“Formally?” I ask.
Lucien gives a short nod. “Formal acceptance. His team confirmed within the hour. He’ll attend the summit in person, along with Kai and Maksim.”
Of course he will. Nikolaj was never a man to send substitutes once power became something he could wear openly. Even at twenty, he had that lethal pride in him; that refusal to cower behind other people’s shields when the matter was worth his attention. I should’ve expected nothing less now.
I reach for the tumbler again and let out a quiet hum, moving toward the window again because sitting suddenly feels too much like being cornered.
The city below hasn’t changed. Lights. Roads. Wealth. Distance. Somewhere in that ordered sprawl are men who would sell their firstborn to know what expression just crossed my face, if any. Lucien already knows. He always has.
Behind me, he sets the glass down. “You knew he’d say yes.”
“I knew there was no reason for him to refuse.”
“That’s not what I said, Enzo.”
I turn my head slightly, enough to catch him in the reflection. “Don’t start.”
Lucien’s reflection leans one shoulder against the sideboard, arms folding over his chest.
“I’m not starting anything. I’m stating the obvious. You’ve been waiting for this since the invitation went out.”
I give him a flat look over my shoulder. “I’ve been preparing for a summit.”
“With Nikolaj Dragovich. A man you haven’t seen since Vintermoor.”
“With the Pakhan of the Russian sectors,” I correct. “Try not to sound like a gossiping aunt.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile, but it fades quickly. Lucien was there for the aftermath, though he was kind enough then to pretend ignorance where it counted. He knew there had been something at Vintermoor between Nikolaj and me. He knew it had gone deeper than rivalry because he’s not a fucking idiot, and because men don’t come back from ordinary hatred looking as ruined as I did.
Still, he never cornered me with it. Never made me speak it aloud when silence was the only thing holding me together.
He watched me marry Arabella.
He watched me become King.
He watched me drink more than I should, fuck less than rumor suggested, and work like exhaustion might one day cauterize a memory.
He knows exactly how much of me never came back from that academy, and he’s tactful enough not to say it in crude terms.
Most of the time.
He pushes off the sideboard and comes closer. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“Pretend what?”
“That hearing his name doesn’t still hit you in the throat.”
I look out at the city a moment longer and decide I’m too tired to lie to the only man here who’d hear it for what it is.
“It doesn’t hit me in the throat,” I say at last. “It hits lower. Happy?”
“No.” His tone softens, which is somehow worse. “I’d be happier if you weren’t still carrying this around like it happened last week.”
“That’s inconvenient,” I say with a scoff. “Because it happened eight years ago, and I’ve still got no interest in setting it down.”
Lucien studies me for a second. “What are you going to do when you see him?”
I swirl the whiskey and watch the liquid. It’s an absurd question in one sense. I know exactly what I’m going to do:
