Chapter 7 Garden Pact
GARDEN PACT
VIKTOR
The clock struck eleven, and I was still walking corridors I'd already memorized.
Fourth patrol of the night. Unnecessary. Obsessive. But sleep wasn't coming anyway, and standing outside Sebastian's door listening to silence felt worse than moving. At least moving gave the illusion of purpose.
Rain misted against the tall windows, turning London into watercolor beyond the glass. The palace was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the distant murmur of night staff going about their routines.
I should've been tired. Should've felt the weight of the day pressing down. Instead, I felt wired. Alert. Like my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
The chandelier kept replaying in my head. The way the bolt had snapped. The angle of the fall. The fact that I'd pulled Sebastian out of his chair seconds before tons of metal and crystal would've crushed his skull.
Too close.
Footsteps approached from the east corridor. Soft. Measured. A servant in palace livery appeared, young man with nervous eyes.
“Mr. Volkov?” He stopped a respectful distance away. “His Majesty requests your presence in the gardens.”
I stared at him. “Now?”
“Yes, sir. He said immediately, if possible.”
No reason given. No context. Just a summons in the middle of the night to meet the King in the gardens without guards or witnesses.
Every instinct I had screamed protocol violation.
But the servant was already retreating, clearly not expecting refusal. And something in the way he'd delivered the message felt less like command and more like plea.
I followed.
The corridors leading to the gardens were lit by lanterns that cast long shadows across marble. My boots were too loud in the silence, each step echoing like a countdown to something I couldn't name.
The door to the Midnight Gardens stood open. Rain drifted through in fine mist, carrying the scent of roses and wet earth. I stepped through into darkness broken by moonlight and the glow of scattered torches.
The gardens were beautiful in a way that felt deliberate. Engineered. White roses bloomed everywhere, their petals catching light like they were lit from within. Ivy crawled over stone arches. Fountains whispered in the dark. The whole place felt like a secret the palace was keeping from itself.
King Alexandre stood beneath an arch of ivy at the far end, coat open despite the cold, no guards visible anywhere. Just a silhouette carved from moonlight and sorrow, staring at roses like they held answers.
I approached slowly, scanning the shadows out of habit. Looking for threats. Finding none except the king himself.
“Your Majesty.”
He turned, and I saw exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Mr. Volkov. Thank you for coming.”
“You summoned me.”
“I asked. There's a difference.” He gestured vaguely at the gardens around us. “Couldn't sleep. The palace feels heavier at night. Like all the ghosts wake up when everyone else tries to rest.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Walls remember too much.”
The words surprised me even as I said them. Too honest. Too revealing. But the King looked at me like I'd given him something he needed.
“Yes.” He exhaled, breath misting in cold air. “They do.”
He started walking deeper into the gardens, and I followed because that's what you did when kings moved. We walked in silence past beds of roses and reflecting pools that turned the moon into something broken.
He stopped at a glass pavilion tucked between hedges. Candlelight glowed inside, warm against the cold. A bottle of brandy sat on a small table with two glasses.
“Sit with me,” he said. Not quite an order. Not quite a request. “Just two men with too many ghosts.”
I should've refused. Should've maintained distance. Professional boundaries existed for reasons.
But I was tired. And lonely. And the King looked like he might shatter if left alone with whatever was eating him.
I followed him inside.
The pavilion was small. Intimate. Rain traced silver lines across the glass roof, and the candles made everything feel removed from reality. Like we'd stepped outside time.
The King poured brandy into both glasses with hands that trembled slightly. Not fear. Exhaustion. The kind that came from holding yourself together too long.
He held one glass out to me. I took it.
“What did you think of today?” he asked, settling into one of the chairs. “The accident.”
I remained standing, glass untouched in my hand. “It was not accident.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
He stared at his brandy. “I thought as much. The timing was too convenient. Too theatrical.” He drank, wincing slightly. “Someone wanted to send a message.”
“Or test security. See how close they can get.”
“And they got very close.” His eyes met mine. “If you hadn't moved when you did...”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifted in his expression. Gratitude. Relief. Fear. “You saved him. Again. That's twice in three days.”
