Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Jack
The basement gym at Downing Street isn’t much to look at, but it serves its purpose.
I’ve been neglecting my workouts lately, too caught up in joining the Resistance and navigating married life to maintain my usual routine.
But this morning I woke early, restless with energy I couldn’t shake, and decided it was time to get back to basics.
The familiar burn in my muscles as I push through my third mile on the treadmill feels good. Grounding. My headphones pump out something aggressive and bass-heavy that matches the rhythm of my feet, and for the first time in days, my mind feels clear.
I keep replaying yesterday’s tea with Rhydian, the way I somehow managed to handle myself under that intimidating amber stare.
The protective fury in my heart when I looked at my brother-in-law and all the ways he had failed.
And then afterward, sitting in our living room, the way Dyfri had opened up to me.
The trust in his voice when he told me I made him feel safe.
God, how badly must he have been hurt for simple safety to feel like a gift?
The thought makes me push harder, running faster than I probably should after weeks of inactivity.
But I need the outlet, need to burn off the restless energy that comes from wanting to protect someone who’s already survived the worst and come out the other side brilliant and strong and absolutely remarkable.
My skin prickles suddenly, that instinctive awareness that tells me I’m being watched.
I glance around, expecting to see one of the security team or maybe a staff member doing an early morning check, but the gym appears empty.
The weight machines stand silent in the fluorescent lighting, and even the ventilation system seems quieter than usual.
Then I look over my shoulder.
A figure is standing by the weight rack, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My foot catches wrong on the treadmill belt and I stumble, grabbing the handrails to keep from falling flat on my face as I frantically hit the emergency stop button.
“Bloody hell!” I gasp, yanking off my headphones and staring at the unexpected visitor.
Prince Mabon stands there in all his otherworldly beauty, just as striking as when I’d found him having tea with Dyfri days ago.
His purple hair falls in elaborate braids that seem to shimmer, and the dark horns that curl backwards from his temples are catching the fluorescent lighting.
His amethyst eyes seem to glitter as he studies me with the same unsettling directness I remember from our previous encounter.
He’s dressed in flowing robes of purple silk, and the delicate silver bracelets that cover his wrists are sparkling.
“What are you doing here?” I manage, still catching my breath and feeling increasingly self-conscious about my sweat-soaked state.
“Looking for my brother,” he says in that melodious voice, tilting his head with graceful curiosity that reminds me uncomfortably of a cat watching a mouse.
His eyes are gleaming softly with something that looks like appreciation, and suddenly I feel far too exposed in my sleeveless tee shirt and workout shorts. The way he’s looking at me makes my skin crawl, like I’m being appraised for some purpose I definitely don’t want to know about.
“He’s upstairs, in our flat,” I say, climbing off the treadmill on unsteady legs and reaching for my towel.
Mabon wrinkles his dainty nose with the sort of delicate disdain that only royalty can manage. “No, he isn’t.”
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning. “What do you mean, no he isn’t?”
“I mean, he’s not there. I checked.” Mabon’s purple eyes continue their hungry assessment of me, and there’s something in his gaze that makes me deeply uncomfortable.
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I hear myself say weakly.
Where is Dyfri? And why is his brother here looking for him?
More importantly, how did Mabon get into Downing Street without setting off every security alarm in the building?
I know he can portal into our flat with no repercussions, but the knowledge he can also freely swan around the hub of human government, is deeply disconcerting.
“Right,” I say, grabbing a towel and trying to think. I can’t let a fey prince wander around Downing Street unsupervised. Security would have a collective heart attack. “Why don’t you come upstairs and wait for him? I can make tea.”
Mabon nods graciously, as if I’ve suggested something perfectly reasonable rather than offering to host an interdimensional royal in my living room while I’m covered in sweat and wearing gym shorts that have definitely seen better days.
The trip upstairs is awkward, with Mabon gliding along beside me with that otherworldly grace while I try to think of appropriate small talk.
What do you say to your husband’s brother when you’ve only met him once before, and that encounter had involved discussions about collars and sexual topics I’m still trying to forget?
The memory of that conversation makes me want to sink through the floor.
“Nice weather we’re having?” I attempt weakly.
Mabon looks at me like I’ve said something profoundly stupid, which I suppose I have. “All weather is nice.”
Right. Fair point. Of course a fey prince wouldn’t be interested in mundane human small talk about the weather.
By the time we reach the flat, I’m already regretting this decision. I gesture Mabon toward the living room while I disappear into the kitchen, frantically trying to remember if I know anything about proper tea service for fey guests.
“You are not as handsome as my pet,” Mabon announces from the sofa when I return with a tea tray that I hope meets royal standards.
I nearly drop the tray, my hands suddenly clumsy with shock. “Sorry?”
“My pet. Blake. He’s much prettier than you, and his muscles are better defined.
” Mabon accepts his cup with the sort of graceful indifference that suggests he’s used to being waited on by people far more qualified than me, then gives me another appraising look, one that makes me want to put on several more layers of clothing.
“Though I suppose you’re adequate. You’d look much better all oiled up. ”
My jaw drops open, heat flooding my face. “I... what?”
