“Soon,” Finn said. “I promise. Just let me finish this.”
Trent sighed but didn’t argue further. He settled back in his chair and returned to his book, a silent presence that kept Finn from being entirely alone.
/~/~/~/~/
Darragh heard them through the door. Trent’s frustration, Finn’s exhausted defenses, and the absence of the easy camaraderie they’d had at the wedding.
He’d thought about going in. About pulling Finn away from the desk and holding him until the tension eased. But what right did he have? He was the one who’d created the damn situation. He was the one who’d married Finn, knowing full well the difficulties ahead and then failed to properly prepare him.
Trent was right. Darragh had romanticized Finn’s authenticity, had loved it so much he’d been blind to how vulnerable it would make him in a world that valued performance over truth.
The door finally opened at nearly two in the morning. Finn slipped in quietly, clearly trying not to wake him, but Darragh had been lying awake for hours.
“I’m up,” he said softly.
Finn froze, then continued to the wardrobe where he changed into his nightshirt quickly and quietly. He slid into bed beside Darragh, maintaining a careful distance.
“How was your time with Trent?” Darragh tried.
“Good. He helped with some of the delegation logistics.”
“That’s good.”
Silence stretched between them, vast as an ocean.
Finn turned onto his side, facing away. His breathing evened within minutes…the sleep of pure exhaustion.
Darragh rolled onto his own side, watching the shape of his husband in the darkness. Even in sleep, tension threaded through Finn’s body. His hands clutched the blanket. His jaw stayed tight.
This wasn’t the Finn who’d laughed in the gardens. Who’d kissed Darragh senseless and talked about building projects with enthusiasm. Who’d admitted his fears but faced them with stubborn courage.
This was someone trying desperately to survive, to transform, to become worthy of a position he’d never wanted in the first place.
And Darragh had no idea how to reach him anymore.
He touched Finn’s shoulder gently, felt the warmth of him through the silk nightshirt. “I love you,” he whispered, knowing Finn couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry I didn’t make this easier. I’m sorry, I loved what you were without considering what this world would demand you become.”
Of course, Finn couldn’t hear him, and Darragh wasn’t sure if it would do any good if he could.
Chapter Twenty
The wine arrived three days late. Finn stood in the loading dock, staring at thirty cases of imported Montclaire that should have been in the wine cellar since Tuesday. Instead, they’d sat at the east service entrance - which nobody used because it was under renovation - gathering dust while Finn tore through inventory lists trying to track them down.
“But the delivery instructions were clear,” Gordon said, holding up the manifest. “West entrance, wine cellar storage, attendant signature required.”
Finn took the paper and scanned it. His own handwriting marked the top:West entrance - usual delivery point.Below that, someone had added in different ink:Change to east entrance per consort’s request.
“I never requested that.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.” Gordon frowned at the notation. “Perhaps the delivery coordinator misunderstood?”
“Misunderstood what? I wrote ‘west entrance’ right here.”
Gordon made a noncommittal sound. “I’ll speak to them. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Finn folded the manifest and shoved it in his pocket. Three days. The Montclaire was for the welcome banquet, specifically chosen because Queen Valdis had mentioned in her correspondence that she appreciated fine vintages. Now he’d have to hope three days in an unheated service entrance hadn’t damaged it.
He returned to his office and addedverify wine qualityto his endless list of tasks. The list had grown to three pages. The summit started in twelve days.
