Kaz had always believed that trust was just another currency. Useful in small amounts. Dangerous in excess. And almost always a mistake. That was why he rationed it carefully. Why he handed it out in fragments, if at all. Why so few people ever got close enough to mistake his reliance for affection.

You had.

And that was the problem.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. Hadn’t noticed it at first — not when he started sending you on errands that mattered, not when he stopped double-checking your work, not when your presence in his office stopped feeling like an intrusion and started feeling expected.

It was a quiet kind of trust. The worst kind. The kind that settled in before you realized it had taken root. And now he stood in the aftermath of your lie, feeling something far uglier than surprise.

The Ravkan man on the floor was half-conscious, blood pooling beneath him, one shaking hand still outstretched in your direction as if he’d seen a saint or a ghost. “Your Highness,” he had whispered.

Kaz had said nothing then.

But now the office door slammed shut behind you with a force that made the glass tremble.

The room was silent except for the rain tapping against the windows and the sharp, measured sound of his cane against the floor as he crossed toward you.

No shouting. No dramatics. That would have been kinder.

His expression was unreadable, which somehow made it worse.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cutting enough to split bone.

“How long?”

A pause.

Then, with something colder beneath it— “How long were you planning to let me trust you while you lied to my face?”