“Always is,” Viktor said, stepping back and scanning me from head to toe, making sure there was no evidence left, no sign of what we’d done but the flush on my cheeks and the way my lips felt bruised and swollen.
Together, we tidied ourselves—fixing cuffs, brushing off lint, making sure not a single hair or wrinkle betrayed what had happened. Viktor handed me a fresh handkerchief, and I wiped my mouth, catching a last taste of them both before swallowing it down. Malik’s scent lingered on my skin; Viktor’s touch still burned everywhere he’d held me.
Viktor reached for the door, his eyes finding mine, every word unspoken, every promise clear. “Ready?” he asked, voice gentle.
“Ready,” I replied, the mask slipping back into place, the prince reborn, but the secret smile never leaving my lips.
The Royal Opera Houseblazed like a bonfire in the heart of London, every chandelier lit, every window glowing gold against the night sky. Press lined the red carpet in a wall of cameras and microphones, flashbulbs popping like gunfire, voices calling my name in a chorus that never quite sounded friendly.
“Prince Sebastian! This way!”
“Your Highness, can you comment on the recent security concerns?”
“Sebastian! Over here! Give us a smile!”
I smiled. Waved. Played the part I'd been rehearsing since birth. Prince Sebastian in navy velvet, perfectly tailored, perfectly harmless. The golden boy who'd survived too many attempts on his life to count and still showed up smiling.
Viktor shadowed me from three steps back, close enough to moveif needed, far enough to maintain the illusion of professional distance. Black suit that probably cost less than my cufflinks but looked more dangerous. I felt his presence like heat, like gravity, pulling at me even when I couldn't see him.
Every camera flash made him tense. Every shout from the crowd triggered some micro-adjustment in his stance. He was wound tight enough to shatter, and we hadn't even made it inside yet.
Marcel appeared at the top of the stairs, immaculate in white tie, champagne flute in hand. His smile could've cut glass. Behind him, the doors stood open, spilling warmth and light and the distant sound of strings tuning.
“Your Highness,” he purred, offering a slight bow that managed to be both respectful and mocking. “You honor us with your presence.”
“Duke Marcel.” I kept my voice warm. Polite. Empty as a politician's promise. “Thank you for the invitation. I wouldn't miss it.”
His eyes slid past me to Viktor, and something flickered there. Amusement. Assessment. Recognition of a threat he thought he could neutralize. “And the ever-watchful Mr. Volkov. You're quite the spectacle together. The prince and his guardian angel.”
“Guardian demon,” Viktor corrected flatly. “Angels are not good at my job.”
Marcel laughed, delighted by the response like Viktor had just told the world's best joke. “Fair point. Come, shall we? The performance begins in thirty minutes, but there are drinks, conversation, people simply dying to see you.” He gestured toward the entrance with his champagne flute, liquid gold catching the light. “You won't want to miss the overture. Handel. Absolutely exquisite.”
I let him guide me inside, Viktor falling into step behind us like a shadow with teeth.
The opera house was obscene in its beauty. Gold leaf covered every surface, reflecting candlelight until the whole space seemed to glow from within. Red velvet curtains framed the stage where stagehands moved like ants, making final adjustments. Chandeliers hung overhead like frozen fireworks, crystal catching light and scattering it into rainbows across marble floors.
But it was the people that made it overwhelming.
Hundreds of them, dressed in their finest, moving through the space like pieces in an elaborate chess game. Old money in understated black. New money in colors that screamed for attention. Foreign diplomats clustered in corners, conducting business in three languages. Politicians pretending they cared about art while really here to be seen, to network, to build alliances over champagne and lies.
And every single one of them noticed when I walked in.
The crowd parted. Not dramatically. Just that subtle shift that happened whenever royalty entered a room. People turning. Conversations pausing mid-sentence. Eyes tracking my movement like I was prey or predator, depending on who was watching.
“Prince Sebastian!” A woman in emerald silk materialized at my elbow. Lady Pemberton. Parliament. Reform Committee. Sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous. “How wonderful to see you. You look well.”
“Lady Pemberton. You're very kind.”
“And your bodyguard.” Her eyes flicked to Viktor with the kind of assessment that made my spine straighten. “I've heard such intriguing things about the Sentinel Network. Quite the modern approach to security.”
“Modern problems require modern solutions,” Viktor said. His accent was thicker tonight, deliberately so. Playing up the foreign mercenary angle. Making himself seem less threatening by being more obviously other.
It was working. Lady Pemberton smiled, already dismissing him as hired muscle, and turned her attention back to me. “I do hope you'll save me a dance later. We have much to discuss about the new housing initiatives.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She drifted away, replaced immediately by Lord Ashford, then Ambassador Chen, then someone whose name I'd forgotten but whose handshake was too firm and whose smile showed too many teeth.
