"Saint, I'm?—"
"Don't." He's already getting dressed. "It is what it is."
"But—"
"We knew this was coming." His voice is flat now. Detached. "Just happened sooner than expected."
I watch him button his shirt, each movement mechanical. The man who held me last night is gone, replaced by the cold strategist.
"I guess you'll be off the hook sooner than you thought," he says, not looking at me.
I freeze. "What?"
"Antonio dies, the pressure for an heir eases up. You'll probably get what you wanted all along—freedom from this whole situation."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not—I didn't?—"
"I need to call the captains. Pack up. We're leaving in an hour." He walks out without waiting for a response.
I sit there, sheet clutched to my chest, feeling like I've been doused in ice water.
Off the hook. Like I've been counting down the days until Antonio dies so I can escape. Like last night meant nothing. Likeeverything we've built together was just me biding my time until I could be free of him.
The guilt that was crushing my chest a moment ago transforms into something else. Something hot and sharp.
How dare he? After last night. After holding me like I mattered. After almost saying—whatever he was going to say.
How dare he reduce me back to the unwilling wife who wants out.
I get dressed mechanically, throwing clothes into my bag. My hands are shaking.
I'd been about to tell him about Alexei. To confess. To ask for forgiveness and find another way.
But why should I? He just made it clear what he thinks of me. What I am to him.
A burden. An obligation. Someone who can't wait to be free.
Fine. If that's what he thinks, then maybe he's right.
Maybe I should take every opportunity I can get.
By the time we're in the car heading back to the city, I've rebuilt every wall he'd torn down. Reinforced every defense.
And the guilt? I bury it deep.
Antonio's dying. Saint doesn't trust me anyway. And I have a deal with Alexei Morozov that I'm apparently going through with.
Because what's the alternative? Go back to being dismissed? Treated like a fragile thing that needs protecting?
Told I'll be "off the hook" like I'm a fish he's planning to throw back?
No.
I stare out the window, watching the landscape blur past, and make my choice.
Saint thinks I want freedom. Fine.
I'll take it.
