Page 105 of Crown Prince's Mate

Silence. Maybe it’s just the blood loss, or maybe I’m getting to Titus. The big man grunts, walking around the medical table so he can lean both hands on it for support while facing me.

“The Rift. Obsidian’s control over it is increasing. Short shifts are more precise, aren’t they?”

“Correct,” answers Gallien, as Titus puts his weight against the metal slab, his black curls tumbling down his marble face, head down as he tries to recover.

“If he’s this accurate at range, what do you think happens when you go into his territory?”

“Four triads. He shifted in four today. Each with the brand on their forehead,” says Gallien. “He doesn’t have an endless supply of true believers. Each assassination attempt costs him.”

“If his assassins die. The one constant is his power over the Rift is growing. What happens when he can shift in a dozen triads? A hundred? When they can overwhelm a warship and take it over, bringing it back to his main army? You need to be retreating, not attacking, until you know the extent of his power. If you try to put me safe and sound in Pentaris and go off on the battlefield alone, it’s you three who aren’t coming back.”

Doman strides into the room, his presence amplified by the sleek Orb-Armor he’s changed into. The blue-black metallic plates are seamless, covering him to the neck. Since leaving the med-bay, he’s transformed. The attack on me rattled him, butnow he’s the picture of determined composure, blue eyes clear and emotionless, his blonde hair framing his stoic face.

“We can use the same alert system that told us he was shifting Reavers in to predict shifting triads,” he begins, voice steady and assured. “It’s brief. Twenty seconds of warning, at most. I’ve ordered continuous surveillance and rotational guard shifts. This is the way it used to be, long ago, in the Galactic war, when we had mastery of the Rift. This ship has seen boarding combat in the past, and it will again. Obsidian wasted his one chance to hit us with the element of surprise. We’re ready for him now.”

The door hisses shut behind him. He stands, flanked by his battle-brothers, a wall of muscled marble flesh and vitality. Gallien is sharp and focused, Titus a wounded beast, Doman in complete control once more.

I challenge him. “And the plan? You’re escorting the PKs in to obliterate his planets one by one?”

Doman’s cold blue eyes pierce me. “The tests with the PKs were testing their readiness and to halt any Toad advances. Nothing more.”

“You’re lying to yourself if you believe that. You think Queen Jasmine and her Emperors wanted to blow up a planet for fun?” I use the royal titles of his parents, hoping it will make him think analytically.

“There’s no reason to risk the PKs in his territory. The strategy is the same. Lure Obsidian to Colossus. I now know the desperation of protecting a Fated Mate.” His voice is tinged with a personal, raw edge, the first crack of emotion since returning. “With his pregnant mate in danger, he will lose strategic focus. He’ll be lured into our territories where he cannot shift. He will know the battle is unwinnable, he will be outnumbered and outgunned, and he will bring his forces into our orbital batteries. And then he will die.”

As he speaks, I find myself instinctively retreating, until my back hits the wall. His flowing golden mane, his bright blue eyes, his noble features, all of it is a mask for a monster. “You told me you’d save Fay. Now you’re telling me she’s bait?”

His brows furrow. “No, we will save her. We execute an escape during our wedding, and we do it right, with minimal witnesses. The Interrogators will ensure the story doesn’t leave the palace. Obsidian will be led to believe she’s still captive. He’ll die chasing a ghost.”

Titus lifts his head, slowly, those thick black curls descending his strong cheeks and anvil jaw, his thick, heavy features like those of a Viking king. “You’ve gone mad, Doman. You’re not bringing my Mate through empty space. She goes to Pentaris, and she stays there until I’m holding Obsidian’s head!” His voice reaches a crescendo, roaring out in the med-bay, fury as he stands to his full height, staring down the leader of his triad.

But as he stands, the color drains from his face. He grips the side of the med-bay table for support.

“Get a hold of yourself.” Doman stares down at the bull of a man, gone mad with protective need. “This changes nothing. He could shift in Reavers to hit us—now he can shift in men. He’s no God. He’s not omnipresent. He’s found some way of mastering the Rift, but he needs eyes to pinpoint where to send troops. He doesn’t have those eyes in empty space. We move in secrecy, and he never knows our route to ambush us.”

Titus looks over at me, then back at the leader of his triad, and strides out of the med-bay, clutching his weapon. He’s recovered, his gait sturdy, the blood-soaked robes swishing as he leaves.

The automatic doors shut behind him.

“That’s what I thought,” I say. “He was only able to shift in troops because his Reavers got our exact location.”

“Right. So as long as he never finds our route, we’re safe,” says Doman. “Which leads to a problem. Every single person on this ship has been vetted by Interrogators. Everyone but your crew.”

“If you think I’m going to give your Interrogators access to my crew, you’re mad. That’s not a pleasant thing to go through.” It’s an understatement. I learned of the process while discussing the spy network with my intelligence agency. Grueling questioning, which can last hours or weeks, depending on your answers.

No one knows exactly how it works, but if you sit in a room long enough with an Interrogator answering the same questions, over and over again, sooner or later they know if you’re lying or not.

“Then you leave them behind, in Pentaris airspace. I’m not traveling through empty space with them. A single leak of our location could get you killed.”

If I leave my staff behind, I’ll be going alone into the Aurelian Empire. Away from all support systems, from anyone who knew me, surrounded by Doman’s men and the triad itself.

Can I trust them? Only now, after my life was at risk, do I truly see how protective these three are. If Titus hadn’t been reined in by the triad’s leader, it wouldn’t have mattered what I said. He would have set me down on Pentaris and roared into battle without me.

But if I’m going to somehow have a future with these three, I have to trust them. Fully.

“Agreed. I’ll give my staff the choice—stay back on Pentaris or undergo voluntary sessions with the Interrogators that they can end at any time.” I bite my lip, because I know most, if not all, of my people will choose to stay back. Going into the Aurelian Empire itself is terrifying, and facing down the vetting process of the Interrogators is grueling, mentally taxing. I’m giving theman easy way out. Maybe a few from Frosthold will stay on, or a couple of the most loyal from Virelia, but my staff will be decimated.

“There’s one more thing.” I steel myself. When I say this, there’s no going back. I’m putting my full trust in the triad. “I’ve got spies in your royal palace.”

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