“Your Highness, can you comment on tonight's attack?”
“Was this another assassination attempt?”
“Mr. Volkov, how did you know where the shooters would be?”
I stepped forward a fraction, cleared my throat, and let the practiced smile fold into place — the one the palace press office liked for photographs. The world wanted soundbites; I gave them the safest ones.
“Tonight was a terrifying reminder that violence has no place in our city,” I said, voice steady and loud enough to carry over the din. “I am grateful to the emergency services and the police who arrived so quickly. My thoughts are with those injured and their families. We are cooperating fully with the authorities as they investigate.”
A microphone dipped closer. “Can you confirm there was a coordinated attempt on your life, Your Highness?”
“We will leave operational details to the investigators and the palace security team,” I replied. “Speculation does not help the wounded or the officers doing their jobs. What I can say is that I am safe, and I am thankful for the swift actions of those who protected people tonight.”
“Mr. Volkov?—”
I let a beat hang there, then added the part they'd want but that sounded carefully contained. “I would like to publicly thank Mr. Volkov and the palace security detail for their courage. Their professionalism saved lives. Beyond that, there will be a full briefing once facts have been established.”
“Will you change your public appearances?” a reporter pressed.
“We take nothing for granted,” I said, letting the phrase be both reassurance and protocol. “Security measures are under review, and the safety of the public and the palace remains paramount.”
“Is there a message to the city?”
“Yes,” I said, and let the smile warm one notch so it read genuine for the cameras. “To everyone frightened tonight: we will not be cowed. We will not let terror define us. Please follow official channelsfor updates and remain calm. We will share more information as soon as we can.”
Viktor ignored them all. He just stood there, hand still on my back, staring at me like I'd lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
“We're leaving,” I announced to no one in particular. Then to Viktor: “Get me out of here.”
He didn't argue. Just guided me toward the waiting cars, cutting through the crowd with the same ruthless efficiency he used for everything else.
20
MIDNIGHT GARDENS
VIKTOR
My jacket hung heavy with water and failure. I let it fall. Stood there in shirt and holster while rain soaked through to skin, each drop a small punishment I'd earned a thousand times over.
The cold helped. Made the edges sharp again. Made the world feel real instead of like some nightmare where I kept saving people only to watch them bleed anyway.
My knuckles were split open. Raw. Aching in that way that reminded you that pain was proof of being alive, even when you weren't sure you wanted to be.
“You disappeared.”
His voice cut through the rain. Through the white noise in my head. Through every wall I'd tried to build in the last three hours.
I didn't turn. Couldn't. If I looked at him, if I saw concern in those green eyes, I'd shatter.
“Needed air.”
“Bullshit.” Footsteps through wet grass. No guards. No Apollo. Just Sebastian alone in the dark because he was reckless and stubborn and didn't understand that people who got close to me ended up destroyed. “You needed to run.”
My hands curled. Nails biting into palms. “Am not running.”
“You're standing in a garden at three in the morning, soaked through, looking like you're about to either kill someone or vanish into smoke.” He stopped beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth cutting through the rain. Close enough to touch but not touching. Giving me space to bolt. “That's running, Viktor.”
