“Understood.”
“Give him work,” the King added. “Real work, not busywork. He is safest when he has purpose. It keeps him from the places he should not go.”
Below us, the cook appeared at the terrace door with a tray and a warning about wet grass. Sebastian promised to wipe his shoes and stole a biscuit anyway, grinning like a thief who knew he'd get away with it. Apollo sat with perfect posture and waited to be blessed with crumbs. He got them. He deserved them. The gardener pretended not to notice the contraband and slipped a piece of apple to the dog when the cook glared, conspirators in the gentle crime of spoiling a prince's dog.
I watched the scene and felt something shift in my chest. Not the old sharp thing that liked to cut. Something slower. Heavier. The line of Sebastian's throat when he laughed. The way he looked people in the face when they spoke, rank be damned. The ease of it. The lack of calculation. It had weight I hadn't expected. Gravity I didn't want to feel.
I pulled my attention back where it belonged.
“Your son is good at making allies,” I said.
“He is better at making enemies.” The King's voice carried the particular weariness of a father who'd spent years watching his son walk tightropes without nets. “The former will help keep the latterfrom killing him. At least, that is what I tell myself when I cannot sleep.”
He set his palms on the stone balustrade and leaned out the smallest degree. Rain marked his sleeves. He didn't care.
“You will have authority to override my household staff,” he said. “Not over my son in public. I reserve that authority for myself, for whatever good it does me. He listens about as well as his mother did, which is to say not at all.” Fondness bled through the words. “If you must move him in public to save his life, do it without asking permission. Save him first. Apologize later. Then tell me after so I can decide whether to thank you or have you arrested for putting your hands on my son.”
He was joking. Mostly.
“Understood.”
Sebastian was on the gravel now, tossing the rope for Apollo with mock solemnity like a priest offering benediction. Apollo charged, skidded, nearly took out a flower bed, recovered like all good soldiers do when their commanding officer is watching. Sebastian praised the dog in French and English and a nonsense third language that was mostly affection and exaggerated vowels. The housemaids clapped. The boy from maintenance watched him like he'd just been taught a magic trick and couldn't wait to try it himself.
This wasn't the prince who had smiled for cameras. This was the person who lived under the headlines. I felt the pull of it and recognized the danger in equal measure. Wanting to protect someone was part of the job. Wanting to know them was something else entirely.
“Dinner at seven,” the King said, breaking the moment. “East dining hall. You will shadow him and walk him back to his rooms after. He will try to lose you on the stairs because he thinks it's funny. Do not let him. Before that, meet Detective Chief Inspector Reuben Akintola in the south anteroom. He is waiting. You will align protocols, not posture for jurisdiction. I don't care whose jurisdiction a threat falls under as long as my son survives it.”
“I can do that.”
The King took a slim phone from his pocket and tapped a message.It pinged a reply within seconds. He showed me the screen. Akintola's initials. A room number. Ten minutes.
“Last thing.” The King's voice dropped lower. Heavier. “Do not let him be alone. He thinks solitude is strength. He thinks he can handle the darkness by himself because he's been doing it for eighteen years.” His hands tightened on the stone. “It is the door the dark likes best. The one we leave open because we don't realize how wide it's gotten until someone we love disappears through it.”
“I hear you,” I said.
He nodded once, sharp and final, and left me with the rain. The courtyard blurred into watercolor and the staff made a small village around a prince and a golden dog who didn't know he was supposed to be afraid. I didn't allow the scene to live in me longer than a breath.
Work first. Feeling later. Maybe never.
I tookthe service stair down one level and crossed to the south anteroom. It was a quiet space dressed like a waiting room, all polished wood and a table with cold tea that no one had bothered to clear. Akintola stood by the window with a small notebook in one hand. He turned when I entered, eyes steady, mind already on the next move.
“Mr. Volkov.”
“Detective Chief Inspector.”
We had met in rooms that smelled like cordite and damp concrete. Once on a Tasking Board at Vauxhall when bureaucrats pretended to know what happened in the field. Once at a hospital corridor when a witness decided not to die and we both decided not to ask too many questions about why. We weren't friends. We were functional. It had worked then. It would work now.
He offered a hand. I took it. Firm. Clean. No games.
“I appreciate the palace arranging this,” he said. “Saves me from arguing with three different private security gods before breakfast. Territoriality is exhausting before coffee.”
“I am only a man,” I said. “But I can be useful.”
A small line at the corner of his mouth. The closest he gave to a smile on duty. He flipped his notebook open.
“All right. First, comms. I will put your team on a dedicated channel that mirrors our citywide frequency during active incidents. You will listen with receive priority. You will speak on it only when you must. I do not want the entire Met to hear palace movements unless they need to know. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
