I’ve never been an early riser, but this morning I’m awake when the first beams of sunlight strike the shutters. The fire has gone to embers, and the room is cool, silence pressing in from outside. Quint’s body is a warm weight against mine, his breath soft against my arm. The world outside this tiny house is full of living nightmares, and I have so many obligations waiting for me. I’m dreading every single one of them. I’d rather spend my morning memorizing the lines of his face.
I was worried that dawn would come and I would feel awkward. Uncertain. That I would want to slip out of bed, grateful for an excuse to leave.
Instead, all my emotions are just the opposite. Quint has been a part of my life for years, so there’s a strange sort of comfort here. Like the moment I kissed him, what’s truly startling about this is that it’s somehow . . . not startling at all.
And now that I’ve let down my walls, my carefully constructed barriers, the fortress I’ve built around my emotions, I’m having a hard time remembering how to put them back up. This is terrifying. Exhilarating. Last night, I couldn’t stop touching him. I’m longing to touch him now.
He was writing down the dates when I smiled. Good lord. It’s the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. If I’d ever found out, he wouldn’t have lasted one more second in the palace.
But then he gave me that whole speech about my brother and my parents and the whole of Kandala and—oh, I simply cannot take it.
Wake up, I think. Wake up and drive me crazy.
He doesn’t. His breath keeps tickling my arm, his chest rising and falling slowly. I watch for far too long, mesmerized.
I run a hand across my face. I should get dressed. There’s work to be done. Francis has Sommer bound somewhere, and I need to question him this morning. Saeth will give me a report on whatever his wife knows. There’s a chance that the closest consuls will be receiving their letters by now, too. The entire country is at stake, and I’m in bed.
But Quint’s hair is tousled from sleep, his jaw dusted in red from the start of a beard he hasn’t shaved since we moved to the Wilds. I remember the feel of it against my face, against my neck, against my chest, against . . . other places. I thought it would be rough, but it’s not at all.
Without thinking, I stroke a thumb across the velvet softness of his cheek, and he stirs, inhaling deeply.
“Do you need me to make more tea?” he says, barely awake. He made a pot sometime in the dead of night when I woke with a coughing fit. I tried to muffle the sound with a pillow, but he heard anyway.
“No,” I murmur. “Go back to sleep.”
His eyes crack open the tiniest bit, and when he sees that I’m not coughing, he stretches, then rises up enough to kiss me lazily.
I could drown in the taste of his mouth, but he withdraws, sliding away. I think he’s going back to sleep, but he shifts closer, dropping a kiss onto my shoulder, then my chest.
A fire lights in my belly, and I press a hand to his cheek. “Quint—”
His hand slips beneath the blankets, finding my knee. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you—” I choke on a yelp as he sucks my nipple between his teeth.
“Too late. I’m up.” Then his hand slides up my thigh, and for a while, I forget how to speak altogether.
Later, when my heart eventually settles again, the sunlight is more fully against the shutters. We’ve barely dressed beyond undergarments, and the quilts are a tangled mess. It’s my face against Quint’s arm now, and I’m dozing while he sits against the wall and flips pages in his little book.
“If you keep track of the dates we do this,” I say, “I will have to kill you.”
He grins. “I’m drafting a ledger this very moment.”
“You are not.”
“No.” The smile slips off his face as he focuses on the page. “I’m reading over notes from previous consul meetings. I was doing this last night, too, but now I’m hoping I’ll have something we’ll find useful before you question Sommer, but thus far, nothing. I still haven’t been able to figure why Arella would have been speaking to the rebels with Laurel Pepperleaf, of all people. She has never aligned herself with Allisander’s sector.”
Oh, he’s working. Now I feel guilty.
But I think of what we faced in the woods last night, and I can’t quite force myself out of bed.
He flips another page. “I’d kill for access to the palace right now. I have mountains of notes in my chambers. Or I did. Who knows what anyone’s done with it since we’ve been gone.” He sighs.
That statement makes my thoughts trip and stall. He really does take notes everywhere he goes. It’s part of what makes him so good at his job. “Do you write down everything I say when I’m speaking to the consuls?”
He doesn’t look up. “If I’m present, I write down everything you say to anyone at all. Prince Corrick as well.”
That’s true. I remember how he was writing down an accounting of my conversation with Annabeth, making notes about what Saeth reported, too. I press my hands into the mattress and shift until I’m sitting against the headboard beside him. “Do you think there’s any chance Allisander and Arella could have found something compromising in your notes that would provide the proof they claim to have?”