“Are you treating my little brother well?” Mabon asks suddenly, completely ignoring my shock as he sips his tea delicately, his little finger extended in a gesture of perfect refinement.
“Yes!” The word comes out strangled, my voice cracking slightly. “Of course I am.”
Mabon looks suspicious, tilting his head like a beautiful, predatory bird studying its next meal. “Hmm. He must be scared of you, though. You are all big and burly like him.”
He waves his free hand over my body in a dismissive gesture that makes his many silver bracelets jangle like tiny bells, and something cold settles in my stomach.
“Like who?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Something about the way he said it makes dread crawl up my spine.
Mabon rolls his amethyst eyes as if I’m being deliberately obtuse, which maybe I am. “The one who made him a rhocyn, obviously. Big, muscled, a half-orc. Probably thought he was very impressive.” His voice takes on a mocking tone that cuts like glass. “Just like you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually rock back on my heels, the blood draining from my face as everything suddenly, horrifically clicks into place.
The look on Dyfri’s face the first time he saw me at Buckingham Palace.
That expression of dread, of resignation, of someone preparing for the worst. The way Rhydian had tried to dismiss me before Dyfri even arrived, telling me I wouldn’t do.
Dyfri’s unease on our wedding night, the way he’d flinched when I reached for him like I was something to be endured rather than embraced.
His comments yesterday about being larger and stronger. About how that made me inherently dangerous.
He’s been trying to tell me. In his careful, sideways way, he’s been trying to explain why my size, my build, my very presence must trigger memories of the worst abuse he ever suffered.
And I’ve been too bloody stupid to understand.
“Oh God,” I breathe, sinking into a chair as the full horror of it washes over me. “Oh, Dyfri.”
How many times have I touched him without thinking? How many times has he hidden his fear because he thought that was what I expected? How many sleepless nights has he spent lying beside me, afraid that I might turn into the monster that haunts his memories?
The guilt and horror fester into something hotter, more violent. I look up at Mabon, this delicate, flighty prince who sat by and did nothing while his brother was tortured.
“Why didn’t you help him?” I snarl, my voice rough with emotion. “Why did you do nothing?”
Mabon blinks his strange purple eyes, then sniffs delicately. “You don’t understand how court works.”
“I understand that you’re a nasty little shit!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them, years of rugby training giving my voice a volume that makes the teacups rattle. “I understand that if you had been forced to become a rhocyn, Dyfri would have moved heaven and earth to help you!”
The effect of my words is immediate, but not what I expected. Mabon’s eyes flash with something dangerous, his beautiful features twisting with sudden fury that transforms his face into something almost feral.
“How dare you!” he hisses, rising to his feet with a lethal grace that reminds me he’s far more than just a pretty face.
The half-full teacup falls discarded to the floor to roll forgotten on the carpet, leaving a dark stain on the cream fabric.
“You think you understand anything? You think I had choices?” His voice rises to something approaching a shriek that makes my ears ring.
“I was barely more than a child! What was I supposed to do, challenge the entire court system for him?”
The raw pain beneath his anger is unmistakable, and I realise I’ve struck something much deeper than his vanity. There’s something broken in his voice, something that speaks of old wounds that never properly healed.
“I may be beautiful and fabulous and absolutely perfect,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly despite his defiant words, “but I am not powerful. Not like that. Not then.”
Before I can say anything else, before I can apologise or take back my cruel words, he’s fleeing, disappearing through the wall with a dramatic swirl of silk robes, just as Dyfri walks in from his bathroom.
I stare at the spot where Mabon vanished, my heart hammering with guilt and rage and a dozen other emotions I can’t name.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face my husband, the words feeling inadequate for the magnitude of what just happened.
Dyfri looks mildly confused, glancing from me to the abandoned tea service and the stain spreading across the carpet. “Don’t worry. Mabon loves nothing better than flouncing off dramatically.”
But I’m barely listening to his words because I’m staring at what he’s wearing.
Full fey court regalia, elaborate robes in darkest black that seem to absorb light, his impressive horns on full display and his hair done up in the ribbons I gave him, arranged in the complex style he wears for official functions.
He looks like he’s dressed for a formal audience, not a quiet morning at home.
“Where have you been?” I ask, and I can hear the suspicion creeping into my voice despite my best efforts.
“Attending to some business,” Dyfri says carefully, his expression becoming guarded in that way that means he’s choosing his words very deliberately. “Nothing important.”
The evasion hits me like a slap. After everything we shared yesterday, after all his talk about trust and safety and hope, he’s still keeping secrets from me.
I feel sick. Sick with the knowledge of what I represent to him, sick with the realisation that despite everything, he still doesn’t trust me completely. And maybe he never will. Maybe every time he looks at me, all he sees is someone who could hurt him the way that monster did.
Maybe I’ve been deluding myself about everything.
“Jack?” Dyfri’s voice sounds concerned now. “Are you alright? You look...”
“I’m fine,” I lie, just like he’s lying to me. “Just tired.”
But I’m not fine. I’m drowning in the horrible understanding of what I am to him, what I represent, and the growing certainty that no matter how much I care about him, some wounds run too deep to ever fully heal.
And I don’t know how to live with that.