Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Outnumbered

“I want to leave the mansion.”

Peter blinked as if Rafael had asked for cookies and adjusted his cuffs as if preparing himself to deliver an unpleasant truth with proper etiquette.

“That would be unadvisable,” he said in an eerily calm tone. Then, after a fraction of a pause, “if not outright insane.”

Rafael arched a brow. “Charming. Elaborate.”

“You are the mate,” Peter continued calmly, “of the man responsible for personally decapitating political aspirations, rebellions, dynasties, and, occasionally, actual people. There are entire noble houses who would sell their fortunes for a chance at you. There are governments that would call it a strategic opportunity. There are criminals who would consider you a divine chance at revenge.”

He offered a very polite smile.

“You are… an event, my lord. Outside these walls, that makes you a target.”

Rafael dragged a hand through his light brown hair, frustration slipping into his posture at last.

“Well… I can risk…”

“No.”

It wasn’t the butler’s voice anymore.

Danger slid into Peter’s tone like a blade sliding from its sheath. Nothing in his posture changed. His hands stayed folded. His expression remained controlled. But there was iron in his presence now, something that belonged less to a servant and far more to a man who had stood beside Gregoris long enough to learn how to turn his own existence into a boundary.

“Not on my watch,” Peter said quietly. “I am responsible for this house. Which means I am responsible for you. Anything you need can be arranged for you here.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rafael snapped, mostly out of spite, partly out of desperation, and entirely too aware he was beginning to feel trapped again. “Then bring Delphine here. Because someone has to explain to her that her son is mated to her enemy.”

Peter regarded Rafael for a long moment. As a person who had just cracked something vulnerable open and disguised it as anger.

“Lady Delphine Rosenroth,” he said slowly, “is… a formidable woman.”

“Yes,” Rafael replied flatly. “She raised me.”

“And she is not,” Peter continued carefully, “an enemy of His Grace.”

“That depends on how you define ’enemy.’” Rafael muttered.

Peter’s expression softened the smallest fraction.

“I do not presume to define your family,” he replied. “But if you truly wish her informed, arrangements can be made. A remote call, for example.”

Rafael stared at him.

For a moment he genuinely wondered if Gregoris’s personality was contagious, something aerosolized that seeped into the lungs of anyone who lived here too long. Because Peter’s voice was polite, deferential, properly butler-esque… And yet the logic was ruthless, the structure immovable, and the tone absolutely unbothered by Rafael’s indignation.

’A virus,’ Rafael decided. A personality plague. He was surrounded by well-mannered tyrants.

“You can’t keep me here forever,” he said, scowling now, frustration finally cracking through composure. “I still have a job. I have duties. Gabriel is not known for enjoying disruption in his carefully curated existence, especially not when he is postpartum, sleep deprived, and currently sealed like an ether battery someone forgot to unplug. He is going to kill me if I go missing for too long.”

Peter listened, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression composed in that dangerously calm way house staff developed only when they’d survived enough chaos to become immune to panic.

“You are correct, my lord,” he said, without even a hint of argument.

Rafael blinked.

“I am?” Suspicion rose immediately. “That feels like a trap.”

“It is not,” Peter assured him mildly. “You will return to the palace. Your work will resume. Your responsibilities will not be abandoned.” He paused, eyes firm. “But you will do so when His Grace is in the capital again and when a dedicated security structure suitable for your… significance is in place.”

Rafael opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then reopened it, mostly to avoid screaming.

“So,” he said slowly, “let me translate that into a language I dislike far less. I can leave… once Gregoris returns, and once he builds a miniature army to escort me like I am a national artifact.”

“Yes,” Peter said pleasantly. “That would be the summary of it.”

Rafael stared.

Peter, having delivered a sentence worthy of high-security legislation, looked faintly satisfied with his clarity.

“There is also,” the butler continued politely, because apparently the situation could worsen, “the matter of your official leave. You are currently excused from palace duties until next week. A decision His Grace, Consort Gabriel, personally proposed… and His Majesty approved.”

Rafael closed his eyes, remembering that Gregoris told him the same thing a week ago after waking up marked and chewed like a toy.

Peter did not stop, dead set on reminding Rafael of everything.

“And, my lord, you will only return to work when a member of the medical staff signs the clearance document His Grace attached to the order.”

“So your duke briefed you about this too,” he muttered.

“Yes, my lord,” Peter replied without hesitation. “He was… thorough about it.”

Peter’s tone shifted, just slightly. Not softer, but… prepared. As if he’d been waiting to reveal this last piece.

“You will have the east study ready for next week,” he continued, with the calm assurance of someone who had made the decision long before anyone consulted Rafael about his opinion. “Climate has been adjusted. Ventilation stabilized. Ward stress minimized. Windows treated against ether fluctuation. Everything you may require to work comfortably… at half intensity.”

Rafael stared at him.

Peter sounded like a man describing a vacation cottage.

“You already set it up,” Rafael said flatly. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Peter answered, pleasantly honest. “It has been ready since yesterday. I simply kept it closed out of principle until you accepted reality.”

Rafael could only laugh.

A short, disbelieving sound.

“So let me summarize,” he said, because putting structure to madness sometimes helped him cope. “Your duke arranged security lockdown. Gabriel arranged a legal lockdown. The Emperor signed off on both. And you,” he gestured helplessly at Peter, “have curated my environment like an endangered animal in a conservation facility.”

Peter bowed his head, serene.

“That is correct, my lord.”

Rafael pressed a hand over his face for a second, then let it drop, resigned but unwilling to grant them emotional victory.

“Wonderful,” he muttered. “I am being protected by tyrants, managed by an overachieving consort, and babysat by the most terrifyingly competent butler alive.”

Peter blinked once.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“It was received as one regardless,” Peter replied politely.

Rafael exhaled slowly.

“Fine,” he said. “Then let’s call this what it is. I am officially outnumbered.”

He straightened, already exhausted by the emotional labor his day promised.

“Order food,” he said. “I need strength. I have to call Delphine and explain that her son has been claimed by a walking international incident.”

Peter inclined his head with grave respect, as if Rafael had declared military mobilization.

“I shall inform the kitchen immediately.”

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