He’d tripped, and the fall had yanked him out of her head. She’d never even known, as far as he could tell. Since then, he’d practiced—though carefully, never using it for too long and never on people with the gift of magic, as they might pick up on it—and was now able to distinguish between his gifts. The influencer thing came naturally, but the mind-reading took more effort.
Though his father’s stuffy advisor Brennan had been laughably easy. A subtle nudge and the man’s carefully constructed mask of indifference had crumbled, revealing a seething jealousy toward the younger advisors that Fergal had always suspected but never confirmed. The guards at the east gate were even simpler—loyal, bored, vaguely horny. He could’ve known that without using his influencer gift, but it had been good practice.
His father had been a tougher nut to crack, especially because Fergal didn’t want the man to even suspect he had a gift so rare that Fergal hadn’t been able to find a mention of it in the last two hundred years. But after some careful testing, Fergal had found his way into his father’s mind. It had not been pretty.
He’d never tried it on Gregor. He hadn’t dared to. The man was too perceptive, too trained to notice anything being different from the usual. But he wasn’t getting anywhere with everything else he’d tried, so he had to attempt this. He’d have to be sneaky as a snake, sliding into Gregor’s mind slowly and subtly.
Hopefully, he’d be able to find out what was going on because Gregor was hiding something. Fergal wasn’t sure what it was, but the man had a secret. One that he’d kept for many, many years. And today, Fergal intended to find out what it was.
He strode through the stone corridors of the compound, his boots echoing against the polished wooden floors. Outside, the Canadian winter raged with its usual brutality—snow falling in endless curtains of white, the wind a constant howl that had been the soundtrack of his entire life. He barely noticed it anymore.
What he did notice was the restlessness thrumming under his skin, an electric buzz that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with what was waiting for him in the library.Whowas waiting for him.
He turned the corner and pushed open the heavy oak door. Gregor was already there. The man was incapable of being late, as if punctuality were a moral imperative rather than a social courtesy. He was in his leather seat, a cup of steaming tea in front of him. Next to Fergal’s chair, a white mug of coffee stood waiting for him. White. Gregor was tired then.
Gregor didn’t look up when Fergal entered, and he took the opportunity to look at him the way he only allowed himself when Gregor’s attention was elsewhere. The silver-black hair croppedclose to his skull, more silver revealed by the library’s lamplight. The broad shoulders that strained against his simple dark shirt, the sleeves rolled to the forearms in a way that should not have been as distracting as it was. The strong jaw, slightly crooked nose—broken at least once that Fergal knew of—and a thin scar that traced a pale line from his cheekbone to just below his left ear. That neatly trimmed beard that framed his strong jaw so perfectly. His hands held the book with a gentleness that seemed impossible given their size, thick fingers turning pages with surprising delicacy.
Now Gregor did look up, and Fergal snapped his gaze to the nearest bookshelf as if he’d been studying the spines with great interest.
“Your Highness.”
“Gregor,” he said, dropping into the chair across from him with calculated carelessness, throwing one leg over the armrest. “What thrilling topic have you prepared for me today? The history of grain tariffs? The proper formatting of a trade agreement?”
The faintest twitch at the corner of Gregor’s mouth. Gregor didn’t smile, not really, not the way other people did. But Fergal had become an expert at reading the micro-expressions that passed across that weathered face, and that twitch was the equivalent of a belly laugh from anyone else. “The Dragon Code. Sections fourteen through twenty-two. Honor, alliances, and the obligations therein.”
“Another page turner,” Fergal deadpanned, but they both knew he didn’t mean it. He lived for this shit as much as Gregor did.
The Code was personal for Gregor. He’d left the Murphy clan because of it, because they’d violated it so thoroughly that a principled man couldn’t stomach staying. Fergal had pieced together that story over years of careful observation, not becauseGregor had ever volunteered it. Getting personal information out of the man was like pulling teeth from a dragon—dangerous and possibly deadly.
Gregor began the lesson with his usual methodical precision, walking through the historical context of the alliance obligations—how dragon clans had, since the earliest days, been bound by mutual-aid pacts that superseded individual clan interests. His voice was deep and steady, the kind of voice that could make even the driest material sound like it mattered. Which it did, but it was hard to concentrate on thirteenth-century alliance structures when the man teaching them had forearms like that.
Focus. He needed to focus. Not on forearms. On the plan.
When Gregor was deep into an explanation of how the Code handled betrayal between allied clans—the obligations of the wronged party, the reparations required, the conditions under which an alliance could be dissolved—Fergal interrupted him. “So what happens when the betrayal isn’t between clans but within one?”
Gregor’s steel-gray eyes lifted from the text. “Clarify.”
“A clan member who breaks the Code, who does something dishonorable. Not against another clan, but against his own. What are the obligations then?”
“The Code addresses internal disputes in section thirty-one?—”
“I’m not asking about section thirty-one. I’m asking what you think.”
Another micro-twitch. This one wasn’t amusement but wariness. He knew damn well what Fergal was hinting at. “My personal opinion isn’t relevant to your education, Your Highness.”
“It’s relevant to me.”
Gregor held his gaze for a beat too long, then looked down at the book. “Internal betrayal is addressed through the clan’sown justice system, overseen by the king. The Code provides guidelines, but ultimately, the king decides.”
“And if the king is the one who’s dishonorable?”
The temperature in the room shifted. “Then it falls to those around him to act according to their conscience and the Code.”
“Is that what you did?” Fergal asked, his voice softer now. “When you left the Murphys?”
Gregor’s jaw tightened. A muscle feathered along the line of it, visible even beneath the stubble. “We’ve discussed my history before, Your Highness. It’s not today’s lesson.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about today’s lesson,” Fergal murmured.
