11. First Contact #3
He doesn’t comment on the notes. Doesn’t ask what I’ve found or whether I should be resting instead of hunting whoever tried to kill me. He just settles beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, and sighs.
“The trade agreement,” he says. “It’s not good.”
“How not good?”
“The Xiang concessions I approved without reading include provisions that benefit their merchant class at our expense. Specifically, reduced tariffs on silk imports that undercut our own weavers, and a clause about border crossing documentation that essentially gives their couriers diplomatic immunity.”
I wince. “Diplomatic immunity?”
“It was buried in the subsections. The kind of language that looks routine until you realize what it allows.” He reaches for my hand. Finds it. Holds on. “Fixable. The Ministry is already drafting amendments. But Xiang will notice the correction.”
“And they’ll take it as a slight.”
“They’ll take it as an opportunity.” His thumb traces circles on my knuckles, but his voice is all emperor.
“A retracted concession is an insult to their negotiators. They’ll claim we bargained in bad faith.
Demand compensation for the embarrassment.
Use it as leverage for whatever they actually wanted in the first place. ”
“All because you didn’t read the fine print.”
“All because I chose not to.” No deflection. No excuse. “Xiang’s ambassador will request an audience within the week. There will be pointed questions about the emperor’s priorities.”
He says priorities like it’s not an insult. Like choosing me over a trade agreement is simply a fact of his reign now, and everyone else will have to live with it.
The rumors will spread. The factions will analyze. Xiang will calculate what it means that Ren has a weakness—me, I’m his weakness—and adjust their strategies accordingly.
“Do you regret it?”
He turns to look at me. His eyes in this light are darker than usual, warm and steady.
“No.”
Just that. No justification. No analysis of political cost. Just no, simple and certain.
“You should regret it. At least a little. Diplomatic immunity for Xiang couriers…”
“I should,” he agrees. “But it’s not more important than what happened in that throne room.”
“Me feeling the baby kick isn’t worth a diplomatic incident.”
“You feeling the baby kick is worth considerably more than a diplomatic incident.” His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. “The incident can be managed. The moment couldn’t wait.”
I want to argue. Want to point out that I’m a complication he can’t afford, that caring about me this visibly makes him vulnerable, that empires have fallen because rulers prioritized their hearts over their duties.
But he’s looking at me like I’m worth it. Like all of it—the political fallout, the faction scheming, the Xiang calculations—is an acceptable price for what we shared in that throne room.
It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen him do.
It’s also, possibly, the most beautiful.
“Find out what you approved,” I manage. “Before Xiang does.”
“Already done. The amendments will be finalized by morning.” He pauses. “Mei is handling the damage control. She has... thoughts about my priorities today.”
“I bet she does.”
“She expressed them. At length. With significant eyebrow involvement.”
I snort. Can’t help it. The image of Lady Mei lecturing the Emperor of the Realm about appropriate throne room etiquette is too perfect.
“She mentioned that assassination would be less complicated than managing the political fallout.”
“Assassination of whom?”
“I couldn’t quite figure that part out.”
“I like her.”
“I know you do.” His mouth curves. “She likes you too. That worries me more than it should.”
The baby moves again. Quieter now, settling. Learning the rhythms of the world outside.
She’s real.
That thought keeps ambushing me.
I should be worried about Xiang. About the trade agreement. About whoever tried to poison me and is still out there, walking these halls.
I am worried about all of those things.
But right now, in this moment, with his hand finding mine in the last of the light—
Right now, I’m thinking that maybe this is what it feels like to have something worth protecting. Not someone else’s life, traded for coin. Not an empire that will outlast me. Something small and fierce and mine.
Ours.
“She kicked you,” I say again. Because I can. Because it happened. Because he was there. “I think she likes you.”
“I think she has terrible judgment. She gets that from her mother.”
I should hit him for that. I laugh instead.
The sound surprises me. It surprises him too, judging by the way his expression shifts—something wondering in it, something vulnerable.
“Do that again,” he says.
“What, laugh?”
“Yes.”
“On command? I’m not a performing monkey.”
“You’re not.” He lifts our joined hands. Presses his lips to my knuckles. “You’re significantly more dangerous than a performing monkey.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“It wasn’t meant to be romantic. It was meant to be accurate.”
The baby shifts. Dumpling, who has apparently forgiven me enough to reclaim the foot of the window seat, opens one eye, confirms I have not been replaced, and goes back to sleep.
Outside, the sun finishes setting. The palace goes quiet.
Tomorrow I’ll return to the archives. Follow the thread. Find whoever thought they could kill me and get away with it.
And when I find them, they’re going to regret the day they decided to poison a woman who’s spent centuries learning exactly how many ways a body can break.
Tonight, I stay here. In this window. In this light. With his hand in mine and our daughter learning to kick.
Terrifying.
Worth it.