Apollo tilted his head. Didn't believe me.
I didn't believe me either.
Because part of me had noticed the way Viktor moved. The way he'd positioned himself between me and the crowd without hesitation. The way he'd looked at that photographer like violence was always an option and he was comfortable with it.
The way he'd called me out instead of placating me. Told me the truth instead of what I wanted to hear.
Most people lied to princes. Told them what they wanted to hear. Smiled and bowed and pretended everything was fine.
Viktor had called me spoiled. Reckless. A problem.
And somehow that felt more honest than anything anyone had said to me in years.
I sat on the edge of my bed, running my hands through my hair.
Apollo dropped his head in my lap. Offered comfort I didn't deserve.
“This is going to end badly,” I told him.
He wagged his tail anyway. Optimist.
5
THE KING'S REQUEST
VIKTOR
The King's private study smelled like old paper and cut stems. Fresh roses in a vase by the window, white ones that probably cost more than most people made in a week. Servants cleared the last tea things with the soft economy of people who had learned to leave before they were noticed, ghosts in formal wear who knew when their presence became intrusion.
I stood at the threshold and waited until the door clicked shut. Until we were alone. Until whatever this was could begin without witnesses.
King Alexandre waved me in with a gesture that belonged to a man who had spent his life ending meetings. The motion looked easy. Practiced. But his knuckles on his right hand were white where they gripped the chair, and I filed that detail away because pain told truths mouths refused to speak.
“Mr. Volkov. Thank you for coming.”
His voice surprised me. Warm. Steady. It had the weight that made men obey without being pushed, the kind of authority that didn't need volume or threat. Dangerous voice. Useful voice. The voice of a man who'd learned to lead through loss.
“Your Majesty.”
He studied me the way good chess players studied boards. Not to admire pieces. To read possible futures. To calculate which moves would end in checkmate and which would just postpone the inevitable.
“Sit, if you like,” he said, taking one of the low chairs by the fire. The arrangement was intimate on purpose. Two men instead of monarch and subject. I stayed standing anyway.
“I prefer to stand.”
“Of course,” he said, and the corner of his mouth shifted. Almost a smile. The kind that said he'd expected exactly that answer. “Adrian says you see rooms the way a surveyor sees land. Exits, sightlines, risk. Says you walked through Ravenswood and found three vulnerabilities his own people had missed for a decade.”
“He exaggerates.”
“I have never known him to do that.” The King leaned back, and for a moment he looked less like royalty and more like a father sitting across from the man he was trusting with his son's life. “He also said you'd be honest to the point of rudeness and loyal to the point of stupidity. I'm hoping for both.”
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. We both knew what I was.
He picked up a thin leather folder from the side table and handed it to me. Not ceremony. Work. Inside were clipped briefs. Public events. Threat summaries. Coordination notes with the Met. A page flagged in ink with notations in handwriting that looked rushed, personal, written by a man who didn't trust anyone else to get it right.
“Detective Chief Inspector Akintola is point for the docks investigation,” the King said. “You will have a direct line to him. Share what you can without compromising your methods. In return, he will inform us of credible threats before they become headlines. This is not just optics. It is coordination. It is survival.”
“Understood.”
