Chapter 71: Chapter 71: Perfect garden

The sitting room was cool and still, a long stretch of pale carpet and low couches under the high windows. Chris crossed it without thinking and sank into the corner of the sofa, dragging the thin laptop from the side table. Not his own machine, which had been left behind in Palatine, but the clone Dax had handed him like a consolation prize. It booted up with the same smooth interface, but the feeling was wrong, like wearing someone else’s shirt.

He opened Ethan’s folder and started scanning through the drafts he’d promised to check. The familiar graphs and notes blinked up at him; his fingers hovered over the keys but didn’t move. Marta had retreated to the kitchen down the hall, and Hanna had fled to one of the small offices now that the king was no longer present to impress.

A soft knock on the doorframe drew his attention. Rowan stood there, taller than Killian, dull red hair catching the light, hands tucked loosely at his back. His presence was different from the others, a shadow meant to see everything but not be seen.

“Working?” he asked, glancing at the laptop as he came in. “Or pretending?”

“Trying,” Chris said. He closed a window and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “It’s mostly just staring at numbers.”

“You’ve been staring at them for hours,” Rowan said, voice mild but carrying a faint, teasing lilt. “Marta sent me to ask if you’d like to eat something in the gardens. Her exact words were, ’If he won’t come out, tell him the grass is still green without His Majesty.’”

Chris gave a small, reluctant snort. “You’re her messenger now?”

“Today I’m everyone’s messenger.” Rowan leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, eyes warm. “Also the one who’s been watching two very tense people glare at each other over breakfast. Thought you could use a change of scenery, trees, sunlight, and someone to talk to who isn’t a king.”

Chris’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped. “She can bring it here,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. But out there you can eat without all of us lurking like statues,” Rowan said. “No cameras or staff hovering. You can even tell me I’m boring and walk away, you won’t hurt my feelings.”

Chris stared at the laptop again. The numbers blurred, meaningless, and the headache behind his eyes pulsed once. “Ten minutes,” he said at last, voice flat. “But don’t expect me to be charming.”

Rowan grinned. “I’ve survived Killian before coffee. I’ll manage.” He straightened and gestured toward the hall. “Come on. I’ll even carry the tray if it makes you feel like a guest instead of a prisoner.”

Chris shut the laptop a little harder than necessary and set it aside, the sound sharp in the quiet room. For a moment he sat there, palms pressed to his thighs, before pushing himself up. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

Rowan fell into step beside him, smile still easy. “That’s the spirit,” he murmured, and led the way toward the sunlit corridor.

Chris followed reluctantly but decided to use the moment to get to know the man. “So,” he said, eyes fixed ahead, “how did you get to be my babysitter?”

Rowan chuckled under his breath. “Babysitter? That’s generous. I usually get called a shadow, a hound, or ’the tall one in the corner.’” He shot Chris a sideways glance. “But if you want the polite version… I’ve been with the palace security team for eight years. Started out watching over trade envoys, then the king noticed I didn’t talk much and didn’t faint when things got ugly. Next thing I knew, I was assigned to the person he actually cares about.”

Chris raised a brow. “That’s the polite version?”

“The short version,” Rowan said, lips quirking. “The long one involves endless background checks, a few very boring missions, and one unfortunate incident with a stolen carafe of wine.” He grinned wider at Chris’s faint flicker of surprise. “I’m not supposed to tell that part.”

They turned a corner, the corridor spilling them into a smaller vestibule with glass doors opening onto the private gardens. Sunlight poured through, dust motes turning in the air.

“So no secret oaths, no blood pacts?” Chris asked, voice dry.

Rowan held the door open for him. “Nope. Just a job that pays well and an occasional chance to rescue someone from numbers and coffee.” He tilted his head toward the path outside. “And sometimes, if I’m lucky, an actual conversation.”

Chris hesitated at the threshold, the scent of grass and warm stone drifting in. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Rowan’s grin didn’t falter. “Too late.” He stepped out into the light. “Come on, Marta packed enough to feed both of us.”

—

The gardens stretched out in measured layers of green and stone, everything clipped and raked until it looked like a painting. The air smelled of damp earth and late-blooming roses, a sharp contrast to the coffee and polished wood of the sitting room. Gravel crunched underfoot as Rowan led him down one of the narrow paths, a picnic basket hooked over one arm.

“Where do you want to sit?” Rowan asked lightly. “Fountain? Pavilion? Under a tree? Everything’s perfectly staged out here, like someone’s idea of paradise.”

Chris’s gaze flicked from one manicured hedge to another. Topiary, marble benches, glassy pools of water reflecting the sky. “It’s all the same,” he muttered. “Pretty and controlled.”

“That’s the point,” Rowan said, but without bite. “But sometimes a pretty, controlled place is still better than a gilded room.”

They walked a little further, trying to choose. Ahead, the path curved around a cluster of cypresses, and that was when Chris saw movement on the far side of the lawn.

Dax.

He was striding along the gravel, flanked by Tyler, Killian, and two other staff in dark suits. His jacket was unbuttoned, cuffs rolled back. In one hand he carried a dark towel, dragging it slowly across his fingers. Even from here Chris could see the red staining the cloth. Blood. The sight of it against the immaculate greenery was obscene, a single jolt of reality slicing through the garden’s serenity.

Rowan stopped without thinking, his easy expression flickering for the first time. “Stay here,” he murmured under his breath.

But Dax had already lifted his head. Violet eyes locked across the distance and found Chris. Even at this range the look landed like a touch. He finished wiping his hand once more on the towel, handed it off to someone behind him, and kept walking.

Chris’s stomach tightened. The sun was warm, the grass perfect, and the picnic basket suddenly heavy and ridiculous in Rowan’s grip.

Rowan shifted slightly, putting himself a fraction in front of Chris without making it obvious. “Looks like our quiet lunch spot just got complicated,” he said softly.

Chris didn’t answer. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the dark smear on the towel or from the man carrying it.

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