Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Jack
Iwake to the sensation of warmth pressed against my chest and the faint scent of jasmine. For a moment, I’m completely disoriented. Then memory comes flooding back in a rush that makes my heart stutter.
Dyfri is still asleep in my arms.
The morning light filtering through the curtains has shifted slightly, telling me we’ve only been dozing for an hour or so.
But in that time, Dyfri has somehow managed to turn over and burrow even closer to me, his face pressed against my collarbone, one arm draped across my chest. His breathing is deep and even, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
I carefully move my head back so I can see his face. It feels sneaky, but I can’t resist.
Without his usual mask of careful control, he looks impossibly young. Vulnerable in a way that makes something protective and fierce unfurl in my chest.
I can see the edge of the scarring on his arm where it rests against me, angry raised welts that speak of pain I can’t even imagine.
The sight of them makes my jaw clench. Whatever happened to him, whoever did that to him, I want to find them and.
.. well, probably something that would horrify my more civilised self.
Instinctively, I know it wasn’t an accident. It was violence, and the horrendous truth of that is something I can feel in my bones.
Dyfri shifts slightly in his sleep, a small sound escaping his lips that might be distress. Without thinking, I tighten my arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
His breathing settles again, the tension leaving his body as he melts back into sleep.
I lie there for another few minutes, just holding him, trying to reconcile this peaceful, trusting version of Dyfri with the defensive, sarcastic man I’ve come to know.
And what about the version of Dyfri I saw earlier?
All hunched over, desperate and suffering in the freezing cold shower, water glistening over his naked body?
The wounded look he gave me through a curtain of his wet hair, had hurt me more than any accident on the rugby field ever did. He was expecting me to hurt him, not to help, and he was too defeated to fight.
And then, when I had helped… oh Lord save me. The way he leant back into my embrace. The feel of him in my hand.
The way he stayed so silent when I wanted nothing more than to hear him cry out in pleasure.
Fucking hell.
All versions of Dyfri are real, I’m beginning to understand. The question is which one will he let me see when he wakes up?
As if summoned by my thoughts, Dyfri stirs. I feel the moment he becomes aware of our position, his body going rigid for just a second before he carefully, slowly, extracts himself from my arms.
“Good morning,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He sits up, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, not quite meeting my eyes. “How long was I asleep?”
“Not long. An hour, maybe.”
He nods, still not looking at me directly. The careful mask is already sliding back into place, but I can see the cracks in it now. The way his fingers tremble slightly as he fiddles with his hair. The flush high on his cheekbones.
“I should...” he starts, then stops, apparently not sure how to finish the sentence.
“Have breakfast?” I suggest gently.
Relief flickers across his features. “Yes. Breakfast would be... sensible.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, and the atmosphere is charged with something I can’t quite name. Awareness, maybe. Or the memory of skin against skin, of Dyfri’s wordless and unspoken admission that no one had ever held him before.
He’s back in his human glamour, perfectly groomed in another impossibly well-fitted outfit, this time charcoal trousers and a cream jumper.
Effortlessly stylish, but I can see the signs of strain now.
The way he holds his shoulders just a little too straight.
The careful precision of his movements as he butters his toast.
“Sleep well?” I ask, then immediately want to kick myself. What a stupid thing to say.
“Well enough,” he says, not looking up from his breakfast.
We fall into silence, but it’s different from the awkward quiet of previous mornings. There’s an undercurrent of something almost electric, like the air before a thunderstorm.
I’m trying to work out how to navigate this new territory when my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
“Sorry,” I mutter, glancing at the screen. Three missed calls from Dad’s private secretary, two from the Foreign Office, and a string of increasingly urgent text messages.
“Problem?” Dyfri asks, and I don’t think I’m imagining the concern in his voice.
I scan the messages quickly, my heart sinking. “Diplomatic crisis, apparently. The Scottish Parliament is threatening to vote on independence again unless we can guarantee that the fey alliance includes provisions for Scottish autonomy.”
Dyfri’s eyebrows rise. “And that’s a problem because?”
“Because we never negotiated those terms with your people. The alliance was always meant to be with the UK as a whole.” I’m already standing, my mind racing through the implications.
“If Scotland breaks away now, it could destabilise the entire agreement. Not to mention what it would do to Dad’s government. ”
“Ah.” Dyfri sets down his toast with deliberate care. “And you’re needed for...?”
“Damage control. I might not look it, but I actually know quite a bit about constitutional law. I was studying it at Oxford before...” I gesture vaguely. “Before everything went sideways.”
For the first time this morning, Dyfri looks directly at me, something sharp and assessing in his dark eyes. “Before your father asked you to marry a stranger for political expediency?”
The words could be bitter, but there’s no edge to them. Just curiosity.
