“Is there?” I stepped closer, just one step, watching to see if he'd back away. He didn't. Didn't move at all, actually. Just stood there like a stone wall I could break myself against. “Because from where I'm standing, protection looks a lot like control. And control looks a lot like a cage.”
“Cage keeps you breathing.” His eyes met mine finally, really met them, and I felt the impact of it low in my gut. “Breathing is preferable to alternative.”
“Depends on the cage.”
“Does it.”
It wasn't a question. Just this flat statement that said he'd alreadydecided how this was going to go. Already written the script where I was the problem and he was the solution and we'd both play our parts until one of us broke.
I should've been annoyed.
I was fascinated.
My father cleared his throat softly, reminding us we had an audience. Right. The photographers. The staff. The performance we were supposed to be giving.
I could feel them watching, could sense the palace staff pretending not to listen while cataloging every word for later gossip. But all I could focus on was the man in front of me, unmovable as stone, staring at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
It made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to crack that facade and see what bled out.
Made me want things I definitely shouldn't want from the man whose job was to keep me alive.
“Well,” I said finally, breaking the moment before it could become something neither of us wanted to name in front of witnesses. “I suppose we should get started then. I have a charity event this afternoon. Photographers. Smiling for cameras. The usual performance art. You'll need to look pretty and intimidating in the background.”
“I will review security protocols first.”
“Of course you will. Can't have the liability running around unsupervised.” I gestured toward the door leading to the west wing, channeling every ounce of princely charm I'd spent thirty-one years perfecting. “My study is this way. We can talk there. Apollo likes you, by the way. He's a good judge of character. Either that or he's desperately misguided. Time will tell.”
I didn't wait for his response. Just started walking, trusting him to follow because what else was he going to do? Refuse? Let me wander off alone through my own palace?
Apollo fell into step beside me, still pressed close to my leg, and I heard Viktor's boots on the marble behind us. Quiet. Controlled. Like even his footsteps were calculated to give away nothing.
The corridor stretched ahead, all gold leaf and priceless art and theweight of centuries pressing down from the ceiling. I'd walked these halls my entire life. Knew every painting, every statue, every place where the floorboards creaked.
But having him behind me changed everything. Made me aware of my posture. My pace. The way my shoulders carried tension I usually hid better.
Made me aware of him. Of the space he took up. The way his presence felt like gravity, pulling everything toward some inevitable collision.
“So,” I said, voice echoing off marble and pretension, “do you talk much? Or is the strong, silent type your only setting?”
“I talk when necessary.”
“And right now isn't necessary?”
“No.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, found him exactly six feet behind me. Still maintaining that careful distance. Still watching everything except me.
“You know, most people try at least a little small talk. Weather's nice. London traffic is terrible. Have you tried the palace coffee? It's shit, by the way. Fair warning.”
Silence.
“Not even a smile? A slight exhale that could be interpreted as amusement?”
More silence.
I turned back around, grinning despite myself. “This is going to be fun. I can already tell.”
His voice came from behind me, flat and final. “I am not here for fun, Your Highness.”
