The Problem With His Focus
SERAPHAE
There was something wrong with Twilight.
The sky was dark. Well, it was always dark, but it was first bell. I knew that because I had only just fallen asleep when the knocking started.
I ignored it.
The knocking did not stop.
I threw off the blankets, crossed the room, and pulled the door open with more force than it needed.
The guard responsible went pale, eyes wide. He had the look of someone who had drawn the short lot and was now deeply reconsidering his career.
“What?” I snapped.
“I—it's—“ he swallowed. “Missed breakfast. You’re—in the throne room.” That appeared to be the full extent of what he could manage.
Right. New job. Personal guard.
I shut the door in his face.
Draped over the chair was a set of clothing I hadn't noticed the night before. I held it up. A fitted dark tunic, trousers, and lightweight leather armor. It was built to move with you rather than against you.
My uniform. How very considerate of someone.
I took my time in the bath. Soaked in the water scented with lavender oil until my fingers and toes became pruny.
Then I got dressed and was braiding my hair when the second knock came.
The knock of someone who did not care whether the person on the other side was ready.
Significantly more confident than the guard's. I recognized it immediately.
Riven stood in the doorway, his expression blank the way it always was, as if smiling was something his face was incapable of. His gaze moved from my hair before it dropped to my body. He held it there long enough for me to register before looking away.
“Well,” I grinned. “Good morning, Captain.”
Without looking at me, he said, “You're late,” then turned and walked down the corridor, assuming I would follow.
I followed. If I didn’t, he’d likely drag me by the arm. Or hair. My braid was impeccable, and I wasn’t risking it.
If I was going to be forced into this realm, into a role I hadn't chosen, in a kingdom that ran on permanent night and extravagant eggs, I was going to do it my way.
I made complaints about everything during our walk.
Riven endured it in complete silence, which irritated me more than it should have.
The doors to the throne room opened with a low groan. The sound folded up into the vaulted ceiling and came back softer.
Riven entered first, with me following unwillingly behind him.
Again, nothing was subtle in Primoria. Especially not the chambers where one ruled.
White stone arches climbed so high they stopped being architecture and started being a statement.
The ceiling itself was glass, teal and luminous.
Light filtered through it in shifting panels that caught the gold trim and scattered it across the ground in moving patterns.
The floor was polished to the point where walking on it felt presumptuous.
It was a room designed to make you feel small before anyone said a word to you.
And at the far end of all of it, Caelan Vaelor sat on his throne as if it belonged to him in ways that had nothing to do with the crown.
Pitch black robes. A burgundy cloak over one shoulder. The crown was silver instead of gold. His ink-black hair was tousled as if he had run his hand through it once and decided that was how it should stay.
Handsome felt like the wrong word. Offensive, almost. He looked powerful, which was different and considerably more inconvenient.
Riven left me and stopped at the base of the dais.
I did not bow.
Caelan's gaze had already found me when I walked in. He took his time, moving slowly from my heels up the length of the dress, pausing where the slit fell open. He gave it extra attention he hadn’t bothered hiding.
I had not worn the uniform. I had worn a dress. It was a nice dress.
“Good morning,” he said, sounding too entertained for this hour.
“Morning.”
A smile curved his mouth. “You're aware,” he said, “that your position involves guarding me.”
“I am.”
“In that?” His gaze dropped again, and this time it lingered.
I folded my hands behind my back. “Who said I can't break necks and look stunning at the same time?”
Somewhere behind me, a guard coughed.
His fingers stilled on the arm of the throne before a short laugh escaped him. The real kind that didn't ask permission. Then he beckoned me closer with a slow curl of his fingers.
“Come here,” he said, his voice dropping low enough to make it impossible to refuse.
I walked forward, my heels clicking against the marble, each step too loud in a room designed to amplify sound.
I stood close enough to see the shift in his expression, the amusement thinning into something more direct, more serious.
He was looking at me as if he were trying to read a thought I hadn’t said out loud.
“You,” he said, “are going to be a problem.”
“For whom?”
A beat passed.
“My focus.”
There he was. The man from the masquerade. Effortless charm like a second skin. The same man who had bent to kiss my knuckles and then straightened into a prince.
Behind me, Riven exhaled like a man watching something he was going to be dealing with for a very long time.
