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His hand tightened at my neck. I wanted his mouth, but wanting wasn’t the same as being ready. I sat beside him and held the pressure.

“We need to talk about the Crown before Adrian comes through another wall.”

Stellan’s hand remained warm against my neck. “You’re thinking about wearing it.”

“I’m thinking about what happens if the next cut reaches your heart.”

“You don’t owe the court your body, and you don’t owe me that risk.”

“The risk exists whether you ask me to take it or spend the next century telling me not to.” I held his gaze. “If Adrian gets that dagger against your heart, refusing the Crown may hand him your blood and the whole court. I want a plan before either of us is desperate.”

His expression hardened until his mouth lost every trace of humour. “I won’t help it claim you.”

“I’m not asking for help. I’m asking you to drag it off me if I stop being myself.”

The bond tightened between us. His thumb moved once against my skin, then went still.

“Tell me what you’d do first,” he said.

“Seal every door around Adrian and release your blood restraints.”

“Harrowmere may treat that as one command or several. Keep it simple.”

I considered the words. “Protect this court from Adrian Rook.”

“That gives the Crown room to decide what protection means.”

“Then I name the actions. Shut Adrian outside the inner wards. Release you from every command attached to his blood.”

Stellan gave a slow nod, although tension stayed across his shoulders. “Do them separately. The Crown will try to make you reach for more power once it obeys the first.”

“If my voice changes, you take it off.”

“Your voice may stay the same.” His fingers tightened at my neck. “Give me another sign.”

The answer sat in front of us. “If I command your body, reach for your heartblood or order you away, stop me. Whatever I say after that belongs to the Crown. Fight the restraints until I can release you.”

His eyes stayed on mine. “And if releasing me requires you to keep the Crown?”

“You pull it off anyway.”

Pain moved through the bond that had nothing to do with his wound. “Bryony.”

“I mean it. I won’t trade your chains for mine.” I put my bloodstained hand over his. “If I’m still myself, I’ll swear at you while you do it. If I start talking like a dead queen, hit me with a pillow and remove the bloody thing.”

His mouth almost curved. “A pillow.”

“I’m not giving you permission to punch me.”

“I wouldn’t need permission to save you.”

The answer landed without ceremony. I believed him without needing another promise.

I kissed him. It was brief, deliberate and mine to start and end. When I moved back, he let me.

“Good,” I said. “Then we have a plan.”

“We have the beginning of one.”