“Something like that.” I’m already moving toward the door, but I pause. “Will you be alright on your own? I mean, if you need anything...”
“I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself for a few hours, Jack.”
Right. Of course he is. But something in his expression makes me hesitate.
“You could come with me,” I hear myself saying. “If you wanted. It might be useful to have fey perspective on the negotiations.”
Dyfri blinks, clearly surprised by the offer. “You want me there?”
“Yes,” I say, and realise I mean it completely. “You’re my husband. This affects both of us.”
Something shifts in his expression. The same vulnerable look I caught glimpses of this morning, quickly hidden but not quite fast enough.
“Very well,” he says, standing with fluid grace. “Though I should warn you, I may have opinions about your government’s negotiation tactics.”
Despite everything, I find myself grinning. “I’m counting on it.”
An hour later, we’re in one of the smaller conference rooms in Downing Street, surrounded by papers and increasingly frantic civil servants. Dad is on a call with the First Minister of Scotland, his voice carefully controlled but his white-knuckled grip on the phone betraying his stress.
“The legal precedent is clear,” I’m saying quietly to the group assembled around the table, pointing to a section of constitutional law I’ve pulled up on my laptop.
“Scotland can’t unilaterally withdraw from an international treaty without Westminster’s consent.
But they can make our lives politically impossible if we try to force the issue. ”
“So what do you suggest?” asks Sarah Kennedy, Dad’s deputy chief of staff, looking harried.
I glance at Dyfri, who has been sitting quietly beside me, observing everything with those sharp dark eyes. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“We give them what they want,” I say. “But we frame it as an expansion of the existing agreement, not a concession to political pressure.”
“Meaning?”
“We negotiate a subsidiary agreement with the fey court that specifically addresses regional autonomy within the UK. Scotland gets their guarantee, Wales and Northern Ireland get the same protections, and we look like we’re strengthening the alliance rather than capitulating to threats.”
The room goes quiet. I can practically hear the mental calculations happening.
“That could work,” Sarah says slowly. “But we’d need fey agreement to the new terms.”
All eyes turn to Dyfri, who has been listening with the sort of focused attention that makes everyone in the room slightly nervous.
“The concept is not without merit,” he says carefully. “Though obviously I cannot speak for the Crown Prince or the council.”
“But you could sound them out?” Dad asks, having finished his call with Scotland.
Dyfri considers this. “I could make inquiries. Informally, of course.”
“That would be incredibly helpful,” Dad says, and I can see the relief in his posture.
“However,” Dyfri continues, and everyone tenses again, “any such arrangement would require renegotiation of certain existing terms. The fey court would expect... considerations.”
“What sort of considerations?” Sarah asks.
Dyfri’s smile is sharp and utterly fey. “That would depend on how badly you want Scottish cooperation.”
Dad sighs. “Of course it would.”
But I can see the way people are looking at Dyfri now. Not only as a threat or exotic curiosity, but as someone with valuable insight and political acumen. Someone worth listening to.
And when Dyfri glances at me, there’s something almost like approval in his expression. As if he’s seeing me differently too.
“Right,” I say, shifting the position of my laptop. “I’ll start drafting the legal framework for a subsidiary agreement. Dyfri, if you could reach out to your contacts in the fey court...”
“Already composing the message,” he says, producing his phone with a fluid gesture.
We work in surprisingly comfortable synchronisation for the next two hours, bouncing ideas off each other, building a framework that might actually solve the crisis.
Dyfri’s insights into fey negotiation tactics prove invaluable, while my knowledge of UK constitutional law helps shape an agreement that might actually be legally binding.
By the time we break for lunch, we have the bones of a deal that could work.
“Excellent work, both of you,” Dad says as the meeting disperses. He looks genuinely impressed, which is not an expression I see from him very often.
As we walk back toward our quarters, Dyfri is unusually quiet.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask.
He glances at me sideways. “I hadn’t realised you were quite so... competent.”
“Thanks?” I say. “Is that a compliment or just an observation?”
“It was definitely a compliment,” he says, and there’s something almost warm in his voice. “Your father’s advisors clearly underestimate you.”
“Most people do,” I say without thinking, then immediately regret the admission.
Dyfri stops walking, turning to face me fully. “Then most people are idiots.”
The simple certainty in his voice does something strange to my chest.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I tell him. “About you being my husband. About this affecting both of us. I want your perspective on these things. I want us to be... partners.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his features. “Partners?”
“In whatever way works for us,” I say softly. “I know this isn’t what either of us planned. But maybe it doesn’t have to be terrible.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Dyfri takes a step closer, close enough that I can see that there are flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“No,” he says quietly. “Maybe it doesn’t.”
And for the first time since our wedding, I think we might actually have a chance at making this work.
For everybody.