Sure enough.
He grabbed his notebook and pen and headed for the library, his pulse already doing that stupid thing where it started running ahead of him, like a dog that knew the route and couldn’t be bothered to wait.
Settle down, he told himself.It’s a lesson. Just a lesson. You’re going to sit in a chair and discuss…whatever it is Gregor has planned for today, and you’re going to be an adult about it.
He was absolutely not going to be an adult about it.
He’d been thinking about this for days—no, weeks. Years, if he was being honest, which he generally tried to be, if only because lying required keeping track of things and he had better uses for his mental energy. The crush that had started as a low hum in his chest many years ago had grown into a full orchestral arrangement that played on a loop every time Gregor so much as cleared his throat.
And Fergal was done pretending he couldn’t hear the music.
He’d tried the noble route. He’d tried ignoring it, burying it under books and legal theory and long runs through the frozen forest that left him too exhausted to think. He’d tried going off to college, sleeping with a couple of guys, making himself see what was out there. He’d tried telling himself all the reasons it was impossible: Gregor was his tutor, Gregor worked for his father, Gregor was old enough to have witnessed historical events Fergal had only read about, and Gregor almost certainly still saw Fergal as the kid he’d been teaching. Not to mention they were both alphas, and that part alone would never fly.
But the thing about being a prince trapped in a frozen compound at the edge of the world with a hundred other dragons was that there weren’t exactly a lot of romantic options. Not that it mattered. His time in Boston had made that crystal clear. Even if the compound had been overflowing with eligible suitors, Fergal wouldn’t have looked twice at any of them. Not when Gregor existed.
Gregor, with his ridiculous black-and-silver hair and his ridiculous strong body and his ridiculous composure and his ridiculous ability to make Fergal feel simultaneously safe and completely unhinged. Gregor, who called him “Your Highness”in that dry tone that somehow managed to be both respectful and slightly mocking at the same time. Gregor, who had once carried a ten-year-old Fergal out of a frozen lake after he’d fallen through the ice, holding him against his chest and murmuring soothing words in a voice that had sounded nothing like the composed tutor everyone else knew.
Fergal didn’t remember much about what had happened at the lake. He’d been playing on the ice, which should’ve been thick enough after weeks of frost, but it had cracked, and then he’d been in the water. The cold had been so absolute that it had stolen everything—his breath, his thoughts, his ability to scream. But he remembered Gregor’s arms. He remembered warmth when everything else was cold. He remembered the sound of Gregor’s heartbeat against his ear, fast and hard, betraying a terror his voice never showed.
He’d been in love with Gregor since he was fifteen.
He’d known he was in love with Gregor since he was eighteen.
And he was done waiting. If he spent one more day pretending he was fine with the status quo, he was going to lose his mind.
Oh, he knew that nothing could ever come from it. Nothing serious. Fergal was a prince, first of all, and Gregor his tutor. Plus, there was the age gap, which Fergal wasn’t worried about, but others might be. But more importantly, they were both alphas. And two alphas together? That was not an option.
The library was at the end of the east wing, a wood-paneled room lined with bookshelves and warmed by a massive stone fireplace that Gregor always had blazing before Fergal arrived. It was their room in every way that mattered—the place where Fergal had learned to read ancient dragon texts, debated legal theory until his voice went hoarse, and slowly, painstakingly,grown from a frightened child into something resembling the man he wanted to be.
All because of the man sitting by the fire with a stack of books on the table beside him and a cup of steaming tea in his hand.
Gregor looked up as Fergal entered. “Good morning, Your Highness.”
“Good morning.” Fergal dropped into his usual chair—the leather one across from Gregor’s, with the reading lamp and the side table that always had a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him. Gregor didn’t drink coffee but had long since memorized exactly how Fergal liked his: black, strong enough to strip paint, and in a mug large enough to be slightly ridiculous. Today’s offering was in the blue ceramic one, which meant Gregor had been in a decent mood when he’d prepared it.
Yes, Fergal had cataloged Gregor’s mug-selection patterns. He wasn’t proud of it.
“I thought we’d continue with the constitutional framework of the Code today,” Gregor said, opening a leather-bound volume. “Specifically, Section Twelve, which deals with clan governance and succession.”
“Riveting,” Fergal said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Gregor’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough that Fergal’s stomach did a little flip. “I seem to recall you requested this topic.”
“Did I? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I want to understand every legal mechanism by which an incompetent king can be removed from power.’ You then added, ‘Not for any particular reason,’ which was so unconvincing that I didn’t dignify it with a response.”
Fergal grinned. “My father doesn’t read my lesson plans, does he?”
“Your father doesn’t read anything that doesn’t directly pertain to his hunting schedule or his whiskey collection.” Thewords were carefully neutral, but Fergal caught the edge beneath them. Gregor had opinions about King Lorcan that he kept locked away with military precision, but occasionally, a sliver escaped.
“Well then. Section Twelve. Enlighten me.”
For the next forty minutes, they worked through the material with the rhythm of long practice. Gregor lectured, Fergal challenged, they debated, they circled back. It was the part of Fergal’s day he loved most—the intellectual sparring that left his mind buzzing and his respect for Gregor growing even deeper. The man’s knowledge was encyclopedic, but it wasn’t just memorization. Gregor understood thewhybehind the Code in a way that made the ancient text feel alive and urgent.
Fergal waited until they reached Section Twelve D, which dealt with royal marriages and mating bonds, before he made his move. “So this section essentially says that a king’s mate must be approved by the clan’s council,” Fergal said, keeping his tone academic. “But it doesn’t specify the gender or status of the mate. Just that the council must approve.”
Gregor nodded. “The Code was written at a time when most royal matings were politically arranged, so the council approval was a safeguard against alliances that might harm the clan.”
