasses of water and set them on the nightstand, then stand there like an idiot, unsure where to put myself. This is my cabin, my bed—but nothing about tonight feels routine.
The bathroom door opens. She’s wearing my shirt, the hem reaching mid-thigh, her clothes folded neatly in her arms. Something primal flares in my chest at the sight of her in my clothes, but I tamp it down. Tonight isn’t about that.
“I can take the chair,” I offer, though every instinct rebels against the distance.
“No.” She sets her clothes on the dresser and slides into the bed, holding the covers open. “Here. Please.”
I turn off the lamp and join her, keeping a careful distance between us. For a moment, we both lie still in the darkness.
Then her breath catches—a small, broken sound that cracks something in my chest.
“Caelynn used to braid flowers in my hair.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “When we were children. She’d make these ridiculous crowns and insist I was a forest queen.”
I don’t speak. I just shift closer, opening my arms in silent invitation.
She shifts closer, curling against my side, her face pressed to my chest. The first sob shakes through her, then another. I hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped around her waist.
