Chapter 8 #2
"C-4." He tested the word. It sounded strange in his mouth. Foreign. "I need you, Vienne. Not as a prisoner. Not as a ghost. As a partner."
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Partner. In New Carthage, partners were liabilities. In the syndicate, partnership was just a prelude to betrayal. But here, in this room, with this man looking at me like I was the solution to a puzzle he'd been trying to solve alone—
"I don't do partners," I said.
"Yes, you do. You have Jinx. You have Kael. You have Torvald and your network of loyalists." He moved closer again, invading my space with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how far he could push. "You just don't do princes. Which is fair. Princes are usually terrible."
"And you're different?"
"I'm desperate." The word was raw, honest.
"My father is dying. My uncle is lying. My kingdom is being eaten from within by people who want power more than peace. And the only person I know who sees this clearly—who sees me clearly—is a dead woman from another world who currently has a bounty on her head that I tripled."
A ghost of a smile. "I'm not in a position to be proud."
I looked at him. At the map in my hands. At the key still warm in my pocket.
"Partners," I repeated. "Not subjects. Not master and servant. Equals."
"Equals."
"And when this is over? When we find the bomber and expose the traitors and save your precious kingdom?"
He reached out, his hand covering mine on the rolled parchment. His palm was warm. Calloused. Real.
"Then we decide what comes next," he said.
"Together."
I should have said no. Should have taken the map and disappeared into the night, leaving him with his bruises and his brandy and his foolish trust.
But I thought of the riverbank. Of his hand on my face. Of the way he'd looked at me when I told him I wasn't Iraia—not with disappointment, but with something that looked dangerously like understanding.
"Fine," I said. "Partners. But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"One. You don't give me orders. You make requests, and I decide whether to honor them."
"Agreed."
"Two. You don't lie to me. Not ever. Not even to protect me. I decide what I can handle."
A pause. Then: "Agreed."
"Three." I stepped into his space, close enough that our chests almost touched, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"You don't fall in love with me. I'm not a princess. I'm not a queen. I'm a ghost wearing a dead woman's skin, and when this is done, I might not even stay in this world. So don't make this complicated with feelings I can't return."
He stared down at me. For a long moment, the room was silent except for our breathing.
Then he laughed. It was a startled, genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look, for just a second, like a boy instead of a prince.
"You're setting boundaries with a man who just admitted he's desperate?" He shook his head. "Vienne Delgado. Mafia underdog. Transmigrated warrior. The most terrifying woman in two worlds." He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered: "Too late."
I shoved him. Not hard—his ribs were still healing—but enough to make him stumble back, grinning like an idiot.
"You're insufferable," I said.
"And you're beautiful when you're establishing emotional unavailability." He moved back to the desk, pouring himself another drink.
"Don't worry, Commander. I'll respect your boundaries. I'll even pretend I believe them. But when this is over—when the bomber is caught and the kingdom is safe and you're standing on a battlefield wearing a crown you earned with blood and bad decisions—"
He raised his glass in a mock toast.
"—I'm going to remind you of this conversation. And you're going to admit you were wrong."
I rolled the map, tucking it into my coat. "Don't hold your breath, Prince."
"I won't. Ghosts don't breathe anyway."
I moved to the window, preparing to climb out, to vanish, to return to my shadows. But I paused, looking back at him—at the bruises, the bandages, the boyish grin he was trying to hide behind royal composure.
"Cassian."
"Yes?"
"Your uncle. The general. When he hit you—" I hesitated. "Did he say why he wanted me dead so badly?"
The grin faded. "He said you were a symbol. That letting you live would embolden other 'unnatural' elements. Women who fight. Commoners who question."
He met my eyes. "But I think it's simpler than that. I think he's afraid of you. Because you survived something he orchestrated. And that makes you proof of his guilt."
I nodded. "Then let's give him something to be really afraid of."
I swung out the window, dropping from the tower ledge to the roof below, then to the alley, then to the street. The map was secure against my heart. The key was warm in my pocket. And the prince's laughter followed me down like a promise I wasn't ready to keep.
—————
A/N:
The Lady King wasn't crowned yet.
But she had a partner.
And she was absolutely, definitely, not falling in love with him.
Probably.