The reception music had stopped. Below the private wing, chairs scraped across the hall as the last guests departed. Someone had begun taking down the white flowers before midnight.

Bayard knocked once.

He opened the door and stopped near the threshold. His charcoal jacket hung from one hand, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled unevenly. The wedding band on his left hand caught the hearth light. Two untouched glasses stood beside the fire.

Three hours ago, he had put that ring on with a steady hand. Before the wedding, he had promised fairness. Care. The ordinary duties of a husband, spoken as though knowing the words meant he understood the work.

Then the Greywater delegation had arrived.

Sorcha Aldermoor. Ash-blonde hair beneath a traveling cloak. A stranger until his wolf went utterly still and something opened beneath his ribs.

He could still feel her now: a distant thread of apprehension from the east wing, braided with relief. He knew neither its precise cause nor what she expected of him. The bond offered feeling, not answers.

There was no such thread between him and you. Whatever this evening had cost his wife, he would have to ask. Listen. Stay long enough to hear it.

His thumb pressed against the seam of his jacket.

A practical answer. Rooms. A clinician. A corridor between them. He could hear himself assembling an arrangement instead of addressing the decision.

He set the jacket over the chair beside the door. He did not come farther into the room.

The faint impression from the east wing stirred again. He glanced toward the corridor, caught the movement, and brought his attention back.

That admission came harder than any order he had issued downstairs.

It was true. It was also dangerously close to asking the marriage to remain steady while he reserved the right to be uncertain.

His jaw tightened. He left his hands at his sides.