Makim bowed his head. “As you wish. I should have expected it in a completed bond.” He stepped back, leaving the tray untouched. Casteel's heart swelled with something a little like triumph. Had Nero been jealous?
After Makim left, Nero lay on the bed and pressed Casteel against his chest. His fingers trace the scar, checking its healing himself. “Sorry, I just—”
Casteel met Nero’s intense gaze and managed a small, shy smile, no idea what he could say that would be welcome. Nero’s possessive grip loosened only enough for Casteel to return it, their bond humming between them in the flickering firelight—exclusive, unyielding, theirs alone.
Maybe when this was done, Nero wouldn't hate him.
Chapter Nine
The feast was anightmare dressed in finery.
Nero sat rigidly beside Casteel at the high table, watching nobles and merchants parade before them with honeyed words and calculating eyes. He’d thought all the nobles had deserted their station when the royal family had left, but it seemed they were crawling back out of the woodwork. Each house presented gifts—bolts of fabric, jewelry, preserved foods—while Doran presided over the proceedings like a puppet master, noting which families showed proper deference and which hesitated.
"House Verris offers fealty to the Silver Wolf and his Flame-Marked mate," announced a thin man with hungry eyes that never left Casteel. "May your reign bring prosperity to all Abergenny."
Casteel seemed to shrink a little at the sight of the noble, and Nero felt the spark of distress.
"We accept your fealty," Casteel muttered, the words scripted by Doran himself. Then just as the man bowed low, he shot out his hand and clasped Casteel's, nearly yanking him forward.
Nero was moving before conscious thought formed. The bond between them flared hot with alarm, and within a heartbeat, he had Lord Verris pinned against the high table, arm twisted behind his back at a savage angle, face pressed into the polished wood. The fine crystal goblets toppled, spilling wine like blood across the white tablecloth.
"Touch him again," Nero hissed, his voice carrying in the sudden silence, "and you'll draw back a stump."
Guards rushed forward, weapons half-drawn, but froze at Doran's raised hand. Through their bond, Nero felt his mate's fear which fed Nero's protective instincts.
"My deepest apologies," Lord Verris wheezed, his face blanching white where it wasn't pressed against the table. "I meant no disrespect to His Excellency."
Nero increased the pressure slightly, feeling the man's bones grind together. "Yet you showed it. The Silver Wolf is not yours to handle."
Doran appeared at Nero's shoulder, his expression carefully neutral. "Perhaps Lord Verris could be allowed to rejoin the feast?"
"Perhaps Lord Verris could remember his place," Nero countered, not releasing his grip. "And the consequences of forgetting it." But then he realized what he was doing and let go just as abruptly. He didn’t need to look to know every eye was on him, but Doran seemed to rally and proclaimed,
“The flame-marked one protects his mate!”
Nero sat and ignored the excited whispers. When Casteel’s hand brushed his thigh, he grabbed his hand like a lifeline, linking their fingers.
What the fuck was he doing?
He’d acted on instinct.
Thankfully, soon enough everyone returned to the feast. Nero's attention drifted to the guards stationed throughout thehall. Most wore the ceremonial armor of the palace regiment, but a few displayed subtly different insignia—men handpicked by Doran rather than Captain Aldric. Their posture spoke of recent training rather than veteran discipline, their eyes too eager, too watchful.
Then he saw him—a guard near the western entrance whose face triggered memories of mud-soaked battlefields and whispered plans. Lucan Tarreth had fought beside Nero during the rebellion's darkest days. He was one of Eryken's most trusted lieutenants. What was he doing here, wearing the uniform of the palace guard?
Their eyes met briefly across the hall. No recognition flickered in Lucan's expression, but his left hand tapped twice against his sword hilt—an old signal. Message received. Help coming.
Nero's heart quickened, though his face remained impassive. If Lucan had infiltrated the palace guard, Eryken must be nearby, perhaps even in the city already, although he had said he was a moon away, so it was unlikely. But at least the rebellion hadn't abandoned them.
"The Silver Wolf's first decree will be announced tomorrow," Doran proclaimed, his voice cutting through Nero's thoughts. "A proclamation to address the drought and establish the new order."
Casteel stiffened beside him. "First decree?" he murmured, too low for others to hear. "I've prepared no such thing."
"Of course not," Nero replied under his breath. "Doran has done it for you."
Through their bond, Nero felt Casteel's alarm spike. This was moving faster than either had anticipated—Doran wasn't merely presenting them as figureheads but actively wielding their supposed authority to enact his own agenda.
The feast dragged on, course after course of food that was obscene given the starvation beyond the palace walls. Nero atelittle, his senses alert for threats both obvious and hidden. Twice he caught servants watching them too intently, and once he intercepted a cup of wine intended for Casteel—the liquid carried a faint, sweet undertone that made his jaw clench with recognition.
