One more second and I would've kissed him. Would've stripped us both and fucked him right there on the training mat.
One more second and everything would've changed.
But he'd walked away. Left me wrecked and wanting. Left me knowing exactly how he tasted when he fell apart. Left me knowing I'd never be able to look at him the same way again.
12
POLITE INTERROGATION
SEBASTIAN
Cedar curled off the chisel in pale ribbons that smelled like rain and memory. I turned the box toward the lamp, checking the inlay groove along the lid. The crescent and star would sit there clean if I didn't rush it. Silver on cedar. A surprise for my father's desk that he would pretend not to cry over.
Footsteps in the corridor. Not palace steps. Different cadence. Less ceremony, more purpose. Heavier. The kind that came from men who walked crime scenes instead of marble halls.
I didn't look up when the knock came. “Enter.”
Detective Chief Inspector Akintola stepped inside like the room belonged to neither of us and he'd been invited anyway. No uniform. Dark coat, damp at the shoulders. Close-cropped hair catching the lamplight. He shut the door with a soft click and took in the workbench, the tools, the unroyal mess.
“Your Highness.”
“Detective Chief Inspector,” I said, keeping my eyes on the inlay work. Making him wait. “I would offer you a seat, but most of them are covered in sawdust.”
“I've survived worse.” He didn't sit. Instead, he walked a slow linealong the shelves, reading the room the way other men read faces. His gaze passed over the half-finished toys, the stacked wood, the careful organization of tools. Professional interest. Not accusation. Not yet. “The palace said you were busy. I asked them to define busy. They said 'carving.' I asked them if that was a euphemism. They said no.”
“It rarely is.” I set the chisel down and brushed the bench with the back of my wrist. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a late-night inspection?”
“Not an inspection. A conversation.” He moved to the window, looked out at the grounds. “About the vigilante situation.”
“Ah. The archer.” I picked up sandpaper, started smoothing the lid's edge. “I've seen the news coverage. Very dramatic. The press loves a good mystery.”
“The press loves spectacle. I prefer solutions.” He turned back, leaned against the windowsill. Casual. But his eyes tracked everything. “What are your thoughts on vigilantism, Your Highness?”
I paused my sanding. “In general? Or specifically?”
“Let's start with general.”
“I think people resort to vigilantism when they believe the system has failed them. When they think justice moves too slowly or not at all.” I examined the wood grain, kept my voice neutral. Academic. “It's understandable. Misguided, but understandable.”
“Misguided how?”
“Because one person deciding what justice looks like is how we got monarchies. And we all know how well that's worked out.” I met his eyes. Smiled. Empty and perfect. “Present company excluded, of course.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “And specifically? This archer. The one who's been leaving bodies around London.”
“I think he's reckless. Dangerous. Playing at hero without understanding the consequences.” I set down the sandpaper, picked up the box. Examined it in the light. “I also think he's probably terrified. Angry. Desperate to do something when everything feels out of control.”
“You've given this thought.”
“I think about a lot of things. Occupational hazard of being a prince with too much time and not enough purpose.” I set the box down, turned to face him fully. “Why are you here, Detective? Surely you don't think I have insight into the mind of a vigilante archer.”
“You'd be surprised what insights royalty can have.” He pushed off from the windowsill, moved closer to the workbench. “You travel through the city. Talk to people. See things from angles I don't. I'm curious what you make of him.”
“Of someone I've never met?”
“Of someone who's doing what you might do if you weren't bound by protocol and security.”
The observation landed like a punch. I kept my expression neutral. “That's quite an assumption.”