I didn't answer. Didn't know what to say. Protecting Sebastian was my job. But somewhere between the photographer incident and the chandelier, it had stopped feeling like just a job and started feeling like something I couldn't afford to examine.
“Come,” the King said, standing abruptly. “Let's go somewhere warmer. I can't think in the cold.”
The room he led me to was smaller than I'd expected. More intimate. A sitting room with a fireplace already burning, casting warm light across furniture that looked comfortable instead of ceremonial. Personal. Real.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs positioned in front of the fire. “Please.”
I sat this time because refusing would've been more awkward than complying. Set my brandy glass on the side table between our chairs. The King did the same with his, the crystal catching firelight as he placed it down.
He settled across from me, close enough that I could see the firelight catch in his eyes.
“You remind me of her guards,” he said quietly, staring into the flames. “The ones who died trying to protect her that night. They would've thrown themselves in front of bullets without hesitation.” He looked at me. “You're the same.”
“I am paid to be.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You could be paid and still hesitate. Still calculate. Still choose yourself.” He leaned forward. “But you don't. You move like protecting him is instinct. Like his life matters more than your own.”
My jaw tightened. “That is what I am here for.”
“It's more than that. I see it when you look at him. When you think no one's watching.” The King's voice dropped. “You care. Despite yourself. Despite every wall you've built.”
The words hit too close. I wanted to deny them. Wanted to rebuild the distance that was crumbling between us.
But I couldn't.
Because he was right.
“I cannot afford to care,” I said roughly. “Caring is weakness. It makes you slow. Makes you compromise.”
“Or it makes you faster. More determined.” He drank more brandy, color rising in his cheeks. “I loved her so much it terrified me. That's why I was so careful. So protective. And it didn't matter. She died anyway.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” He studied me with eyes that saw too much. “Or are you just sorry you understand it?”
I looked away. Into the fire. At anything except his face.
“I lost someone too,” I said before I could stop myself. “My sister. I was supposed to protect her. Keep her safe. But I was too late. Always too late.”
“How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“God.” He closed his eyes. “Just a child.”
“Old enough to make bad choices. Not old enough to survive them.” The words tasted like ash.
The King was quiet for a long moment. Then, “You blame yourself.”
“I should have seen signs. Should have been there.”
“You can't save people from themselves, Mr. Volkov. No matter how much you love them.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“You would've just delayed the inevitable.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the brandy on his breath. “Some people are drowning long before we realize the water's over their heads.”
His hand settled on my knee. Warm. Heavy. Grounding.
I should've moved it. Should've stood up. Walked away. Maintained the line between us.
But I was so tired. And lonely. And his touch felt like the first human contact I'd had in years that wasn't about violence.
“I'm terrified of losing him,” the King said quietly.
“I will protect him.”
“I know you will.” His hand moved higher. Just slightly. “But who protects you?”
The fire popped, scattering sparks across the grate. I stared at the King's hand where it rested on my thigh, felt the weight of it, the heat bleeding through my trousers. I should have stood, but his eyes—soft, desperate, dark with something like hunger—pinned me in place.
“You don't let anyone close, do you?” he asked, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “Not really. Not ever.”
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My jaw clenched; my pulse hammered, sudden and sharp. The King was staring at me as if searching for the crack in my armor, the softest place, the wound I couldn't hide.
His hand lingered another moment. Then, with the faintest tremor, he withdrew, settling back in his chair, shoulders tense. For a moment I thought the spell was broken.
But then he exhaled—slow, deliberate. His gaze never left mine as his own hand drifted down, almost absentminded, to the loose silk of his pyjamas, fingers pressing over his thigh, then lower. He didn't say a word. Just watched me, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“You ever let anyone see you, Viktor?” he asked, softer now, a confession edged with challenge. “Let them look at you, just as you are? No mask, no armor?”
My breath caught. The room felt suddenly smaller, air thick with unsaid things. The King’s hand flexed, just a little, palm moving slow, measured over the hardening shape beneath the fabric. He didn't rush—he was too old, too practiced in control to be crass about it.
“Not in a long time,” I said, voice like gravel.