Sterling knocked. Nicholas opened. The two men looked at each other across a threshold that neither of them wanted to be on opposite sides of.
Sterling's body went still, caught between protocol and the reality of what he was looking at: two wolves, in the king's private wing, in a room that smelled like Guinevere's tears.
His dragon wanted out. It took three breaths to force it back, and it went unwillingly.
Nicholas gave a single, slow nod toward the bathing chamber door. The nod said: she's in there. She's safe. I'm out here. The line is where it should be.
Diplomacy had died in the jungle. Nicholas had carried Maddox through a collapsing tunnel without being asked. He had fought dark fae beside Drakencrest warriors like species was a footnote.
Maddox would be furious if he were here. But the man across the hall couldn't remember her name.
Sterling crossed the room. Outside, rain hammered the glass so hard the panes rattled in their frames.
