Chapter 4 Prince and the Shadow #2
“Is there?” I stepped closer, just one step, watching to see if he'd back away. He didn't. Didn't move at all, actually. Just stood there like a stone wall I could break myself against. “Because from where I'm standing, protection looks a lot like control. And control looks a lot like a cage.”
“Cage keeps you breathing.” His eyes met mine finally, really met them, and I felt the impact of it low in my gut. “Breathing is preferable to alternative.”
“Depends on the cage.”
“Does it.”
It wasn't a question. Just this flat statement that said he'd already decided how this was going to go. Already written the script where I was the problem and he was the solution and we'd both play our parts until one of us broke.
I should've been annoyed.
I was fascinated.
My father cleared his throat softly, reminding us we had an audience. Right. The photographers. The staff. The performance we were supposed to be giving.
I could feel them watching, could sense the palace staff pretending not to listen while cataloging every word for later gossip. But all I could focus on was the man in front of me, unmovable as stone, staring at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
It made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to crack that facade and see what bled out.
Made me want things I definitely shouldn't want from the man whose job was to keep me alive.
“Well,” I said finally, breaking the moment before it could become something neither of us wanted to name in front of witnesses.
“I suppose we should get started then. I have a charity event this afternoon.
Photographers. Smiling for cameras. The usual performance art.
You'll need to look pretty and intimidating in the background.”
“I will review security protocols first.”
“Of course you will. Can't have the liability running around unsupervised.” I gestured toward the door leading to the west wing, channeling every ounce of princely charm I'd spent thirty-one years perfecting.
“My study is this way. We can talk there.
Apollo likes you, by the way. He's a good judge of character.
Either that or he's desperately misguided. Time will tell.”
I didn't wait for his response. Just started walking, trusting him to follow because what else was he going to do? Refuse? Let me wander off alone through my own palace?
Apollo fell into step beside me, still pressed close to my leg, and I heard Viktor's boots on the marble behind us. Quiet. Controlled. Like even his footsteps were calculated to give away nothing.
The corridor stretched ahead, all gold leaf and priceless art and the weight of centuries pressing down from the ceiling. I'd walked these halls my entire life. Knew every painting, every statue, every place where the floorboards creaked.
But having him behind me changed everything. Made me aware of my posture. My pace. The way my shoulders carried tension I usually hid better.
Made me aware of him. Of the space he took up. The way his presence felt like gravity, pulling everything toward some inevitable collision.
“So,” I said, voice echoing off marble and pretension, “do you talk much? Or is the strong, silent type your only setting?”
“I talk when necessary.”
“And right now isn't necessary?”
“No.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, found him exactly six feet behind me. Still maintaining that careful distance. Still watching everything except me.
“You know, most people try at least a little small talk. Weather's nice. London traffic is terrible. Have you tried the palace coffee? It's shit, by the way. Fair warning.”
Silence.
“Not even a smile? A slight exhale that could be interpreted as amusement?”
More silence.
I turned back around, grinning despite myself. “This is going to be fun. I can already tell.”
His voice came from behind me, flat and final. “I am not here for fun, Your Highness.”
No. He wasn't.
He was here because someone wanted me dead. Because my father was desperate enough to hire outside protection. Because apparently I was a liability that needed managing.
The smile faded from my face. Real now. Raw in a way I usually kept hidden.
“Neither am I,” I said quietly, more to myself than to him.
But I heard his footsteps falter. Just for a second. Just long enough to know he'd heard me.
Just long enough to know that maybe, possibly, there was something human underneath all that ice after all.
We reached the study doors, and I pushed them open without ceremony. Let Apollo bound inside ahead of me. Let Viktor follow in that measured way he did everything, like the world might shatter if he moved too fast.
The study was mine in a way the rest of the palace wasn't. Books everywhere. Sketches pinned to cork boards. My bow maintenance kit spread across the desk next to architectural drawings I'd been working on. Evidence of the life I lived when no one was watching.
Evidence I should probably hide from the man whose job was to watch me.
Too late now.
