What Belongs to Me
? Ivy ?
Roman waits until Jace is halfway down the winter corridor before he looks at me.
“Do you want him barred from approaching you alone?”
Jace glances back. The irritation on his face is brief, but clear. He expected Roman to answer for me, or for me to hide behind whatever answer Roman gave.
“I won’t be alone with him again,” I say. “That doesn’t mean I’m staying locked up.”
“Done.”
“That seems excessive,” Jace says.
Roman turns toward him. “You put your hand on her after she moved away. Escorted corridors are the kind version.”
Jace’s mouth settles into the careful line he uses when resentment needs to look dignified. “I said I’d be more careful.”
“And I said you’ll be escorted.”
Dane opens one hand toward the guest wing. “This way, Your Highness.”
Jace looks at me once more before he leaves. His gaze drops to my wrist, then shifts to the guards and the copied dispatch folder under Dane’s arm. He’s still trying to understand what changed in this fortress, and which part of it can be used.
The guards follow him. One Northern soldier remains at the far end of the corridor, close enough to intervene and far enough not to make me feel watched.
Dane lingers.
“Holt confirmed the eastern cabinet was opened while the wax was warm,” he says. “Nothing was removed. Someone copied the top three dispatches.”
Roman’s attention sharpens. “Who had access?”
“Kitchen clerk, two dispatch officers, Holt, and anyone who could get past the inner stair guards without being challenged.”
Jace had done exactly that.
Dane reads the thought on my face. “We don’t have proof it was him.”
“No,” I say. “Only proof that the court party arrived and someone started searching.”
“I’ll have the cabinet moved and the copies marked.” Roman looks at Dane. “No accusation until Holt can prove one.”
The order is colder than I expect. Roman would like Jace guilty; he still refuses to make desire into evidence.
Dane leaves us with the open corridor and the sound of boots fading toward the guest wing.
Before Roman can lead me away, I tell him about the scrap in Jace’s glove. Holt’s narrow column marks were visible along one edge, the same marks used on the dispatch copy I reviewed that morning.
Roman’s expression hardens. “Why didn’t you say that while he was here?”
“Because seeing a mark isn’t the same as proving where he got the page.” I look toward the guest wing. “And because if I accused him before Holt checked the cabinet, Jace would spend the rest of the visit acting injured instead of careless.”
Roman studies me for a moment, then nods. The agreement matters more because he doesn’t praise me for reaching the same conclusion he did.
“The inner stair isn’t the only way into that corridor,” I add. “The linen room connects to the old service passage. Court households use it when they want servants moving without crossing formal halls. Marissa used to send notes through the laundry girls because Wade never looked at baskets.”
Roman glances toward the nearest guard. “Put someone at the linen passage.”
“Someone who won’t frighten the kitchen staff into silence,” I say. “If the clerk saw anything, I’d rather hear it before she decides telling us will cost her position.”
He changes the order without argument. A woman from Carr’s watch is sent to the service passage, and Holt will question the clerk with me present. It’s a small choice, but it keeps the investigation from becoming another room where powerful men decide what frightened women meant to say.
Roman stays where he is. “Are you all right?”
“I’m angry.”
“That I understand.”
“I’m embarrassed too.” My wrist still remembers Jace’s fingers. “Part of me wanted the apology to be real.”
Roman doesn’t look disappointed. “Wanting an apology isn’t wanting him back.”
The relief is sharp enough to hurt. I look through the glass at the snowy yard below until I can trust my face again.
“Come,” he says after a moment. “This corridor has heard enough.”
“Does the corridor get a vote?”
“In the North, stone has opinions.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. It feels strange after Jace, but not wrong.
We use a small waiting room off the eastern hall. It has a low fire, a scarred map table, and two worn chairs that don’t match. Roman leaves the door open. He takes the chair across from mine instead of the one beside it.
I rub the wrist Jace grabbed. “I sounded cruel.”
“You sounded angry.”
“Marissa would say there’s no difference.”
“Marissa benefits when you believe that.”
I study him. He doesn’t soften the answer or turn it into praise.
“I told Jace he didn’t get to touch what he refused.”
“Yes.”
“It sounded as though I wanted him punished for not wanting me.”
Roman leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Did you?”
The question catches me because he isn’t offering the correct answer first.
“No. I wanted him to understand that refusing me didn’t leave a claim behind.”
“Then that’s what you said.”
I look at the fire. “Part of me still wanted him to regret it.”
“That part is allowed to be angry too.”
The room is quiet for a while. Outside, the fortress continues around us. A bell rings from the lower yard, followed by the scrape of a gate chain and men calling the noon watch. Nothing stops because Jace touched me. I’m grateful for that and hurt by it at the same time.
“Jace will try again,” Roman says.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t know what you are, but he knows he misjudged you. Pride will do the rest.”
The thought chills me more than Jace’s hand did. “He’ll want my blood, my rank, my usefulness. Whatever name makes it sound less ugly.”
“Then he asks in rooms with witnesses.”
“You make that sound simple.”
“It won’t be.”
His gaze drops to my wrist and stays there. His hand flexes once against his knee.
“You want to touch it,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Then why are you across the room?”
“Because you’re still shaking, and because I want to.” His voice lowers. “I don’t trust myself to pretend only one of those things matters.”
His honesty hurts because part of me wanted him to cross the distance without making me ask again.
“You trusted me to answer Jace,” I say. “Trust me enough to answer you.”
Roman goes still.
“I keep calling distance care,” he says at last. “Sometimes it’s fear.”
“Then ask.”
He waits a beat. “Do you want me closer?”
“Yes.”
Roman moves to the chair beside mine. Our knees touch. He doesn’t reach for my wrist, so I take his hand and place it over the unmarked skin below it.
His fingers close carefully around mine.
“Stay until Nora comes,” I say.
Jace is still there in my head, and the copied dispatches are still dangerous. Roman can’t fix either of those things, and for once he doesn’t try.
“I’m still angry with you,” I say.
His brows lower. “For what?”
“For making me ask twice.”
He looks down at our hands. “Fair.”
“That sounded painful.”
“It was.”
I almost smile.
A guard appears in the doorway with a fresh dispatch for Roman. The eastern cabinet has been moved. Holt has dusted the copied pages with blue chalk and returned them to the drawer, so anyone who reaches for them again will carry the evidence on their hands.
Roman reads the note, then gives it to me.
Jace is still a threat. So is whoever opened the cabinet, and they may not be the same person.
But Roman stays beside me while I read. His hand remains around mine until I choose to let go.