Chapter 5

"I think you're shaking." I don't flinch. I lean back against the cold stone and look up at him. "Your pulse is going crazy right here." I tip my chin at his throat. "Is that fear, High Guard? Or are you just not used to someone seeing through you?"

His hand snaps to my jaw. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to force my eyes to his.

"You think a few clever words make you a player?" he says, eyes flint-gray and hard. "You're a disgraced princess in a dress that smells like a cellar. You're nothing."

I smile. The boardroom smile. The one I wore right before I gutted a CEO on a live call.

"Nothing?" I say. "I just broke a professional killer without lifting a finger. You watched it. You felt it. So tell me — if I'm nothing, why's your heart trying to punch out of your chest?"

His grip tightens for half a second. He doesn't let go. He leans in closer. His breath hits my cheek, warm.

"You're a glitch," he growls. "A freak frequency. The Regent wants you erased. I'm letting you breathe because I want to know how you did it."

"He was already primed," I murmur. "People are patterns, Kael. Fear. Greed. Loneliness. They've all got a frequency. I just tuned in. Now let's talk about yours."

"My frequency is none of your business."

"Liar." My voice drops. The fabric of my dress brushes his thigh when I shift. His pupils blow wide. I don't miss it. "You're screaming. You're tired of being the loyal hound, aren't you? Guarding a throne for a man who thinks you're a tool. Use you till the edge dulls, then toss you."

He goes rigid. The air between us gets heavy. Electric.

"You know nothing about my loyalty," he says. But the bite's gone.

"Loyalty's just a word people use when they're too scared to admit they're trapped," I say. My fingers graze the cuff of his sleeve. Just a brush. His whole arm tenses. "You're not trapped, Kael. Not if someone can pick the lock."

He drops my jaw like I burned him. Steps back. Paces a tight circle, boots cracking on marble.

"You're dangerous," he snaps. "Not because of magic. Because you're a parasite. You find the weak spot and you dig."

"And you love it," I say, crossing my arms. "Someone finally sees you. Not the statue Augustus built. You."

He stops. Stares at me. The High Guard mask slips. Just for a second. What's underneath is raw. Hungry. Not just for power — for something he doesn't have a name for.

He steps back into my space. His shadow swallows me.

"What do you want, Sloane?" he says, low and rough. "You can't survive this palace alone. You've got a bullseye on your forehead."

"The archives," I say, jerking my chin at the towers of scrolls behind us. "And a guarantee you won't hand me to Augustus the second I get inconvenient."

He barks a short laugh. "Guarantee? In this city the only guarantee is someone tries to kill you in your sleep."

"Then give me something better," I say. I close the gap he just made. We're inches apart again. I can feel the pull like a wire about to snap. "Give me your word. Not as a Guard. As a man."

His eyes drop to my mouth. Back to my eyes. The silence stretches. Thick. I can hear guards clanking on the outer ring. We're out of time.

"Forty-eight hours," he whispers. "I keep the Regent off your back for forty-eight hours. In exchange, you give me what you're hiding. That trick. How you got in that assassin's head. I want it."

"Deal," I say. My chest kicks. "But I don't teach for free. You're my eyes and ears. You tell me who's talking, who's lying, who's putting poison in my tea."

"Demanding a lot for a girl who almost died an hour ago," he says. A smirk tugs at his mouth.

"I'm not a girl, Kael. I'm a strategist. And right now? You're the best asset on the board."

His thumb brushes my cheekbone. Possessive. Almost tender. Dangerous.

"Don't get comfortable, Sloane," he murmurs. His thumb lingers half a second too long. "You betray me, no trick saves you from my blade."

"I'm counting on it," I say. I lean into the touch just enough to make his breath catch, then pull away. "Now get me into the Restricted Section. The answers aren't in the public catalog."

He sighs like he knows he's making a mistake. Hand goes to his sword hilt. He turns toward the iron-bound doors at the end of the hall.

"Restricted's off-limits even to me," he says over his shoulder. "We get caught, I have to say you're a prisoner I'm dragging to the dungeons."

"I'm used to being a prisoner," I say, falling into step beside him. Our footsteps click in sync. "At least this time I'm holding the key."

We reach the doors. He doesn't open them right away. He turns to me, face grim.

"One more thing," he says. "Augustus doesn't just want you dead. He's obsessed with your frequency. He thinks you can control the Sovereign Mind. If he finds out you're lucid again, he won't just kill you. He'll peel your mind apart piece by piece till there's nothing left but noise."

A chill rips down my spine. I keep my face flat.

"Sounds like a micromanager," I say.

He doesn't laugh. He throws the heavy bolts. Crash. The whole archive shudders. The doors groan open on dust and moonlight and rotting parchment.

"Welcome to the graveyard of secrets," he whispers.

I step in. Dark swallows us. I scan the shelves, already filtering, hunting for the frequency I need. My hand reaches for a black leather tome —

"I told you she couldn't resist the books," a voice drawls from the shadows behind us.

Kael spins. Steel sings as his sword clears the scabbard.

I freeze. Heart hammering my ribs.

A man in midnight silk steps into the archway. Not a guard. Worse. Eyes gleaming, smile thin and cruel.

"Who the hell are you?" Kael snarls, blade up.

The man doesn't look at him. He looks straight at me. And my head jolts — a violent clash of frequencies that nearly drops me to my knees. He doesn't just see me. He knows my signal.

"Sloane," he purrs. "Or should I call you by the name you used before you—"