“That you’re poisoning the people?” He closes his book and looks at me in surprise. “Of course not. What could it be? I’ve never heard you make anything close to such a claim.”
He’s right, of course. I frown.
Quint scoffs. “If anything, my notes would prove the very opposite. I have years of records detailing your desire to protect the people of Kandala.”
I sigh. “Well, I can’t take the rebels to attack the palace and retrieve your records. We barely survived against four traitorous guards.”
“But you did. You killed the traitors—and returned with an informed prisoner to interrogate.” He flips open the book again, returning to his reading. “Quite the victory, I’d say.”
I stare at him. It’s a complete mystery to me how he can make our failed mission sound like a success. It’s honestly a complete mystery how he can be reading at all. My world has been thrown off its axis, and he’s sitting here shirtless, running a finger down the page like we need to prepare for a consul meeting in an hour. But he is, and I’m transfixed again. His hair was gold in the firelight, but it’s so red this morning, and a bit of a wild mess. Freckles everywhere, too, splashed across the curves of muscle in his chest and arms. I want to count them all.
He clears his throat. “I’m hesitant to criticize the king—”
“Are you?” I say. “Are you truly hesitant?”
“—but all this staring is rather distracting.”
“You are rather distracting.” I snatch the book out of his hands.
He dives for it, which completely takes me by surprise. I try to keep it out of reach, but he’s stronger than I expect and suddenly relentless. We grapple for it until Quint rolls me into the headboard and we send the side table rattling into the wall. He wins more by virtue of my shock than anything else. He ends up straddling my waist, the book trapped between his fingers.
I have to push the hair back from my face, and I’m breathless, glaring up at him sternly. “We were set upon by traitors last night! What if one of the guards stormed in here and thought you were fighting with the king?”
“So charming.” Quint leans down and kisses me on the forehead, then returns to sit against the headboard with his book. “If Benjamin Thorin or Adam Saeth are outside that door, do you genuinely believe there’s any chance they think we’ve been fighting?”
Lord.I pinch the bridge of my nose. I really need to get out of this bed.
I still don’t move. I don’t want to face anything outside.
I consider what Quint said about the consuls, about his notes. As always, I wish we had a way into the palace. Regardless of what he said, the guards were a failure. Sommer might have information, but he’s a traitor. It’s still a dead end in so many ways.
Quint has gone back to turning pages, so I shift to sit beside him again, reading alongside when he pauses. So many meetings, so many notes, for months and months and months. So many memories preserved in his handwriting. As Quint said last night, Corrick and I destroyed ourselves to hold Kandala together. Meanwhile, the consuls were plotting against us so carefully.
And just like our parents, we never saw it coming.
Eventually a question occurs to me. “Did you ever tell Corrick?” I say. “About your feelings?”
I’ve been quiet for a long time, and Quint is in the middle of a page of dry notes from a meeting where the consuls were bickering about shipping levies. His finger stops on a line, and he glances over. “My feelings?”
“For me,” I say softly.
He closes the book around his finger and regards me. “You’re asking if I ever told my dearest friend that I imagined doing wicked things to his brother, the king? Yes, of course, Your Majesty, we talked about it all the time.”
I hit him with a pillow.
But then I say, “Truly. Did he know?”
“No. I never said a word.”
“Why?”
“I considered it many times. Many times. Far too complicated. For as much as I love Corrick as a friend, he would ultimately feel an obligation to tell you—and I don’t believe it would have been received well.” He pauses, his eyes holding mine. “Am I wrong?”
I look back at him, and I’m not sure what to say.
He’s not wrong.
Shame heats my cheeks. I feel like a boor, and I have to look away. “Forgive me, Quint.”
He touches my chin, dragging my gaze back. “Every action you take is subject to scrutiny and judgment, and regardless of any longing I might have noticed, I knew this was something you didn’t share with anyone. As I said, I considered it at great length. It would have done no good. Telling Corrick would have compromised my position as Palace Master, my friendship with him, and possibly even his relationship with you. You would’ve felt cornered and exposed, and I would’ve been out of a job.”
All very likely true. I study him. “So you would have kept this to yourself . . . forever?”
“Until you kissed me like it would save your life? Yes. I would’ve taken it right to the grave.”
There’s something a bit sad about that. But maybe that was the point to all his lectures last night. How much time I’ve wasted. How I’ve been keeping the same kind of secrets, to the detriment of myself. I swallow heavily.
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” Quint says. He takes hold of my hand and weaves our fingers together. “I was by your side all the same.”
He says this offhandedly, but emotion punches me right in the chest, and I grip tight to his fingers.
He lifts our joined hands and holds mine against his face. “You said you never told Prince Corrick either.”
