But I was tired. And lonely. And the King looked like he might shatter if left alone with whatever was eating him.
I followed him inside.
The pavilion was small. Intimate. Rain traced silver lines across the glass roof, and the candles made everything feel removed from reality. Like we'd stepped outside time.
The King poured brandy into both glasses with hands that trembled slightly. Not fear. Exhaustion. The kind that came from holding yourself together too long.
He held one glass out to me. I took it.
“What did you think of today?” he asked, settling into one of the chairs. “The accident.”
I remained standing, glass untouched in my hand. “It was not accident.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
He stared at his brandy. “I thought as much. The timing was too convenient. Too theatrical.” He drank, wincing slightly. “Someone wanted to send a message.”
“Or test security. See how close they can get.”
“And they got very close.” His eyes met mine. “If you hadn't moved when you did...”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifted in his expression. Gratitude. Relief. Fear. “You saved him. Again. That's twice in three days.”
I didn't answer. Didn't know what to say. Protecting Sebastian was my job. But somewhere between the photographer incident and the chandelier, it had stopped feeling like just a job and started feeling like something I couldn't afford to examine.
“Come,” the King said, standing abruptly. “Let's go somewhere warmer. I can't think in the cold.”
The room he led me to was smaller than I'd expected. More intimate. A sitting room with a fireplace already burning, casting warm light across furniture that looked comfortable instead of ceremonial. Personal. Real.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs positioned in front of the fire. “Please.”
I sat this time because refusing would've been more awkward than complying. Set my brandy glass on the side table between our chairs. The King did the same with his, the crystal catching firelight as he placed it down.
He settled across from me, close enough that I could see the firelight catch in his eyes.
“You remind me of her guards,” he said quietly, staring into the flames. “The ones who died trying to protect her that night. They would've thrown themselves in front of bullets without hesitation.” He looked at me. “You're the same.”
“I am paid to be.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You could be paid and still hesitate. Still calculate. Still choose yourself.” He leaned forward. “But you don't.You move like protecting him is instinct. Like his life matters more than your own.”
My jaw tightened. “That is what I am here for.”
“It's more than that. I see it when you look at him. When you think no one's watching.” The King's voice dropped. “You care. Despite yourself. Despite every wall you've built.”
The words hit too close. I wanted to deny them. Wanted to rebuild the distance that was crumbling between us.
But I couldn't.
Because he was right.
“I cannot afford to care,” I said roughly. “Caring is weakness. It makes you slow. Makes you compromise.”
“Or it makes you faster. More determined.” He drank more brandy, color rising in his cheeks. “I loved her so much it terrified me. That's why I was so careful. So protective. And it didn't matter. She died anyway.”
