Most royals just nodded and signed whatever was put in front of them. Smiled for cameras and let others do the thinking.
He wasn't most royals.
I pulled out my phone, opened the notes app where I kept daily reports. Typed with one thumb:
No irregular activity. Subject attended press conference and economic briefing. Security maintained.
I stared at the words. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Added:
Subject appears fatigued. Recommend medical evaluation.
Read it back. Deleted it.
Too personal. Crossed the line from professional observation into concern that had no place in my job.
But I'd noticed anyway. Couldn't stop noticing. The shadows under his eyes like bruises. The way he'd moved this morning, slightly stiff on his right side, favoring his left shoulder. The fresh bandage I'd glimpsed under his collar when his shirt had shifted during the press conference.
White gauze against bronze skin. Medical tape. Recent.
He was injured. Again. And lying about it. Again.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket and clenched my jaw hard.
Because I wanted it to be my problem. Wanted the right to ask what happened, who hurt him, whether he was in pain. Wanted to know why someone who moved like a weapon kept coming back covered in wounds he wouldn't explain.
Wanted things I had no business wanting.
Two hours crawled past. I memorized every face that passed through the corridor. Catalogued threats that didn't exist. Thought about green eyes and gentle hands and the way he'd fastened that pin to a child's jacket like it was the most important thing in the world.
Thought about how I was fucked.
The conference room door finally opened. Advisors filed out, carrying briefcases and self-importance. Sebastian emerged last, rolling his shoulders, and I saw him wince. Brief. Controlled. But there.
“Productive meeting?” I asked as we started walking.
“Define productive.” He fell into step beside me, closer than necessary. “We agreed to disagree in seventeen different languages and scheduled another meeting to accomplish the same nothing.”
“Sounds efficient.”
“That's one word for it.” He glanced at me, and I saw exhaustion carved into the edges of his smile. “You looked deep in thought outthere. Contemplating the meaning of life or just fantasizing about shooting someone?”
“Was reviewing security protocols.”
“Right. Because that's what you do for fun.”
We turned down a quieter corridor, away from the main halls where press might linger. His footsteps echoed next to mine, slightly uneven. Favoring that right side again.
“You are limping,” I said.
His stride evened out immediately. Too deliberately. “I'm not.”
“You are. Right side. Favoring left shoulder also.”
“You're imagining things.”
I stopped walking. He took two more steps before realizing I wasn't following, then turned back. His expression was carefully neutral. Princely. The mask back in place.