I turned to face him, leaning against the desk with what I hoped looked like casual confidence. “So. Security protocols. Thrill me with your expertise.”
He was already scanning the room. Eyes cataloging exits, windows, sight lines. Professional. Thorough. Completely ignoring me again.
“Two windows with insufficient protection. Door lacks reinforced lock. Desk positioning creates blind spot. Too many potential weapons within reach.”
I picked up one of my drawing pencils, twirled it between my fingers. “These? You think I'm going to stab someone with a pencil?”
His eyes cut to me finally. Sharp. Assessing. “I think you are capable of many things.”
My pulse kicked up. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”
“Is observation.”
“I'll take it.” I set the pencil down, watching him watch me. “Anything else? Should I remove all sharp objects? Padded walls? Bubble wrap?”
“Security will be increased on this floor. Your movements will be monitored. You will not leave palace grounds without advance notice and approved escort.”
“Advance notice,” I repeated slowly. “You mean permission.”
“Yes.”
“And if I refuse?”
He stepped closer. Just one step. Just enough that I could see the flecks of darker gray in his eyes. Just enough that I could smell whatever he wore, something clean and sharp and completely without artifice.
“You will not refuse, Your Highness.”
It should've sounded like a threat.
It sounded like a promise.
And god help me, I believed him.
The charity event that afternoon was exactly as tedious as I'd expected.
Photographers everywhere. Flashing lights. Questions shouted over each other. My father beside me, playing the role of concerned monarch while I played the role of dutiful son. Both of us performing for cameras that would twist whatever we said into headlines by morning.
But I knew this stage. Had been performing on it since I was old enough to stand in front of a microphone.
I smiled. Waved. Said all the right things about reform and unity and hope for the future. Controlled the narrative the way I'd been trained to since childhood.
Viktor stood behind me, just off to my left. Close enough to move fast if needed. Far enough to stay out of the shots. I'd positioned him there deliberately. Wanted him visible enough to remind people I took security seriously, but not so close he'd be a distraction.
“Your Highness, what do you say to critics who claim the crown is out of touch with working-class struggles?”
I turned toward the journalist who asked, already knowing which angle would play best. Humble acknowledgment, forward-looking promise, specific enough to sound real without committing to anything concrete.
“I would say they are not entirely wrong. I would also say we are listening. Real reform takes time. It takes partnerships with people on the ground, not just speeches in pretty rooms.”
Perfect. Give them the soundbite they wanted while maintaining control of the message.
Pens scratched. Flashes popped. More questions, more heat, more choreography I'd mastered years ago.
I caught Viktor's reflection in a camera lens. He hadn't moved. Hadn't blinked. Just watched with that inhuman calm that most people found intimidating.
I found it useful. A bodyguard who looked like he could kill you with his pinky finger made certain types of journalists think twice about getting aggressive.
“Your Highness, a follow-up on reform,” another voice cut in. “Will the palace meet with the Reform Coalition leaders this week or is the crown still refusing dialogue?”
I'd been expecting this one. Had the answer prepared before the question finished.
“We meet with many groups. Some publicly, some privately. I support lawful protest. I do not support violence dressed up as progress. If a group's platform is jobs and safety, we will talk. If it is intimidation and blood, the conversation ends.”
Firm. Clear. The kind of line that would quote well and shut down follow-ups.
A ripple of raised hands. I selected the next question with a glance, pointing to a woman in the second row I recognized as generally sympathetic.
“Prince Sebastian, the docks,” she called. “There were multiple fatalities in Belmont last night. The Met says a vigilante interfered. Do you condemn that interference and do you have any knowledge of who this archer might be?”
My expression cooled by exactly one degree. Calculated. Practiced. The face of someone taking a serious question seriously.
“I saw the same reports you did this morning.
I have no knowledge beyond the public briefings.
I trust Detective Chief Inspector Akintola and his officers to do their jobs.
As to vigilantism, I will be very clear.
London's safety is not a game for amateurs. Anyone with information should take it to the police.”
The irony of condemning myself publicly wasn't lost on me. But this was how you controlled a narrative. Get ahead of it. Define the terms.