16. Kaelen #2
Exactly what I expected. A man like this won't accept words alone, no matter how convincingly delivered.
"Of course," I agree immediately. "Though I warn you, the scene is... difficult. The bandits were particularly brutal."
An hour later, we're riding through the border forests where my people have prepared their deception. The graves are perfect—weathered wooden markers bearing names I recognize from the diplomatic roster, earth that looks appropriately settled, even wildflowers that suggest the passage of time.
Major Ashford dismounts slowly, approaching the markers with the reverence due to the dead. When he kneels beside the one bearing his nephew's name, I see his shoulders shake with suppressed emotion.
"The bodies?" he asks without looking up.
"Burned," I reply with appropriate regret. "The bandits fired the convoy vehicles to cover their tracks. We were able to recover some personal effects, but..." I trail off meaningfully.
Lorien steps forward with a carefully prepared bundle—items that could have belonged to anyone, properly aged and damaged to suggest the trauma of violent death.
"These were found near where we believe your nephew fell," I say gently.
Major Ashford takes the bundle with shaking hands, examining each item with the desperate hope of a man seeking connection to the lost. A signet ring that could be anyone's. A pocket watch with the crystal cracked. A leather journal too damaged to read.
"This was his," he whispers, holding up the watch. "I gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday."
The identification is coincidence—we specifically chose items that could belong to any young gentleman—but his need to find connection makes him see what he wants to see.
"I'm deeply sorry for your loss," I tell him, and the sympathy in my voice is genuine even if the circumstances are fabricated. "He died in service to his country, trying to build bridges between our peoples."
"The bandits," he asks after a long moment. "Were they caught?"
"Some of them. Others fled into the deep forests where even our hunters cannot follow." I let frustration color my voice. "Justice in such matters is... imperfect."
It's enough. A grieving uncle doesn't need absolute justice, just the knowledge that some effort was made, some price was paid.
We return to the court as afternoon light begins to fade, Major Ashford's grief having settled into the quiet acceptance of a man confronting undeniable reality.
The deception has worked perfectly—he's seen convincing evidence, received truthful-sounding explanations, been treated with appropriate respect and sympathy.
"Thank you, Your Highness," he says as we reach his waiting carriage. "For everything. For the courtesy, the investigation, the... closure."
"It was the least I could do," I reply. "Your nephew was a guest in my territory. His safety was my responsibility, and I failed in that duty. You have my deepest regrets."
"These things happen," he says with soldier's resignation. "Brum knew the risks of diplomatic service. We all do."
As his carriage disappears down the forest road, I allow myself a moment of satisfaction.
Crisis averted, questions answered, suspicious inquiry transformed into grateful closure.
Major Ashford will return to London with a tragic but believable story, and no one will come asking uncomfortable questions about missing diplomatic convoys.
The deception is complete.
But even as I congratulate myself on the successful manipulation, the bond with Rosalind pulls at my attention like a physical ache. Hours have passed since I left her, and I can feel her heat beginning to stir again, her need growing stronger with each passing moment.
More concerning is the restless energy I sense through our connection—not just physical arousal, but a different kind of alertness that suggests she's not simply resting as I instructed.
I make my way back through the court with increasing urgency, nodding to staff and courtiers but not stopping for conversation. Whatever business required my attention is handled; now I need to return to the far more important task of completing my omega's conditioning.
The scent hits me before I reach my chambers—Rosalind's arousal mixed with something sharper, more complex. Not just heat returning, but emotions I can't immediately identify through our still-developing bond.
I push open the doors to find my private study in disarray.
Documents scattered across my desk. Drawers pulled open.
Papers strewn across the Persian rug in patterns that suggest thorough searching.
And in the center of it all, Rosalind kneeling among the evidence of her discovery, still naked from our earlier claiming but holding papers that make my blood turn to ice.
The correspondence about manufacturing the border crisis. Strategic discussions about timing it with her diplomatic mission. Detailed plans for claiming the "Whitmore daughter" specifically.
She looks up at me with eyes that hold anger, hurt, and something that might be betrayal. But underneath all of that, I can still smell her growing arousal, still feel through our bond how her body responds to my presence despite her emotional turmoil.
"You lied to me," she says, her voice steady despite the tears tracking down her cheeks. "About everything."
The confrontation I've been dreading has arrived.
And from the complex mix of emotions flowing through our bond—rage and hurt and desperate need all tangled together—I realize this conversation will either strengthen our relationship beyond anything I'd hoped for, or destroy everything I've worked to build.
The next few minutes will determine whether I keep my perfectly conditioned omega, or watch her transform back into the defiant diplomat who first challenged my authority.
Either way, there's no more hiding behind careful lies and strategic omissions.
The truth, in all its complicated glory, is about to emerge.