“She has to handle this,” Loora says, softer now. “Not because you can’t. Because she can. And because if you love her—”
“I did not say, love.”
Her expression changes. Not mocking. Knowing. “I didn’t ask if you said it.”
The words enter the room and stay there.
Love.
No. Too soon. Impossible. Irrelevant. Dangerous.
Beatrice has been mine for three days. My mate for three days. My disruption for longer. My obsession since the moment she stood in my office and told me the truth with shaking hands. Layn bonds do not require human timelines. The realization is not a lightning strike. It is worse. It is a door opening in a room I thought had no exits.
Loora watches me process it, then very wisely says nothing.
My ring warms. Beatrice is moving. Toward me. Relief hits first. Then hunger. Then the old instinct rises before I can stop it. Bring her in. Close the doors. Handle the threat. Keep her behind me. No. Not behind. I look at the MacArthur message again.
“Legal,” I say. Both lawyers sit up. “Draft an editorial independence charter. Now. Athena final authority. Layn may request a review only under defined security grounds. Independent counsel selected by Beatrice. Outside environmental reviewer acceptable to MacArthur. Written disclosure of my relationship to the editor-in-chief.” I look at Loora and give her a quick nod. Before I turn to my legal team. “But when the matter settles, and the article is released. We strike. I want him broken. He will pay for every second of her distress. Am I clear?”
Martin’s mouth opens. I look at him. It closes.
Loora’s gaze sharpens. Approval, reluctant and pleased. “Do not look smug,” I tell her.
“I would never.”
Halem appears at the door. “Princess Beatrice has entered the building.”
My entire body turns toward the sound.
Princess.
The room reacts. Martin’s eyebrows climb. Legal pretends not to hear. Loora mouths the word princess with such delight I immediately regret everything about rank.
“Do not call her that,” I say.
Halem’s ears flick. “She told the guards the same.”
Of course she did.
A laugh almost breaks through the pressure in my chest. Almost. Then the bond tightens as her proximity increases. She is coming up. Angry. Determined. Hurt. Aroused, because the bond is honest and Beatrice’s body has claimed mine even when her mind is preparing to fight me. My cock responds. In a conference room. During a crisis.
“Clear the unnecessary personnel,” I say.
Loora stands. “Not you.”
She freezes. “Me?”
“You know MacArthurandBeatrice. You know when I sound like a tyrant.”
Her grin flashes.
I look at the lawyers. “Prepare the charter.” They begin typing as if their lives depend on it.
The elevator doors open beyond the hall. I feel Beatrice before I see her. My princess. My mate. My wife.
Mine.
Chapter 7
