His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “Wait for my father to die.”
“That could be years.”
“Yes.”
“Decades.”
“He’s very stubborn.”
“Rhain.”
“Yes,” he said. “It could be decades.”
If Martin moved first, Rhain would go back to Norway. Not dead. Not gone in a clean, useful way. Worse. Alive. Obedient on paper. Kept behind his father’s authority until Martin died or power shifted enough to let him return.
A bond stretched across borders and councils and all the rooms neither of us would be allowed to enter.
“That’s a stupid thing to offer,” I said.
“I’m aware.”
The silence held.
He had given me the principled version. The version where he stepped back, respected my choice, and made himself bearable by refusing to ask for more than I could freely give.
But there was another part under it. I could see it in the stillness of his hands.
“You’re angry,” I said.
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“No.” His voice dropped. “With Graves.”
“Why?”
“Because he should’ve told you about the legal-center before he bit you, not after. He should’ve explained that the private claim left you politically exposed. He should’ve asked you to make the choice before the bond settled, not handed you the consequences in the morning when you could no longer unmake the decision your body had already made.”
“He didn’t know about Martin then.”
“He knew the law,” Rhain said. “He knew what a private claim does and doesn’t protect. He has had years to learn the risk. He chose dragon biology over your political safety in the room where you needed both.”
“That isn’t entirely fair.”
“I know.” He stayed very still. “I know it isn’t fair. I’m still angry.”
“And jealous.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
“Of the private claim?”
“Of every claim made without me in the room.”
“Even though I returned it.”
