“Sounds badass,” Kane laughs, though his gaze sharpens with understanding.
“Oh, it was a hell of a time.” Griff’s grin doesn’t falter, yet his attention flicks toward Rowe. “Drove this one absolutely mad when I first arrived. Remember when I called your father ‘buddy’ during his visit?”
Rowe exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I remember having to explain to him why my new handler was referring to one of the most powerful men in Veldrith like a bar regular.”
“I was trying to be personable.”
A lull settles, brief but comforting, broken only by the ambient clinks of cutlery and the soft cries of distant creatures echoing through open timber arches and ivy-laced windows. Then, Griff’s eyes light up with that dangerous gleam that seems to precede all his most outrageous questions.
“So, what’s he really like?” he asks, leaning forward with unrestrained curiosity. “The terrifying Dominic Blackwood. Yourfiancé.”
I catch how Rowe’s shoulders stiffen, his gaze dimming before he fixes it on his bowl, and my fingers drift toward my hand before I even realize. The bare space where the ring once sat pulses with phantom weight. I sense it still, expect it, as though memory alone could force it back into being.
“He’s . . .” The words tangle in my throat. What is he, now? After what he did. After what I did. After everything. There are too many truths to choose from, and none of them are safe to speak aloud.
“I heard he once made a man cry by lifting an eyebrow,” Griff continues, blissfully unaware of the sudden shift in air pressure. “Though Rowe claims that’s just a typical Tuesday.”
A sound escapes me, too thin to be called a laugh. “Dom isn’t exactly . . .” I falter again, remembering the moments when his hands were careful, despite what they were capable of. When a rare softness touched his eyes. When he looked at me as though I were a secret worth guarding.
But those moments have edges, and the question gnaws at me—what if those memories are all I have left?
The room seems to constrict, walls pressing closer as my breath falters.
What if Margaux failed? What if Kian didn’t wait?
What if Dom’s already dead?
The image strikes whole: his body abandoned in some Blackwood stronghold, blood soaking into stone. The thought lodges beneath my ribs, and for a moment all I can think is that I trusted Margaux to keep him safe, but what if—
“Aria?” Kane’s voice sounds distant.
I force my breath into rhythm, count the seconds between each inhale, pushing the panic down. Not here. Not now. I can’t afford to fall apart in front of everyone.
“Aria needs rest.” Rowe’s voice cuts through the clamor building inside my skull. He’s already standing, his chair dragging across the floor. “Griff, show Kane where he can sleep tonight.”
“But I haven’t told them about the time you—”
“Now, Griff.”
There’s a shift in his tone that makes Griff falter, and when he glances at me, mischief ebbs into kindness, softened and unguarded.
“Right. Come on, Kane. Let me show you where we hoard the soft blankets, and half our dignity.”
I follow Rowe, the dining hall’s warmth fading as the door thuds shut behind us. Night unfolds in its vast expanse, the sky above riddled with stars that gleam. The air bites at my lungs.
“I’m sorry about him,” Rowe says, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. In the moonlight, the strands glint like spun gold. “He means well. But once he gets going . . .”
“Don’t apologize.” I reach for levity, for anything that might keep the edges from cutting deeper. “Though now I’m invested in these press clippings. Organized by date? Tell me you color-coded them.”
I expect a laugh. Even a scoff or quip, but Rowe doesn’t bite. His gaze stays on me, and something in his expression shifts. He hears the false note in my voice, the way my fingers won’t stop tracing absent patterns against my leg.
“Aria . . .”
I speak before he can finish. “It’s actually nice here.” The words spill out too fast. “All of it. The people, the quiet. How they talk to you without layers. No veiled threats or polished deceit. Just terrible jokes, and casual mockery of their supposed leader.”
“You’re allowed to stop,” Rowe says quietly, taking a careful step closer. “You can rest, take a breath, and admit when you’re not alright.”
“Iamokay.” I force another smile, wider this time, as if sheer determination could convince us both. “Really. Just tired. It’s been . . .” The words tangle as memories surge, heavy with choices I can’t undo. “Quite a day. But I’m fine. Better than that. I mean, look at this place. It’s beautiful. And your work here, with the creatures—”
