16. Kaelen
KAELEN
Leaving Rosalind's warmth feels like tearing away part of my soul.
Every step down the corridor pulls against the bond we've forged, her satisfied contentment flowing through our connection like honey while my own body still thrums with the need to return and continue her claiming.
Three knottings should have taken the edge off my alpha instincts, but instead they've only sharpened my hunger for complete possession.
But duty calls, and even the most perfect omega must sometimes wait for her alpha's attention.
Captain Lorien waits in my private study, his expression grim in a way that immediately puts me on alert. In two centuries of service, I've rarely seen him this concerned about anything short of outright warfare.
"Report," I command, settling behind my desk while my body still carries the scent of claiming and satisfaction.
"Major William Ashford of Her Majesty's Diplomatic Corps," Lorien begins without preamble. "He arrived at our borders two hours ago under full diplomatic flag, demanding an immediate audience."
The name hits me like ice water. Ashford. The same surname as the young fool who drew weapons during what was supposed to be a peaceful diplomatic mission. This cannot be coincidence.
"What does he want?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.
"He's searching for his nephew," Lorien confirms my worst fears. "One Brum Ashford, age twenty-four, who was traveling as a cultural attaché with the diplomatic convoy that entered our territory several weeks ago."
I lean back in my chair, mind racing through implications and solutions.
This is precisely the kind of complication I'd hoped to avoid—family members with military authority asking pointed questions about missing persons.
Worse, this man likely knows details about his nephew's real mission that could expose uncomfortable truths.
"What have you told him?"
"Nothing beyond standard courtesies," Lorien replies. "I thought it best to consult with you before providing any... information about recent events."
Wise. The last thing we need is contradictory stories that raise more questions than they answer.
"Brief me on everything we know about this Major Ashford."
Lorien consults his notes with military precision. "Career diplomat, served in the Northern Territories for fifteen years before transferring to military liaison duties. Well-respected, politically connected, the sort of man whose concerns reach important ears in London."
In other words, exactly the kind of person whose suspicions could create serious diplomatic incidents. If he returns to England with tales of missing convoys and evasive Fae lords, it could undermine years of careful political positioning.
"Family connections to the nephew?"
"Close, by all accounts. Young Brum was orphaned at twelve, raised by his uncle thereafter. The Major is unmarried, treats the boy as his own son."
Even worse. A grieving surrogate father with military training and diplomatic connections will be far more persistent than a distant relative making perfunctory inquiries.
I consider my options while the bond with Rosalind pulses with her growing restlessness.
She's alone in my chambers, sated but not satisfied, her heat beginning to stir again as the effects of our claiming fade.
Every instinct demands I return to continue her conditioning, but this crisis requires immediate attention.
"What evidence do we have of the attack?" I ask.
“We’ve prepared everything according to your earlier instructions," Lorien replies calmly. “We’ve forged grave markers in the border woods, collected personal effects from the convoy, and have witness testimony from carefully coached locals."
I'd ordered the preparations weeks ago, knowing that eventually someone would ask uncomfortable questions about the missing diplomatic mission. Better to have a compelling lie ready than attempt to improvise under pressure.
"Quality of the deception?"
"Excellent. The graves are weathered appropriately, the personal effects show the right amount of wear and damage. Our 'witnesses' are simple farmers who saw terrible bandits attack the convoy—too frightened and traumatized to provide detailed descriptions, of course."
"And the bodies?"
"Burned beyond recognition, as bandits often do to prevent identification. Very tragic, very believable."
Perfect. Nothing creates sympathy like grief, and nothing stops investigation like the certainty that justice is impossible.
"Bring him to the Formal Receiving Hall in one hour," I decide. "Full diplomatic protocol, appropriate honors for his rank and station. I'll provide the tragic news personally."
"Understood, my lord." Lorien pauses. "Should I prepare additional... contingencies in case the deception proves insufficient?"
The question carries weight. Lorien is asking whether I'm prepared to eliminate a diplomatic officer if lies fail to satisfy him. It's not an unreasonable precaution—dead men ask no questions, and accidents happen frequently in Fae territory.