“No.” I hesitate. “Last night, when I said never into the palace, you asked about it. I used to sneak out with Corrick when I was a teenager.”
Quint nods. “He once told me that’s what gave him the means to sneak out as Weston Lark. He said you knew all the old spy tunnels and access points—” He breaks off and gasps, then turns to face me, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. “Do you mean you used to sneak out without him? You had a secret paramour?”
“Your eagerness for gossip is concerning.”
He all but bounces on his knees. “Your lack of it is boring. Tell me!”
“Well, I always took Corrick with me. If I left him behind, he never would’ve forgiven me.” I smile fondly, remembering it. We used to sprint through the palace gardens, racing for the entrance to the tunnels until I thought my lungs were going to give out. “But sometimes . . . sometimes I would encourage him to explore, or join a lively card game, or some other distraction that might buy me an hour to myself. Because there was a boy I’d met, a night watchman at a stable on the edge of the Wilds . . .”
My voice trails off, but I’m certain my meaning is clear.
“And Corrick was unaware?”
“I certainly wasn’t going to tell my thirteen-year-old brother that he could find me hiding behind a barn, unlacing the trousers of a stable boy.”
I expect that to make him laugh, but instead, Quint looks a little sad. He’s not bouncing on his knees now, and he leans forward to kiss me.
“What’s that for?” I say.
“For as close as you two are, the number of secrets you keep from each other is maddening. All this time, I thought he was the one hiding his torment from you.”
I frown, considering that. “I never thought of myself as tormented. It was all very fleeting, never serious. I knew it could never go anywhere, as the boy had no idea who I was. But I used to imagine escaping the palace, remaining in the Wilds forever, living as a stable boy myself. I’d lie awake at night and dream of it, what it would be like to be surrounded by horses and fresh air instead of angry consuls and endless meetings. I think I was more in love with the idea of that than anything else.”
Quint is studying me. “Escaping, Your Majesty.”
Fine. Maybe I was tormented.
I heave another sigh. I’ve lingered long enough, and if I keep chasing this emotion, I’ll end up nowhere good. I kiss Quint’s hand and let go. “It’s grown late. I need to dress. Since we don’t have your books or my records or any of the consuls in front of us, I will question Sommer and make a determination of what to do with him. I also need to find out what Saeth’s wife knows. I’ll start there.”
“I’ll make an accounting of what they both say so you can compare for inaccuracies, in the event Sommer is lying—or Leah is.”
It’s a good idea, but I consider the way the woman was glaring at me in the thunderstorm, the way she was clutching her husband’s hand.
Whatever happened, she won’t want a room full of people. She might not even be willing to talk to me at all, but I have to try.
I pull a tunic over my head, then look at Quint. “You can join me when I speak with Sommer, but I’ll need to talk to Leah and Adam alone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He nods, then pauses in lacing his trousers to write that down.
I don’t know what about that requires recording, but I’m transfixed again.
Before I even realize I’m staring, he finishes writing, then looks up.
My cheeks grow warm, and I hastily look for some wool socks, then drop into one of the chairs. “And, Quint . . .” I hesitate, trying to make my voice light, to take any weight out of what I’m going to say. “Surely we’ve moved beyond formality. You can call me Harristan.”
His hands go still on the laces of his trousers again, but he says nothing.
The heat on my cheeks deepens, and I have to reach for my boots. “I’m surprised you didn’t do it on your own. You haven’t been shy about anything else.”
He still says nothing, and he’s just staring at me now.
I tug one boot on and reach for the other. “Is this truly all it would have taken to render you speechless? If so, I would have made the offer ages ago.”
“No one addresses you by your given name.” His voice is a little hushed. “No one but Prince Corrick.”
“Well, you can.”
He considers this for a little while, pulling his own tunic over his head, tugging his own boots onto his feet. It might be the longest silence I’ve ever experienced in his presence.
Eventually, he stands and says, “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I couldn’t possibly.”
His response is so unexpected that I almost burst out laughing. “You couldn’t possibly address me by name?”
He shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t.”
I rise from the chair and pull on my jacket, then stop in front of him. We’re nearly even for height, though I might have him by an inch or two. “I could order you to do it,” I whisper.
A light sparks in his eye. “If you want to order me to do things, I can personally assure you there are better options.”
My heart stutters a little, and I give him a tiny shove. He bats at my hand, and we tussle again, just for a second, which makes me smile. But then he catches my arm, almost pulling me into an embrace. I remember the moment last night when I fell against him, when I longed to be held.
