CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The stack of documents on Fergal’s desk had grown three inches since morning, and he was fairly certain it was breeding when he wasn’t looking.
He signed another requisition form—replacement parts for the north perimeter ward generators, approved—and added it to the outgoing pile, which was depressingly shorter than the incoming one. Next was a formal objection from Brennan regarding Fergal’s proposed changes to the omega welfare protocols, written in the kind of elaborate, passive-aggressive legal language that made Fergal want to set the paper on fire and mail the ashes back.
While we appreciate His Majesty’s concern for the well-being of all clan members, the proposed amendments to Protocol Seven represent a significant departure from established practice and may, in the considered opinion of the advisory council, create unintended disruptions to the efficient functioning of the compound.
Translation: the omegas are fine where they are, so stop rocking the boat, you naive child.
Fergal set the objection down and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Six weeks. Six weeks of being king, and the clan alphas were still treating him like an intern who’d accidentally wandered into the boardroom. Every reform he proposed was met with some variation of “that’s not how we’ve always done it,” delivered with the patronizing patience of men who were waiting for the young king to tire himself out and fall in line.
The omegas weren’t much better—not because they were opposed to change but because they didn’t believe it was real. Three separate omega servants had come to him in the past week with minor requests, each one trembling, each one braced for punishment, each one visibly shocked when Fergal simply said yes. Valerie had told him with careful diplomacy that most of the omegas assumed his reforms were temporary. A phase. Something the young king would abandon once the novelty wore off or the alphas pushed back hard enough.
Which, historically, was exactly what had happened under his father. Lorcan had made grand pronouncements about omega welfare on three separate occasions that Fergal could find in the records. Each time, the implementation had quietly died within months as the old guard reasserted control.
So the omegas were waiting him out, and the alphas were waiting him out, and Duncan and Donovan—Dick and Dicker, as he’d taken to calling them in his head because if he couldn’t prosecute them, he could at least insult them—were doing whatever the hell they were doing behind the scenes while smiling at him with faces that made his skin crawl.
Six weeks of investigation had produced exactly nothing actionable. Gregor’s surveillance team had carefully, discreetly documented Dick and Dicker’s meetings, tracked theirmovements, and cataloged their contacts. Fergal had used his mind-reading on three more occasions. Not on Duncan or Donovan again, not after hitting that wall, but on the guards and staff who orbited them. He’d found loyalty where there should’ve been neutrality, fear where there should’ve been professional respect, and in one case, the unmistakable imprint of Duncan’s influence on a young guard’s mind—the slow, deliberate reshaping of allegiance that came from months of manipulation.
All of it was circumstantial. All of it was insufficient. All of it was maddening.
The door opened. Gregor walked in, took one look at him, and said, “You need to stop.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been at that desk for eleven hours, you missed lunch, and the coffee you’re drinking is stone cold, which means you poured it at least two hours ago and forgot about it.”
Fergal glanced at his mug. The coffee was, in fact, stone cold. He hadn’t noticed. “I have to finish the Council budget before?—”
“The Council is in two weeks. The budget can wait until morning.” Gregor came to stand beside the desk, close enough that Fergal could feel the warmth radiating from him.
Fergal leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “Any updates on the search into Duff Bás?”
Gregor sat on the edge of the desk, a position so uncharacteristically casual for him that Fergal braced himself mentally. “He’s real.”
“Not just an empty threat then.” Fergal blew out a slow breath.
“That’s still up for debate. I spoke to a friend of mine, who’s in the O’Connor clan. He’s kind of the expert when it comes to the dragon slayers. Wrote a whole book about them.”
Fergal quirked an eyebrow. “You consulted an outsider?”
“He’s…” Gregor shifted position, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly, making his scar stand out, and suddenly, Fergal was very intrigued. “He and I were close. I trust him… And you know that’s not something I say lightly.”
Close. That had to be the understatement of the century. “You mean you were lovers.”
Gregor studied the floor, refusing to meet Fergal’s eyes. “Does it matter?”
“Kind of. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything about previous partners before.”
“I’ve been alive for over three centuries, Fergal. Of course I’ve had lovers.”
“I assumed as much, but you never mentioned them. So, who is this mysterious ex-lover of yours?”
The discomfort radiating off Gregor shouldn’t make Fergal happy, yet on some level, it did. And with his life being the absolute shit show that it was, he’d take his amusement where he could get it.
“As I was saying, I asked a friend of mine?—”
Fergal raised his chin. He had zero intention of letting Gregor off the hook. “His name, please.”
