“Show me,” I said.
“Show you what?”
“The injury you are hiding.”
“I'm not hiding anything.”
“Sebastian.” His name felt dangerous in my mouth. Too familiar. Too weighted. “I have been watching you for two weeks. I know how you move. This is different.”
He crossed his arms, and I saw the wince again when his shoulder protested. “It's nothing. Just sore from training.”
“You do not train on your shoulder.”
“Maybe I should. Clearly my form needs work.” His voice had gone sharp. Defensive. “You said so yourself at the range.”
“Your form is perfect. Your lies are not.”
That landed. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes went cold.
“I don't answer to you, Viktor. You're here to keep me alive, not interrogate me about every bruise.”
“Is not interrogation.” I moved closer, dropping my voice. “Job that is impossible when you hide injuries. When you lie about where you get them.”
“I told you. Training accident.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Is bullshit. Training accidents do not leave finger-shaped bruises on bicep. Do not cause defensive wounds on forearms. Do not—” I gestured to his shoulder, “—tear through muscle tissue in pattern consistent with knife graze.”
“You don't know that's what it is.”
“I know exactly what it is. I have seen enough knife wounds to recognize one.” My hands fisted at my sides. “What I do not know is why you are lying to me about it.”
“Maybe because it's none of your business.”
“Your safety is my business. Your injuries are my business. Everything that affects your ability to survive is my business.” I stepped closer, invading his space. “So tell me. Where did you get knife wound that you are pretending is arrow scratch?”
Sebastian's mask cracked. Just for a second. I saw fury underneath. And something else. Fear, maybe. Or shame.
“Back off, Viktor.”
“No.”
“I'm not doing this with you.”
“Then when? When will you trust me enough to tell truth? After third assassination attempt? Fourth? After you are dead and I am writing report about how I failed because you would not let me do my job?”
“My job,” he shot back, voice rising, “is to lead. To represent the crown. To be visible and present and available. Your paranoia is making that impossible.”
“Is not paranoia when people keep trying to kill you.”
“Two incidents. That's all. Two incidents that could've been accidents?—”
“Support bolts do not accidentally fail. Motorcade routes do not accidentally get leaked.” I moved even closer. Close enough to see gold flecks in green eyes. Close enough to watch his pulse hammer in his throat. “And princes do not accidentally get knife wounds they hide from their bodyguards.”
“You're overstepping.”