That forces me still, and I stare into his eyes. What he said earlier is true: every action I take is subject to scrutiny and judgment. That’s been my life since I first drew breath. Corrick and I have been so wary of revealing any hint of vulnerability that I can’t even think of the last moment I gave my brother a hug.
And here’s Quint offering simple human contact like it’s nothing. I want to grab hold and keep on holding.
But I have to let go. I have to remember that there’s a reason Corrick and I are so distant and so cold. I have to remember what happened to our parents and what vulnerability can lead to. The fact that my personal guards turned traitor is proof enough of that.
And as soon as I have the thought, it’s like a bucket of icy water. I have to stop hiding in this house.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I say. “The night is over. I have to be the king again.”
I don’t mean for that to sound so final, but the words fall between us like a wall. Quint steps back. “Of course, Your Majesty.” The spark in his eye burns out, and the blush on his cheeks fades. “You’ve always been the king.”
I don’t know what to say, but suddenly we’re back to where we were a day ago.
I hate it.
If I stand here for one more second, I’m going to do anything I can to unravel the last minute of time, and that’s not prudent. So I tug my jacket straight, run a hand through my hair, and turn away.
When I step through the door, it’s still somewhat early, and there aren’t many people about. To my surprise, Thorin is still on the porch. Despite what Quint said, if my guard heard anything at all, he takes one look at my expression and snaps to attention.
“Your Majesty.” His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, bruises and scrapes crawling across his jaw and up the side of his face from the battle in the clearing.
A stark reminder of everything I’ve spent the morning avoiding.
“Thorin,” I say. “You were on duty last night, too. Have you slept?”
He shakes his head. “Saeth offered to relieve me at dawn, but I told him I could manage a few more hours.”
I study his tired eyes and wonder how true that is. I’ve had guards outside my door since the day I was born, and I’ve never felt a moment of shame or guilt or a need to explain myself, but this morning, I do.
“I wasn’t . . . alone last night, Thorin,” I say, and I’m not sure what reaction I expect, but I don’t get one at all. A bit of warmth finds my cheeks anyway, and I wish I could will it away. “Forgive me. I should have ordered you to take leave.”
Thorin frowns, then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have taken it.”
My eyebrows go up, and he quickly adds, “One of us had to keep watch. We were ambushed. We could have been followed.”
I suppose that’s true, but it doesn’t lessen the tug of guilt in my chest.
“Saeth just got his family back,” he continues. “I wasn’t going to ask him to leave Leah any sooner than he needs to.” His eyes flick toward Quint for the barest second, and then his voice quiets similarly to my own. “I don’t mind taking watch.”
There’s a kindness in the way he says that. A generosity. Not just toward Saeth, but toward me, too.
Some of the tightness in my chest loosens. “Thank you, Ben.”
He nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
I wouldn’t normally offer parting words to Quint, because he’d busy himself with his own tasks—but just now, I can feel him behind me. It’s taking everything inside me to keep from turning around, from offering an apology, from grabbing his hand and dragging him with me because I simply don’t want to leave him here.
But I don’t. I have to be the king, and that means touching no one and trusting no one. A king who was tormented, desperate for escape—exactly the way I was in the palace.
So I don’t offer parting words. I don’t even look back. I scowl and walk. But my skin is buzzing with want and need, and I can feel his eyes on my back.
He made me tea. He brought me a blanket. He said no and sat at my side when I was broken and hurting and lost.
Just like Thorin stayed awake all night so Saeth could be with his family. So I could be safe.
Ah, this is terrible. Was Quint right? Is this torment needless? Does it matter?
I run a hand down my face. What good is being the king if I can’t do what I want?
I sigh. “Hold, Thorin.”
My guard stops and waits.
I turn around and walk back to the house, then stride right up the steps.
Quint watches me approach. His voice is tight and formal. “Your Majesty. How may I—”
“Stop talking.” I take hold of his jacket and kiss him.
His reaction to this is almost better than the way he went speechless over my offer to call me by name. He all but falls against the door, and when I draw back, his eyes are wide, his breathing quick.
“Forgive me,” I say softly. “I won’t turn away like that again. You have my word.”
His eyes search mine. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Harristan,” I whisper.
He hesitates, holding his breath, then shakes his head.
Despite everything, that makes me smile. “Still no?”
He flushes. “Ah. Well.”
But then he says nothing else.
It’s rare I have the opportunity to see Quint flustered, so I let go of his jacket and run one last finger along his jaw. “So charming,” I tease. “Very well. I’ll return as soon as I can, Palace Master.”
He sucks in a breath, but I’m already turning, losing the smile, ready to be the king.
