Fergal leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. The weight of the crown was still there, pressing down on him from every direction, relentless and suffocating and terrifying. The email from the fake Duff Bás sat in Gregor’s folder, evidence of an enemy sophisticated enough to murder a king and frame someone else for it. Duncan and Donovan walked through his corridors, smiling at him with faces he couldn’t trust. The Dragon Council loomed two months away, a gauntlet he’d have to run with enemies on every side.
But tonight, Gregor’s books would be on the nightstand. His tea would be in the kitchen. His warmth would be at Fergal’s back when the darkness came.
Fergal picked up his pen and returned to the stack of documents awaiting his signature. He had work to do. He had a clan to lead, a murder to solve, and a Council to prepare for. He had enemies to outmaneuver, omegas to protect, a dead father and uncle to mourn, and a kingdom to rebuild from the inside out.
But underneath all of that—steady and warm and growing stronger by the day, like a fire that had finally found enough air—was the quiet, stubborn certainty that he was not doing any of it alone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Three hours later, Gregor returned from patrol to find Fergal propped against the headboard with a law text on his lap and reading glasses perched on his nose.
The glasses were a recent discovery—Fergal’s vanity only extended so far. After two weeks of squinting at documents until his eyes watered, he’d finally conceded to the small wire-framed pair that made him look, in Gregor’s opinion, like a young professor who’d wandered out of a university and into a kingdom by accident. Fergal hated them. Gregor found them sexy as hell, which was information he intended to take to his grave.
He locked the door. Engaged the ward. Removed his boots and placed them by the door, his dagger on the nightstand, his gun in the drawer—each item in its designated location.
“How was patrol?” Fergal asked, not looking up from his book.
“Quiet. The south perimeter ward had a minor fluctuation. I reinforced it.”
“Duncan and Donovan?”
“In their quarters. Lights out by ten.”
“Good boys.”
Gregor shot him a look, which Fergal absorbed with serene innocence from behind those ridiculous glasses.
He changed in the bathroom—soft pants, a worn shirt that had been washed so many times the fabric was thin enough to see through in certain lights. When he emerged, Fergal had set aside his book and glasses and was watching him with an expression that made Gregor’s pulse stutter.
Gregor pulled back the covers on his side—the left, nearest the door—and settled into bed. Their routine. Established through repetition, not discussion, the way everything important between them seemed to happen.
He stretched out, his body relaxing against the soft sheets. It was a good thing he didn’t need much sleep because he was getting precious little of it. Too many balls needed to be juggled, too many threads followed and unraveled, too many people checked—and it all came down to him.
No, that wasn’t true. Gregor could delegate. He didn’t want to, especially not when it concerned things directly affecting Fergal, like the travel arrangements he’d made for the Council.
Gods, the Council. Canceling was not an option, but oh, how he wanted to. He didn’t want Fergal anywhere near the Murphys, and with attendance limited to five per clan, he couldn’t bring enough security personnel to protect him.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Fergal said, sliding down until he was lying on his side, facing Gregor.
“I’m always thinking.”
“Yes, but tonight you’re thinking about the Council. You’re running scenarios, calculating threat matrices, trying to predict every possible move the Murphys might make.”
Fergal really could read him well, which was a sobering thought. “There’s a lot to consider.”
“Can you do that tomorrow? Tonight, can you just be here?”
Gregor turned his head on the pillow. In the dim light of the single lamp, Fergal’s face was all shadow and warmth, the sharp line of his jaw softened by the low light, his dark hair loose against the pillow, his brown eyes holding an expression Gregor had never been able to adequately defend against.
“I’m always here,” Gregor said.
“I know. But sometimes you’re here and also somewhere else. Inside your head, behind your walls, planning for threats that haven’t materialized yet.” Fergal reached across the space between them and laid his hand on Gregor’s chest, palm flat over his heart. “Tonight, just be here with me. In this room. In this bed. Nowhere else.”
The weight of Fergal’s hand was warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. Gregor could feel his own heartbeat pushing against that palm, as if his heart were trying to get closer to the touch even while the rest of him held still. He covered Fergal’s hand with his own, pressing it harder against his chest. “I’m here.”
Fergal shifted closer. Gregor was learning to distinguish between Fergal’s strategic maneuvers and his instinctive ones, and this was the latter. The unconscious drift of a body toward warmth, toward comfort, toward the one person who made the world feel less like it was collapsing.
His hand slid from Gregor’s chest to his jaw, fingers tracing the line of it under Gregor’s beard. Gregor’s breath caught in a small, involuntary hitch. Fergal’s touch on his face was still new enough to short-circuit the defenses that handled everything else.
