My throat tightens. “Not the way you mean.”
Canon’s eyes harden, and for a ridiculous second I feel twelve years old again, standing in the hall after Mom’s funeral becauseI’d cried too loudly at the wake and made men uncomfortable. He looked at me then the way he’s looking at me now, as if my softness is a private flaw that keeps becoming public at the worst possible times.
“You went out and made yourself a liability.”
“I didn’t know who he was.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Good. At least you’re not stupid enough to try.”
I swallow. My mouth tastes like metal, though I don’t remember biting my tongue. “I didn’t plan this.”
Canon’s gaze flicks toward Saint and back. “He did. Maybe not before today, but men like that don’t move unless they’ve already decided where they want the knife to land.”
I want to say I know that. I want to say Saint’s decision feels like a blade under my chin already, like being chosen and used and exposed all at once. But the words tangle somewhere behind my teeth because the other truth is uglier. Some part of me still feels the ghost of peace when I look at him, and I don’t know what to do with that except hate myself for it.
Canon’s fingers tighten slightly on my arm. “This alliance matters more than whatever shame you’re carrying. You’ll sign the contract, you’ll go where you’re told, and you’ll keep your head down inside Obsidian. You’re not going there as a lover or a husband or whatever bullshit title Sol’s people want to dress it up as. You’re going there as Rogue blood securing Rogue survival.”
I look at him then, the ache inside my chest shifting into something colder. “You were going to send Varina.”
His expression barely changes. “Varina knows duty.”
“So do I.”
“No,” Canon says, quiet and immediate. “You know how to be hurt by it.”
Behind us, Varina’s voice rises. “He gets a choice. You don’t get to stand there and pretend this is cleaner because you changed which one of us bleeds.”
Canon’s attention flicks over my shoulder. “Stay out of it.”
“He’s my brother.”
“He’s my son.”
I almost laugh but I bite the reaction back, knowing that it’ll only make my father look weak in front of two clubs.
Canon looks back at me. “At least you’ll finally be useful.”
The words are soft enough that maybe only I hear them. Maybe Saint does too. I don’t know. Nothing in the world rearranges itself around the fact that my father has just reduced my entire life to a function and called it mercy.
I pull my arm from his hand and Canon lets me go, but his eyes warn me not to mistake the release for freedom. “Sign.”
I turn back toward the table just as Sol clears his throat. The room immediately settles, a sort of appreciation for the Obsidian leader’s power making me realize my father is mostly all talk.
Sol’s voice cuts through the room. “Enough. The clause stands. The presidents agree, the Ward signs, Saint signs, and the alliance is formal. Anyone with objections can make them after the ink’s dry and the guns are put away.”
Canon turns toward him sharply. “Don’t command my table.”
Sol exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “Then stop losing control of it in my room.”
I brace myself for the worst to happen, Canon’s hands fisting at his sides. His nostrils flare in defiance as Sol just runs through where our signatures are supposed to fall. Each of us silently fall in line, my signature the second to last on the page.
Saint signs just beside me, staring at the drying ink for a moment before placing the pen back on the table.
“There,” Sol says. “Done.”
