To heal a Rogue
Chapter 31: World view

Chapter 31: World view

BONNIE

"For what?" Lysander said.

"It’s getting late," the steward said, his tone the particular blend of patient and immovable that told me he’d delivered this exact speech to reluctant royals more times than he cared to count. "When you give your speech tonight, you’ll need to look the part. Your coming coronation will also demand it. This is simply a preamble of what is to come."

"Well," Lysander said, "that can wait a bit."

"Unfortunately, that is no longer possible."

"Actually, myself and..." Lysander glanced sideways at me, and I watched him hesitate over what to actually call me, his mouth opening and then closing again like the word simply wouldn’t cooperate.

The steward filled the gap for him.

"The rogue?" he said, and there was something cold threading through the word even as he tried to smooth it over with courtesy.

"She is not a rogue," Lysander said.

"Of course. You know best, Your Majesty."

I felt Lysander flinch at that. Not visibly, nothing anyone watching would have caught, but through the bond, faint and sharp, like a hand closing too tight around something delicate. I filed that away without knowing quite what to do with it.

"Regardless of what she is," Lysander said, "she is currently under my protection."

The steward’s face didn’t change much, though I could tell he had several opinions lined up behind his teeth, all of them held firmly in check. He had the look of a man who’d learned decades ago to separate what he thought from what his job required of him, and he wore that discipline like armor. I decided, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he would have made an excellent soldier in another life, one where his uniform came with a weapon instead of a clipboard.

"Well," he said. "Shall we?"

"How long will it take?" Lysander asked.

"A while," the steward said, and then, as if he’d already anticipated exactly why Lysander was asking, he added, "If you’re worried about the rogue’s safety, she’s welcome to come along."

"I cannot impose," I said quickly. "I’m fine here."

I did not want to keep trailing behind him. I was quite alright here.

My stomach chose that exact moment to growl again, loud enough that I nearly cursed out loud from sheer mortification.

The steward’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to amusement I’d seen cross his face since he’d appeared in the doorway.

He then turned to the only person he respected.

"The moment I have you settled with the royal tailor," he said to Lysander, "I’ll go to the kitchens myself and bring her something to eat."

Lysander studied him for a long moment. "You look like you want to kill her."

The steward didn’t even blink. "My thoughts are irrelevant on the matter."

"That’s not a denial."

"I’m sure you have your reasons for allowing her to still walk free," the steward said, folding his hands neatly in front of him. "Perhaps you intend to extract information from her. Understand why she did what she did before the verdict is settled properly." He inclined his head slightly, the gesture almost respectful. "That is all right by me. Because I understand justice will be served once night falls. That is good enough for me, and that should be good enough for every wolf in these walls and beyond it."

Something about the calm certainty in his voice sent a small chill up my spine. Not because it was cruel exactly, but because it was so entirely without malice, so matter-of-fact about the fate he assumed was already waiting for me. He genuinely believed it. There was no performance in it at all, and somehow that honesty scared me more than open hatred would have.

Lysander seemed to take that at face value too, some tension easing out of his shoulders that I didn’t fully understand.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s get this over with. She will be coming with me regardless. You can watch over her while I am being measured or whatever."

"That is fine by me."

The steward then turned smartly on his heel and started down the corridor, and Lysander fell into step behind him without a backward glance at me, clearly expecting me to follow.

Gosh... Once again, I regretted not running for it. I would have been fine here. Following him to get tailored for my own execution was repulsive to the bone, and his blatant protection from me would soon get tongues wagging. Did he not see that?

He then spared a glance when I remained still. His deeply unsettling green eyes examined me from head to toe, disrupting my train of thought completely. One of his eyebrows lifted silently, as if questioning why I wasn’t already falling into step behind him.

I hesitated a second before I had to obey, my bare feet cold against the stone floor, my stomach still complaining loudly enough to draw a second glance from the steward’s shoulder.

"You could have just let me stay behind," I muttered, catching up to Lysander’s side.

"I could have," he said. "I didn’t want to."

"Why not?"

"Because the last time I left you alone in a room," he said, low enough that only I would catch it, "you tried to escape. Who knows if you will give it another go?"

I nearly tripped over my own feet.

"You knew about that?"

"Of course, I felt the shift in the bond," he said, not looking at me, though something like satisfaction lived at the corner of his mouth. "I chose not to react to it because I hoped you would actually see reason. Though I am happy at the time, you did see reason, but I will not push that luck twice."

Heat crawled up my neck, some ugly mixture of embarrassment and irritation that I didn’t have the energy to properly untangle. I said nothing, because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t have made it worse, and we walked the rest of the corridor in a silence that felt entirely too loud.

The steward led us through a set of double doors into a room that smelled like starch and expensive fabric, bolts of cloth stacked along one wall and a raised platform positioned in front of a trio of mirrors angled to catch every side of a person at once. Two tailors were already waiting, with needles and pins arranged with military precision on a nearby table, and they bowed low the second Lysander crossed the threshold.

"Your Majesty," one of them murmured, and I watched that same flinch ripple through him again, quick and quiet.

"Alpha Lysander is fine," he said. "For now."

The tailors exchanged a glance but didn’t argue, and one of them gestured him up onto the platform while the other reached for a measuring tape with the brisk efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.

I found a chair near the wall and sank into it, grateful for the excuse to sit, and watched the steward disappear back through the doors with a promise of food trailing behind him.

Lysander stood on the platform with his arms held slightly away from his sides, letting the tailors fuss over him, and for the first time since I’d met him, I almost laughed. He looked faintly ridiculous—too tall for the room, all sharp lines and fidgeting discomfort. Still, I couldn’t help noticing the cut of his jaw, the way his hair fell over his brow, or the restless energy in his eyes. Not that I’d ever admit it, not even under threat of torture. Instead, I let myself focus on how awkward he seemed, telling myself that was all I saw. But the truth lingered uncomfortably: even standing there looking out of place, Lysander was—well, cute. And the thought irritated me almost as much as it made me flutter inside. Goddess... this bond was insufferable.

"You’re staring," he said, without turning his head.

"I’m bored," I said. "Staring happens to be free entertainment."

"Charming."

"You should try it sometime. Being charming, I mean."

One of the tailors made a small strangled sound that might have been a laugh quickly swallowed, and Lysander’s mouth twitched at the corner even as he kept his eyes fixed forward.

"I’ll take that under advisement," he said.

The steward returned some minutes later carrying a tray, and the smell of warm bread hit me before I even saw the plate properly. He set it on the small table beside my chair without a word, his expression carefully neutral, and I mumbled something like thanks that he didn’t acknowledge.

I ate fast, embarrassingly fast, and didn’t care who was watching.

"Slow down," Lysander said, still facing the mirror while a tailor pinned fabric at his shoulder. "No one’s taking it from you."

"You don’t know that," I said around a mouthful of bread. "This whole place is full of people who’d probably enjoy watching me choke."

The steward, standing near the door with his hands folded behind his back, made no attempt to deny it.