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He tilts his head, curious now. “What the fuck does that mean?”

I could still leave. Walk out of here and let things continue down the same path. No one outside my immediate circle would be the wiser. But I’m not that man anymore. Fuck, I’m not even the King. My power is limited. Life is fragile. And I’m tired of fighting with my only flesh and blood over decades of bad decisions.

“Can we talk?” I finally say. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Remy stares at me for a long beat, green eyes narrowed with suspicion. The air between us feels thick, charged with years of resentment and things left unsaid. Finally, he jerks his chin toward the side of the gym where a couple of old folding chairs sit near the wall.

We sit down among the bottles of cleaning solutions and a mop bucket, the scent of sweat and leather. Remy starts picking at the tape on his hands, peeling off long shredded strips and dropping them at his feet like he needs something to do with his hands.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and cautious, “talk.”

I take a slow breath, really looking at my son. The intricate tattoos covering his arms and chest, the sharp lines of his face that are so much like his mother’s, the restless energy that has always lived in him like a live wire.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the things we talked about at the house a few weeks ago. About why I did what I did.”

Remy’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I saw so much of your mother in you that I never saw the parts that came from me.”

“If you came here to insult me, I’m not interested.” He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink. “I’m nothing like you.”

“I thought so too,” I agree quietly. “When you started slipping into the mania, I could only think of your mother and how much pain she caused. I did what I knew best: I tried to protect everyone, but mostly just myself and my reputation. The colors? You got that from me. It’s jumbled up some, but I’m the one that taught you colors have a connection to the body–to energy, but I couldn’t hear it. I didn’t want to hear it. So after Tate died, I had you placed in Saint Mary’s to get you away from people I thought were a negative influence, and I worked to interfere with your therapy with Dr. Weatherby to try to manipulate you back into the son I felt like I’d lost.” My chest aches with every confession. “What I did was unforgivable, Remy. I can see that now.”

Remy stares at me, eyes narrowed. Finally, he asks, “Are you dying?”

“What?”

“Are you dying?” His green eyes dart pointedly to my chest. “Slow bleed? Did they find cancer in there? Are you having an aneurysm?”

“Jesus Christ.” I shake my head. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? You’re the one rambling on about a whole bunch of things that are pissing me off. I figured only a man facing death would stir up so much shit.”

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“Are you?” His voice rises slightly. “Because it feels like you’re just dumping more bullshit on me that I don’t want.”

“I want everything on the table, Remy. All of it. No more secrets. No more hiding. I don’t expect forgiveness. Not from you, Nick, or Simon. Not from Lavinia. I don’t deserve it, but I do want to tell you the truth.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “The whole truth.”

He goes back to the tape on his hand, unwinding the last piece in a long continuous strip, like I’m not about to alter our relationship for good.

“Your mother isn’t in Switzerland.”

He looks up and blinks, long and slow. “Say that again?”

“She was there. At the beginning. But after a while, I wanted her closer, where I could assess her condition myself.”

“Closer,” he repeats, voice flat.

“She’s at Saint Mary’s. And has been for a few years.”

“My mother is in Forsyth.” It’s not a question. It’s a realization, heavy and sharp. “And you never told me.”

There’s nothing I can say to smooth this over or justify my actions, so I just nod.

He moves quickly, grabbing me by the upper arm with surprising strength, dragging us both to our feet. His grip is iron, and I brace myself for the hit. There’s nothing I can do but take it, but Remy doesn’t hit me. He leans in, face close to mine, and demands, “Take me to her. Now.”

The car ride is silent, Graves driving us out of the city like there’s not a ticking time bomb in the backseat. Remy fidgets behind us like a caged animal, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. The tension rolls off him in waves–raw, barely contained anger mixed with something deeper. Fear, maybe. Or dread.