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Damon’s tone is low and controlled when he asks, “And you didn’t tell us this… for what reason?”

Killian scowls. “It wasn’t anyone’s business.”

“No?” Remy blurts, stepping forward. “Because it sure as hell seems important to know any female with ties to Royalty.”

“It was under control,” his voice rises. “With Knight here watching over her, there was no reason to think she’d be a target.”

“Knight?” Damon asks. “Agent Knight?”

Lex pushes forward. “What the fuck does that asshole have to do with anything?”

Killian runs his large hand through his hair and sighs. “That’s a story for another night, because we need to get out there and look for her.” His eyes dart to Damon. “If you have any fucking clue where Amber is hiding, we have to find her. I think we both know we’re running out of time.”

The hairs on my neck rise, prickling with the sensation of being watched. I know without looking that every eye in the room has shifted in my direction.

There’s only one person that can find Amber… there’s only been one person all along.

Me.

37

Timothy

The air in Saint Mary’s solarium always tastes like a lie. Beneath the synthetic lavender pumped through the vents and the carefully arranged silk flowers that never wilt, sits the constant, low-level burn of antiseptic and bleach—a sterile shroud meant to mask the chaos of broken minds. I walk through it without slowing, the weight of what I’m doing settling heavier with every step.

I shouldn’t be here. There is a seat waiting for me in the performing arts theater right now, a place where my ass should be planted while I watch Arianette take the stage for the performance she has bled and broken herself to prepare for. The moment that was supposed to belong entirely to her.

It was Trudie Stein of all people that derailed me. Not the protest, I don’t give a fuck about the Maddox Hotel right now. It was the sight of a woman–a mother–who would go to any and all lengths to get the truth about her entitled, spoiled, son’s demise. It was the emotion under the action.

Grief.

Grief made her angry and reckless.

Grief made her vengeful.

And I couldn’t help but think of another woman running on the same fuel.

I saw Amber’s face in the shadows of Trudie’s pain, and thought about the way she has been slipping in and out of this place like smoke while the rest of us scrambled for answers. The last time I stood in these halls I was still in shock—bracing for Remy’s reaction, for the impossible reunion, for the truth that the woman who once shared my bed and my name had been the one terrorizing the city the entire time.

Now the shock has burned down into something more intentional. The kind of clarity that only comes when there is nothing left to protect except the people still breathing.

I walk the long corridor toward Room 402, shoes silent on the thick institutional carpet. Gray evening light filters through the wide windows and casts the garden’s white fountain in a pale, ghostly hue. The water trickles endlessly, indifferent. I don’t bother checking in with the staff this time. The Maddox name still buys silence in this city, even when the man wearing it is only a fractured version of the King he used to be. Even when that man is no longer King at all.

I push open the door to Amber’s room. The stillness hits me like a physical weight.

The space is too tidy for a woman who has caused this much destruction. The bed is made with military precision. The curtains are drawn just so. A single chair sits at the exact angle it occupied the last time I was here. But that, like every other aspect of Amber’s life, is a façade—clean and ordered on the surface, carefully cultivated fury underneath. This is the room of a woman who spent years plotting vengeance while everyone around her, myself included, assumed she was drifting toward the horizon of her own damaged mind.

I move to the bookshelf first. One by one I pull each volume free, flipping through pages, checking bindings, running my thumb along the spines for any irregularity. I am looking for another false cover like the art book that once hid the tunnel maps. Nothing. Every page is exactly what it claims to be. I drop to one knee and look under the bed, running my hands along the metal frame and beneath the mattress the way a prison guard searches for contraband. The space is clean. Dustless. Almost aggressively so.

I return to the oak dresser. It’s already been through once—found the false backing where she hid the spell-bags, the dried herbs, the bleached animal bones. Remy tore the drawers apart in his own desperate search. This time I force myself to slow down. Less anger. More presence. I need to see what I missed when rage was still clouding everything.

I study the objects arranged on top of the dresser. Amber had always been sentimental, it’s one reason she clung so tightly to the traditions of the Barons. It gave her something to believe in, even when the world was falling apart around her.

A framed photograph of Remy as a child sits near the edge, his white-blond hair bright even in the faded print, his expression still open in a way it hasn’t been for years. I lift the frame, remove the backing, and find only a scribbled date in Amber’s handwriting. Then my eyes land on the lacquered wooden jewelry box perched in the corner—a gift from me during the early, golden years of our marriage, back when I still believed we’d been a perfect match. Back when I thought love and power could coexist without destroying everything they touched.

I pop the latch. The hinge gives a soft, familiar click. Inside, resting on a bed of frayed silk, is her wedding band: platinum, set with sapphires, amethyst, and peridot. Peacock colors. The same stones I chose because they reminded me of the way light used to catch in her eyes before the darkness took root. I drop the ring back into place and run my finger along the velvet lining, tugging at a loose scrap of fabric in the corner. The material gives with almost no resistance. Something small and heavy falls into my palm.

A bronze charm.