The palace never truly slept. Not with the whispers crawling through its gilded halls like rats. Not with guards posted at every door, trained to keep secrets instead of peace.

And certainly not with him back.

Simon Riley stood at the window, one hand gripping the edge of the sill, the other cradling a half-empty glass of scotch. His mask lay discarded on the armchair—metal, cold, no longer needed behind closed doors. Rain painted streaks down the glass, the same way blood had stained the ballroom floor two nights ago.

Behind him, the chamber door creaked open.

You didn’t knock. You never did.

“You’re drinking again.”

He didn’t turn. “I was never the one who stopped.”

A sigh. Then the soft brush of silk as you approached, dressed in nothing but his old military shirt and your defiance. You stopped beside him, arms crossed, looking out over the gardens with the same grim detachment.

“You think it was the council?”

“I know it was the council.”

“You’ll make a hundred enemies if you say that out loud.”

He glanced sideways at you, something dangerous in his eyes. “I only need one ally.”

Your mouth curled, but your tone was cool. “I’m not your political shield, Simon.”

“No,” he said quietly, “you’re my wife.”

The word hung in the air, heavier than the storm outside. It was still new. Still secret. You, a noble’s daughter with a mind sharper than any blade, had married him in silence. No crown, no church, no press. Just the two of you. Because love in a palace was a weapon—and you’d both already bled enough.

“They won’t stop until you’re dead,” you said softly.

He stepped closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers. “Then let them try.”

Thunder cracked above the palace, loud and brutal. But you didn’t flinch. Neither of you ever did.

Because if the crown wanted war, it had just awoken its king and queen.