Chapter 15: The Temporary Situation

Asher was still sitting across from Aaron in the quiet sitting room adjoining the prince’s chambers when the door burst open without ceremony.

A young servant nearly tripped over the threshold, face pale and breathing hard. He bowed so quickly he almost hit his forehead on the floor.

"Your Highness, Your Majesty has been informed, Lord Marcel Thorne has arrived."

For a second nobody spoke, moved, or drew a breath. Asher’s fingers went numb around the cup of tea he had been holding. It slipped, caught at the last second, and nearly spilled across the expensive table. His first coherent thought was sharp and simple.

Oh, I’m dead.

Aaron’s expression did not change much, but something cold settled behind his eyes. He set his own cup down with deliberate care.

"Marcel Thorne," he repeated quietly. "Already."

Asher stood so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "I should—go. I should go meet him. Or hide, hiding is also an option."

Aaron rose as well, slower and far more composed. "You’re not hiding, just come with me."

Asher would have preferred hiding, but it really wouldn’t make much of a difference, Marcel would find him anyway.

They left the sitting room together. Servants scattered out of their path like startled birds. Word had clearly already spread through the palace, and now every corridor they passed carried the same low, nervous energy. No one wanted to be the person standing between a Vampire Lord and whatever he had come for.

By the time they reached the main reception hall, Marcel was already inside. The great doors stood open. Sunlight spilled across the polished floor, and in the center of that light stood Marcel Thorne.

He looked exactly as Asher remembered and was somehow more dangerous. The palace guards who had admitted him hovered near the walls, looking like men who had just realized they preferred any other assignment in the kingdom.

King Eric arrived from the opposite corridor at almost the same moment, expression tight with confusion and the beginnings of political dread. He had not expected the Vampire Lord so soon, and he had certainly not expected him to arrive without warning or escort.

Marcel did not look at the king, nor did he look at the prince either. His gaze found Asher the instant the fortune teller stepped into the hall, and it immediately trailed straight to Asher’s left hand, and the dark metal ring sitting on his index finger.

Marcel’s expression did not change, but the air in the hall grew colder by several degrees.

Aaron stopped a few paces ahead of Asher, placing himself slightly between them. Marcel’s eyes flicked to the prince once, briefly, with the same level of interest one might give a piece of furniture that had inconveniently moved into the path. Then he walked past Aaron without a word, only stopping when he was directly in front of Asher.

Up close, the difference in their heights and presence was almost unfair. Marcel studied Asher’s face for a long moment, then looked down at the ring again. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that only Asher could clearly hear it.

"Did you choose to wear that?"

Asher’s throat went dry. The question was simple, he could immediately answer, but the problem was that Marcel was always unreadable. Asher had no idea what would happen if he said either yes or no.

He hesitated, feeling Aaron’s attention on his back like a physical pressure. Every instinct screamed that the wrong answer could start something none of them would walk away from cleanly.

But lying to Marcel had never gone well for him.

"No," Asher said.

Marcel’s expression shifted, not with open anger, at least not one anybody could see or sense. He reached out, took Asher’s hand with careful fingers, and turned it slightly so the ring caught the light.

He examined it in silence for several long seconds.

Asher watched his face the entire time, waiting for the moment Marcel decided the ring was a magical collar and someone needed to die for it.

Instead, Marcel’s brows drew together faintly, and he released Asher’s hand.

"It is not a subjugation ring," he said, still quiet, still only for Asher. "There is no binding enchantment of that kind."

"It’s not?" Asher returned. Then why couldn’t he get it off?

"No." Marcel’s gaze lifted to meet his again. "It is a royal claim ring. A public declaration. In human courts, wearing one means the prince has formally claimed you as his intended partner."

Relief hit Asher so hard his knees almost buckled. At least he was not magically enslaved, that was something. But then about the second part of Marcel’s sentence. Aaron had already told him about that, but it still sounded off hearing it a second time.

Marcel’s voice remained calm, but there was a new edge beneath it. "He claimed what already belongs to me."

Before Asher could answer, Marcel’s hand closed around his wrist, not painfully, but with absolute finality, and he turned toward the open doors.

"We are leaving."

The words were quiet, but they carried past Asher’s ears.

Aaron’s voice cut across the hall. "No. You’re not."

Marcel stopped walking. He did not turn around immediately. When he did, the look he gave Aaron was almost polite in its complete lack of interest.

Aaron stepped forward until he stood only a few paces away. The palace guards shifted uneasily, hands near weapons they clearly did not want to use.

"Asher is under my protection," Aaron said. His tone was steady, royal, and edged with something possessive. "He is my partner, so he stays."

Marcel regarded him the way one might regard an unexpected obstacle in the road.

"He is not yours."

"The ring says otherwise."

"The ring is metal and arrogance." Marcel’s fingers tightened slightly around Asher’s wrist. "It means nothing to me, and I am taking him with me."

Aaron’s eyes flicked to where Marcel held Asher, then back to the Vampire Lord’s face. "Guards."

The order was soft, but the men moved. They did not draw blades yet, but they stepped into formation, blocking the path to the doors. None of them looked happy about it. Refusing a Vampire Lord was one kind of career-ending decision. Drawing steel on one was another.

Marcel’s gaze swept over the line of guards once, unimpressed. He could immediately kill all of them, but he understood the dangers of trying that, especially when he didn’t have an escort who could keep Asher safe while he handled the guards.

King Eric finally found his voice before things could get out of hand. "Lord Thorne, perhaps we can discuss this matter with cooler heads. Asher has been of great service to the crown. The situation is complicated."

Marcel did not look at the king either, his attention returned to Asher. A faint, almost invisible shift passed through Marcel’s expression. He looked down at the ring one more time, then at Aaron.

Asher could feel the situation sliding toward something irreversible. He tugged lightly at Marcel’s grip, not to pull free, but to get his attention.

"Marcel. Please don’t kill anyone. I literally wrote that in the letter."

Marcel’s eyes flicked to him. For a moment the cold intensity softened, only for Asher, then hardened again as he looked back at Aaron. This wasn’t part of his plan, but for the sake of peace and for Asher’s sake, he would listen to what these humans had to say.