"You won't get away with this," Cullen said. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but the defiance was still there. "Someone will figure it out."
"Perhaps." Riuondo shrugged. "But by then, it won't matter. I'll have consolidated power. Eliminated my opposition. The Alliance will be mine, and there will be nothing anyone can do about it."
He gestured to the guards. "Take them back to the cells. Let them rest. We have a performance to prepare for."
The restraints released with a hiss. I nearly fell as they hauled me to my feet, my legs weak and trembling. Across from me, Cullen could barely stand. The guards had to support his full weight.
Our eyes met one last time before they dragged us from the chamber.
I felt his heartbeat—still synchronized with mine, still strong despite everything.
I'm sorry,I thought, hoping somehow he could feel it.I'm so sorry.
But I wasn't sorry for agreeing to abdicate.
I was sorry that I'd ever thought duty mattered more than this. More than him.
The cell door slammed shut behind me, and I collapsed against the wall, my body shaking with silent sobs.
I'd broken.
The Prime, who had maintained her composure through a century of leadership, who had never let emotion cloud her judgment, who had sacrificed everything for duty—
I'd broken.
And I would do it again. A thousand times over.
For him.
Chapter 15
Serna
They threw Cullen into my cell an hour later.
He stumbled through the doorway and nearly collapsed. I caught him, my arms wrapping around his torso as gently as I could manage, and guided him to the narrow bench that served as our only furniture. His weight sagged against me, and I felt the echo of his pain—a dull, throbbing ache that radiated through every nerve.
"Easy," I murmured. "I've got you."
The guards had tossed a small medi-kit onto the floor before slamming the door shut. A mercy, though I suspected it was less about compassion and more about keeping us alive long enough for the performance. I retrieved it and knelt beside Cullen, my hands already moving to assess the damage.
His shirt was torn and bloodstained. I peeled it away carefully, revealing the marks the neural stimulator had left—angry red welts across his shoulders and back where the probes made contact. Bruises bloomed across his ribs in shades of purple and black. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth and beneath his nose and his eye was swollen shut.
"Cullen," I whispered, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. "I'm so sorry. I'm so—"
"Don't." His hand found mine, his grip weak but steady. "Don't apologize for what he did."
I opened the medi-kit with trembling fingers. Inside were basic supplies—antiseptic, dermal regenerator, pain suppressors, bandages. Not much, but enough. I activated the dermal regenerator and began running it over the worst of the welts, watching as the angry red marks slowly faded to pink.
He hissed through his teeth at the initial contact, his body tensing.
"I know," I said softly. "I know it hurts. Just breathe."
My fingers were gentle as I cleaned the blood from his face, and applied the regenerator to the split in his lip and eye. I felt his gaze on me the entire time, felt the weight of his attention even as I focused on my task.
"You're good at this," he said quietly.
"I've had practice." I moved to his ribs, running the regenerator over the bruises. "Too much practice."
