The air outside the banquet hall was cool and heavy with salt. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea whispered its endless lullaby, indifferent to blood and politics.
I was just beginning to relax when I saw him—Lord Cael—leaning against one of the marble columns like a spider waiting at the edge of its web.
"Supreme," he greeted smoothly.
I didn't stop walking.
He fell into step beside me. "I can understand your desire for… sentimentality," he said. "But sentiment makes poor politics."
I raised a brow.
His voice dropped slightly, oiled with condescension. "You're intelligent. Strong. You've seized power where others would've died groveling. It's beneath you to cling to a defective thing like that when you could have a mate worthy of your title."
I stopped.
Nine had followed behind me quietly, a pace or two back. I hadn't realized he'd been close enough to hear—but his breath hitched. Just once.
Then silence.
I turned to look at him.
His violet eyes were wide, unreadable. For a second, I thought he would retreat, like he always did. Let it slide off him like water off glass.
But he didn't.
Nine took one step forward.
And then another.
Until he stood directly in front of Cael, staring up at the man who'd just degraded him without shame.
"I am not defective," he said, voice soft but steady.
It hit the air like a bell.
Cael blinked.
"I am bonded," Nine added, fingers brushing the edge of the mating mark that glowed faintly at his throat. "I was chosen. I was claimed. And if you believe strength means cruelty—then maybe it's your son I should pity."
Nyx hummed in my head, low and proud. There he is.
Cael took a small, surprised step back.
Nine didn't move. He didn't bare his teeth or raise his voice. He didn't need to.
He simply stood there, tall in his silence, luminous in his quiet defiance. Every inch of him screamed mine—not in submission, but in certainty.
I stepped beside him, folding my hand into his.
"You heard him," I said. "Try that again, and I'll feed you to the sea."
Cael went pale.
He left without another word.
Nine didn't look at me. Not immediately.
His shoulders were taut, his fingers cold against mine—but he didn't let go.
Only when we were alone again—finally—did he turn his head toward me, just slightly.
"I wasn't sure I could say it out loud," he whispered.
"You did," I said. "And you meant it."
He nodded.
And when I leaned down to kiss his temple, he leaned into it with all the weight of someone learning, slowly, what it meant to stand tall—and still be held.