Just my name. Not "Prime" or "My Lady." Simply Serna, spoken in that low Earth accent that always seemed to strip away pretense.
It was against Alliance law for anyone not family to address me by my given name. The protocols were ancient, carved into our legal codes centuries ago—a protection for the Prime, a barrier between the person and the position. I'd had people censured for less, had watched advisors stumble over themselves to avoid the breach. The formality was supposed to shield me, to maintain the distance necessary for leadership.
But Cullen was different. He'd been different from the moment we met, when he'd looked at me with those gray-green eyes and refused to treat me like a monument to be revered from afar. I'd never corrected him, never once reminded him of the law he broke every time my name left his lips. The truth was, I didn't want him to stop. When he said "Serna," it wasn't a violation—it was a lifeline. It was the sound of someone seeing past the title, past the centuries of duty and sacrifice, to the female underneath who was so tired of being untouchable.
I looked up at him, and whatever mask I'd been wearing throughout the ceremony crumbled. I felt it happen, felt the careful composure I'd maintained for hours fracture like thin glass. He stood before me, tall and broad-shouldered, his strength evident in the way he held me steady. His dark hair, cut short and threaded with silver at the temples, caught the dim light of the corridor. But it was his eyes—that striking gray-green—that undid me. They saw past every defense I'd ever built, past the title and the duty and the carefully constructed walls. They saw me.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, and the genuine sympathy in his voice almost broke what little remained of my composure. "Iknow he was your mate, but I also know what it costs you. All of it."
My throat tightened. How did he see so much? Most people looked at me and saw only the position, the power, the political calculations. Even my own sons sometimes forgot there was a woman beneath the title. But Cullen had always been different. From the first time we'd met over video comm, when I'd been struck by the intelligence in his eyes and the quiet strength in his bearing, he'd looked at me as though he could see past every defense I'd erected.
"He was my friend," I heard myself say, the words escaping before I could stop them. "But he was never truly mine."
Cullen's hands steadied me in the dim corridor. The touch should have felt presumptuous—no one touched the Prime—but instead it felt like an anchor. Like the only thing keeping me from drifting away entirely.
"You're exhausted," he said, and there was something in his voice that made my chest ache. Concern. Real, unvarnished concern for me, not for the Prime or the Alliance or the political ramifications. Just... me.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, but even I could hear how hollow it sounded.
"Serna." He said my name again, softer this time, and his thumb brushed against my arm in a gesture so gentle it stole my breath. "You don't have to be fine. Not with me."
I stared at him, at the way the low light caught the silver threading through his dark hair, at the lines around his eyes that spoke of a life fully lived. He was handsome in a way I'd tried not to notice—strong-featured and solid, with an Earth male's warmth that seemed to radiate from him. But it was more than that—the way he looked at me, as though I mattered beyond mytitle. As though the female standing before him, grief-stricken and weary, was worth his tenderness.
I should step back. Every protocol, every rule of conduct that governed my position screamed at me to create distance. To remind him of the boundaries between us. To remind myself.
But I didn't move.
His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. Gods, I hadn't cried in decades. The touch sent warmth cascading through me, and I found myself leaning into his hand without meaning to. When had anyone last touched me like this? With such gentleness, such care?
"Cullen," I breathed, and I didn't know what I was asking for. Comfort? Understanding? Something I couldn't name?
His eyes darkened, and I watched his gaze drop to my lips for just a heartbeat before returning to meet mine. The air between us shifted, charged with something electric and dangerous. He was close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of Earth soap he still used despite having access to Alliance luxuries.
"I see you," he said, his voice rough. "Not the Prime. You. The woman who carries the weight of worlds on her shoulders and never complains. The woman who just buried her mate. The woman who's so damn strong she forgets she's allowed to break sometimes."
My breath caught. No one had ever spoken to me like this. No one had ever seen me this clearly. Not even Chavon.
He leaned closer, and I felt the magnetic pull of him like gravity. His hand moved from my arm to my face, cupping my cheek with a tenderness that made my knees weak. I could feel the warmth of his palm, the slight calluses from years of military training. Everything in me wanted to close that final distance between us, to let him ease the grief and the loneliness and the terrible weight of being Prime.
For one suspended moment, I let myself imagine it. Let myself feel what it would be like to surrender to this—to him.
Then reality crashed back.
I was the Prime. He was a temporary observer from Earth. There were protocols, expectations, political implications I couldn't ignore. My position demanded sacrifice. It always had. And this—whatever I felt between us—was a luxury I couldn't afford.
I held up a hand, needing the physical barrier. "I'm grateful for your kindness. Your compassion. But I am the Prime. There are rules. Expectations. I can't—" I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say the words that would make it real.
He nodded slowly, stepping back, giving me the space I'd demanded. "I understand."
"Lady Prime?" A voice echoed down the corridor, shattering the moment like glass. "The Alyrian Ambassador is requesting an urgent comm. There's been an incident."
Duty. Always duty.
I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself, then stepped back.
"I have to go," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
"I know." He looked at me with such understanding that it hurt. "But Serna? What I said—I meant it. You don't have to carry everything alone."
