“Pretending,” Fergal said. “Are we really pretending last night didn’t happen?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Your Highness. Last night, I was in my workshop. You were in your quarters. Nothing of note occurred.”
The lie was delivered with such seamless composure that Fergal almost admired the craftsmanship. Almost, because there was the faintest tension at the corner of Gregor’s left eye. The telltale sign that the man was clenching his jaw so hard his back teeth were probably filing themselves down.
Fergal could push. He could get up, cross the room, stand close enough that Gregor would have to acknowledge his existence as something other than a student to be lectured at. He could reference the kiss directly—the softness of it, the sound Gregor had made, the way his hands had trembled on Fergal’s waist.
He didn’t. Not because he was being noble about it, but because he’d tried the direct approach for two years and it had gotten him exactly one kiss and a whole lot of walls. If Gregorwanted to pretend, fine. Let him pretend. Fergal would find another way in. He always did.
“Emergency succession,” he said flatly. “Sure. Let’s do that.”
Something flickered across Gregor’s face—surprise, maybe, or suspicion. He’d been braced for an assault and had gotten compliance instead, and the recalibration was visible if you knew where to look.
They worked through the material for another forty minutes. Fergal engaged with the content because it was genuinely important—succession law was foundational to clan governance and understanding it was critical for any future king. Which, as the only living heir to the Fitzgerald throne, was exactly what Fergal would one day be.
The thought settled over him like a cold blanket. One day, his father would die, and Fergal would inherit a clan run by a king who’d stopped listening years ago, advised by men Fergal was increasingly certain were enemy operatives, in a compound where omegas were beaten and no one faced consequences. And the man he was in love with—the only person with the experience and loyalty to help him fix it—was sitting four feet away pretending they hadn’t kissed.
Fantastic.
He was halfway through a question about the legal requirements for appointing a new commander when the library door burst open. Gregor was on his feet with his hand on his gun before Fergal had registered the sound. The guard in the doorway was white-faced and breathing hard, as if he’d run the length of the compound.
“Your Highness.” The guard’s voice cracked on the title. “The king. There was an ambush. The king and Prince Brian. They were out flying, and when they returned, there was an ambush. They’re both…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
The world tilted.
Fergal heard the words, processed their meaning, and felt something inside him disconnect, as if a wire had been pulled from its socket. The library was suddenly too bright, the fire too loud, the guard’s face too detailed—every pore, every bead of sweat, the exact shade of white his skin had turned.
“Both of them?” Gregor’s voice came from very far away, sharp and hard. “How?”
“Crossbow bolts straight to their hearts.”
“How long ago?”
The guard checked his watch. “Seven minutes. We just got the call.”
Fergal opened his mouth to say something—what, he didn’t know—and no sound came out. His mother was dead. His brother was dead. And now his father and uncle were… All of them were gone.
The disconnect widened. He was aware of his body standing in the library, aware of the fire crackling, the guard waiting for orders, and the Codex still open on the table to the section about emergency succession, but he couldn’t feel any of it. He was floating above himself, watching from a distance, and the thought that kept circling was absurd and irrelevant and wouldn’t stop:we were just studying emergency succession. We were literally just studying what happens when the king dies.
Then Gregor’s hand was on his arm with a firm, grounding grip that pulled Fergal back into his body with the force of a physical blow. He gasped—actually gasped, as if he’d been underwater—and found Gregor standing between him and the door, his body angled to shield Fergal from view.
“Breathe.” Gregor’s voice was low, pitched for Fergal’s ears only. The professional mask was gone. What was underneath was fierce, focused, the expression of a man whose priorities hadjust been rearranged with violent clarity. “Look at me, Fergal. Breathe.”
Fergal breathed. In. Out. In again. The world solidified around him, edges sharpening, sounds returning to their proper volume.
“There you are,” Gregor murmured. His hand didn’t leave Fergal’s arm. “Stay with me.”
The same words Fergal had used last night.Stay with me.Hearing them reflected back, in Gregor’s voice, in this context, almost broke him.
But there was no time to break. Not now. Because…
He swallowed.
Because he was the king now. His father was gone, and even without the coronation ceremony, he was his successor. He was now king of the Fitzgeralds. Gods help him.
He straightened his spine and raised his chin. “Lock down the crime scene. No one touches or disturbs anything until Gregor has had a chance to look at it.”