He was still watching me after I took my place beside him.
I held his gaze. The bond pulsed once, warm and unhelpful. I ignored it with great professionalism.
“I suppose your attire serves a purpose,” he said, letting his gaze rake over me again. “You can pass for a guest of the kingdom.”
“You want me to pretend to be your guest?”
“When we are outside the estate and in front of people from other kingdoms, it would be ideal.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “A beautiful human guest is easier to explain than a human personal guard.”
I straightened, and it had little to do with the fact that he had called me beautiful.
There were couriers whispering along the walls of the throne room, already forming opinions about their ruler's hiring decisions. Caelan did not look in their direction once.
“We will meet our witch today,” he said.
Hope sparked in my chest for a moment before the knowledge that blood oaths were rarely broken drowned it out. The chances that I would earn my freedom today were as unlikely as the sun rising in Twilight.
The double doors opened before I could effectively sulk.
Maelor crossed the chamber in a stride that meant business. Behind him were four guards. The two in front were hauling in a familiar figure that I immediately recognized and wished I didn't.
My pulse tripped over itself.
Absolutely not.
Xander’s gaze found me across the room. His expression cycled through relief, surprise, and then confusion in rapid succession.
“Why are you standing up there?” he asked just before his knees hit the marble.
“Why are you being dragged in?” My tone had significantly more bite than his.
“What are you doing here?” we said together.
“I'm saving you,” he said immediately.
There was blood drying on his nose. Hair… existing. Sleeves torn at the shoulder. He might want to try saving his dignity first. We'd have to search for it.
“From what?” I asked, a pitch too high.
He glanced up at Caelan on the throne. “... Him.”
The room froze.
I turned toward Caelan.
His mouth betrayed him first with a twitch at the corner. Then a tight line as he attempted to contain it. He lasted three seconds before a quiet laugh escaped, and he pressed two fingers to his mouth as if that would help.
“You infiltrated my estate,” he said, with admirable composure, “to save my personal guard.”
Xander nodded proudly. “Correct.” Then he furrowed his brow and looked at me. “Personal guard?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, unsure where to begin.
“That's adorable,” Caelan said to Maelor, who was studying Xander as if he were calculating throwing distance.
Even Riven looked like he wanted to smile. Which honestly scared me more than a cursed dagger.
I gawked at Xander. “I did not ask you to save me.”
“You don't have to ask,” he said. “You disappeared into fae territory for days. I'm supposed to assume you're fine?” He looked at Caelan, then back at me. “Why is he alive?”
I palmed my face.
Maelor took a step forward and said something in Primorian. His tone suggested that it was nothing nice.
Caelan lifted a hand without looking at him.
“I am thriving,” I said from behind my fingers. It wasn't a lie. I was, unfortunately, thriving. Alive. Fed. Clean. Paid. The list went on, and honestly, I could have stopped at alive.
“How did he get in?” Caelan asked the guards.
One stepped forward. “The roof, Your Highness. Slipped past the wards and the guards.”
Caelan's expression sharpened. “Did you now?”
Xander lifted a shoulder. “I incapacitated three of them.”
“You belong to the Obsidian Hand.” Caelan tapped the armrest thoughtfully. “I'll buy your contract.”
Xander squinted.
I looked at Caelan and waited for the joke. It didn't come.
“You infiltrated my estate,” he continued. “That isn't something most people can do. I know talent when I see it.” He flashed a charming smile and looked at me. “I'm excellent at putting talent to use.”
Xander's expression went flat. “I'm not for sale.”
Caelan's brow lifted. “Or I could execute you for treason.”
Xander held the stare for exactly two seconds.
“I am at your service, Your Highness.” He bowed. Deeply. With emphasis.
Maelor muttered something under his breath about criminals and payroll. I heard my name in there somewhere and chose not to investigate.
Xander was hauled back out with the same efficiency with which he was brought in.
The doors hadn't finished closing when another figure I recognized crossed the doorway, flanked by six guards in gleaming white armor.
“Brother,” Prince Mallas beamed.
Caelan rose from his throne and descended the steps. “Mallas.”
I hesitated, unsure whether I was supposed to follow. And then I went after him.
They clasped forearms and held them for a moment.
“I apologize for being a terrible host,” Caelan said sheepishly.