But killing a Major would create more problems than it solves. His disappearance would generate the kind of investigation we're trying to avoid.
"No. The deception will hold." I have to believe that, because the alternatives are unacceptable. "A grieving uncle presented with convincing evidence will accept what he's told."
"Very good, my lord."
When Lorien withdraws, I remain at my desk, thinking through every detail of the coming performance. The key is emotional truth—genuine regret for tragic circumstances, sincere sympathy for his loss, complete cooperation with any investigation he might wish to conduct.
None of which will reveal that I personally killed his nephew when the young man proved more dangerous than anticipated.
The memory surfaces unbidden: Brum Ashford's shocked face when my thorns pierced his throat, the way his concealed weapons clattered uselessly to the ground as he died.
It had been necessary—he'd drawn steel during what was supposed to be peaceful claiming, proving himself more than simple cultural attaché.
But necessity doesn't make deception easier.
Still, I feel no guilt about the action. Young Ashford had come armed to a diplomatic mission, clearly prepared for violence. His death was simply the consequence of poor planning on his part.
What concerns me more is how this revelation might affect Rosalind when she eventually learns the truth.
She'd been... fond of the young man, in the way lonely women often are of men who show them attention.
His death will hurt her, but I'm confident our bond is strong enough to survive the knowledge.
Eventually. When she's ready. When her transformation is complete enough that her loyalty to me outweighs any lingering attachment to human concerns.
For now, the deception must hold.
An hour later, I'm dressed in my finest court regalia—midnight blue velvet coat with silver embroidery, ceremonial sword at my hip, the formal sash that marks my authority as Prince of the Thorn Court.
The clothing projects power and legitimacy, essential for convincing a suspicious human that I'm someone who deals in truth rather than convenient lies.
Major William Ashford proves to be a man in his fifties, graying at the temples with the bearing of someone accustomed to command. His uniform is immaculate, his posture military-straight, his eyes sharp with intelligence and barely contained worry.
Dangerous. This is not a man who accepts easy answers or comfortable lies.
"Major Ashford," I greet him with appropriate formality. "Welcome to the Thorn Court. I regret the circumstances that bring you here."
"Your Highness." His bow is precise, diplomatic, giving nothing away. "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
"Not at all. When Captain Lorien informed me of your concerns, I felt it essential that we speak immediately." I gesture to the formal seating area where refreshments have been arranged. "Please, be comfortable. I fear I have difficult news to share."
Something flickers in his eyes—hope and dread warring in equal measure. "You have word of my nephew?"
"I do." I settle across from him, letting my expression carry the gravity the situation demands. "I'm deeply sorry, Major. Your nephew and his companions were killed in an attack by bandits approximately three weeks ago."
The words hit him like physical blows. I watch carefully as shock, denial, and grief chase across his features in rapid succession.
"Killed?" His voice comes out strained. "All of them?"
"I'm afraid so. The attack occurred near the western borders of our territory, where bandit activity has unfortunately increased in recent months. By the time our patrols reached the scene, there was nothing to be done."
"I... I don't understand." He leans forward, hands clenched. "Brum was traveling under diplomatic protection. How could bandits..."
"Diplomatic immunity means nothing to desperate men, Major. These weren't political actors—they were common criminals seeking easy targets. A well-dressed convoy traveling with obvious wealth..." I let the implication hang.
"But surely your people would have provided escort? Protection?"
"The convoy specifically requested minimal Fae presence," I explain with perfect sincerity. "Your diplomatic corps was quite insistent that they didn't want to appear to be under our 'undue influence.' We respected that wish, though I deeply regret doing so now."
It's a masterful touch—making their own diplomatic preferences partially responsible for the tragedy. Guilt is an excellent tool for stopping further questions.
Major Ashford's composure cracks slightly. "Show me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The attack site. The graves. Whatever evidence you have." His voice carries military authority despite his grief. "I need to see what happened to my boy."