CHAPTER 274: CHAPTER 274: MAKE HIM STAY

The cellars of the Fitzgeralt manor had not seen daylight in a week.

Trevor sat in the chair he had claimed as his throne, cuffs immaculate despite the blood that had dried on every stone around him. Windstone stood at his right, clipboard balanced in steady hands, his pale green eyes sharp enough to cut through exhaustion.

Alan had broken three days ago. The rest followed quickly after. The names had poured out like rot finally lanced from a wound; priests, business partners, archivists, and even the lowliest servants were tied in whispers to Benedict’s chain.

Trevor had burned half of them and released the others. The ten percent that remained were a collection of husks, useful, if only as reminders that cowardice was still currency to be spent.

He was signing the last dismissal when the secure line on his desk hummed. The single tone was distinctive, meant only for one channel. Dax.

Trevor’s lips curved, humorless. He opened it with a flick.

The words were brutal and blunt, like Dax was when his patience ran thin.

"The Eminence fled Palatine. He runs like a rat. Tell Fitzgeralt he has leave to hunt. I expect blood. – Dax."

Trevor exhaled once, slow, violet eyes sharpening. "So. The snake fled."

Windstone adjusted his clipboard. "Cornered animals bite harder. And if Benedict moves west, Odin may not be far behind."

Trevor leaned back, a hand dragging over his face before settling at his jaw. Odin. He had found the first thread days ago, letters hidden in Alan’s accounts, the faint trail of money sliding toward a name that refused to stay dead. Odin’s newest scheme was predictable enough: a girl. Ophelia.

Lucas’s sister.

Trevor’s mouth curled into something lethal. "So Odin wants to reach for Lucas with a child’s hand. Let him. We’ll break them both."

Windstone’s voice was steady, almost bland in its precision. "Serathine had her under surveillance from the moment she stepped out from her protection. We can dispose of her immediately."

Trevor’s fingers drummed once against the armrest, slowly. "No. Not yet."

Windstone’s pale green eyes flicked up from the clipboard, expression unreadable. "She is a liability."

Trevor’s mouth curved, though it was all blade, no smile. "She’s bait. Odin doesn’t crawl out of his holes unless he thinks the shadows are safe. Let the girl dance. Let him believe he has a chance to touch Lucas through her." His voice dipped, velvet and venom in equal measure. "And when he reaches? We take his hand off at the wrist."

Windstone’s pen scratched faintly against paper, a single neat notation. "Very well. Then she remains under Serathine’s net until the wolf shows his muzzle."

Trevor pushed himself up from the chair at last, the weight of the cellar’s stale air clinging to his suit like smoke. His violet eyes glinted. "Odin thinks he can play with my family. He forgets Lucas isn’t his to touch. And if he insists on trying, then Ophelia will serve as his gravestone."

Windstone inclined his head, his tone dry enough to draw blood. "Two corpses, one lesson."

Trevor’s lips curved cruelly. "Precisely."

He paused at the cellar door, gaze flicking once toward the shadows where the husks of Alan’s people still lingered, stripped of dignity, clinging to survival. "Have them cleaned out. I want silence in these halls again by tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord."

As the heavy door shut behind him, the manor’s silence seemed louder than the screams had been. Trevor’s steps carried him upward, toward the brighter wing of the house, where Lucas’s laughter, light, careless, and utterly at odds with the blood-soaked week, spilled faintly through the corridor.

Trevor’s jaw tightened. If Odin thought to fracture Lucas with ghosts from his past, he was already too late.

—

The manor’s upper halls smelled of lemon oil and fresh linen, a deliberate contrast to the copper rot Trevor had left behind in the cellars. His steps were unhurried, cuffs immaculate, every line of him composed, but the weight of days of blood and confession clung to him like a second skin.

He pushed the door to Lucas’s room open without knocking.

Inside, Lucas was sprawled sideways across the couch, a phone balanced loosely between his fingers. The glow of the screen lit his face, catching the sharp curve of his smirk. He was typing like his life depended on it.

Trevor shut the door behind him with a soft click.

Lucas didn’t look up, too busy typing his next provocation into the glowing group chat.

The phone was plucked neatly from his hand.

Lucas froze, green eyes snapping up, meeting the steady violet of Trevor’s. His husband stood over him, suit flawless, presence filling the room like smoke after fire.

Trevor tilted the phone once, screen still glowing with the Glass Crackers title bold at the top. Chris’s last message sat plain in the thread.

"What," Trevor asked evenly, voice low but sharp enough to slice, "is this?"

Lucas blinked up at him, utterly unbothered, like a cat caught with feathers in its mouth. "Oh, that?" He leaned back into the couch, folding his hands behind his head. "That’s me making sure Dax’s omega doesn’t bolt, because apparently His Majesty of Saha is doing a spectacularly shitty job of it."

Trevor’s brow arched, but his expression didn’t shift. "You’re meddling with Dax’s consort."

"I’m helping Dax’s consort," Lucas corrected sweetly. "There’s a difference. One keeps him in the palace, the other leaves us with an unhinged king tearing down borders just to sniff him out. I call that crisis management."

The room went quiet for a beat, Trevor’s violet gaze steady, unreadable. Then his mouth curved, faint and dangerous.

"Crisis management," he repeated softly.

Lucas grinned wider, wicked and unrepentant. "Exactly. I should get a prize for all my work."

Trevor set the phone back onto the table, carefully, like he was laying down a blade rather than a piece of glass. His eyes lingered on Lucas, violet, burning with something that wasn’t anger so much as calculation.

"You’re meddling in Dax’s palace," he said finally, voice calm, almost conversational. "So tell me... how exactly are you keeping his omega from running? Because I know Dax. He can smell everything for miles, and if Christopher so much as twitches, the man has ten shadows ready to pin him to the wall."

Lucas stretched out on the couch, smug as a cat that had just swiped cream from the jug. "That’s the beauty of it. I’m not keeping him from running. I’m making sure he doesn’t want to."

Trevor’s brows lifted slightly, interest sharpening the hard line of his mouth. "You think words will hold him when Dax can’t?"

Lucas’s grin curved, bright and merciless all at once. "More like choices. The one thing Dax will never give him. So we dangle a little freedom, a little air, and suddenly the cage doesn’t look so suffocating. He’ll sit still, because he decided to. Not because Dax chained him."

Trevor tilted his head, studying Lucas with the kind of focused patience he rarely gave anyone else. Then, slowly, his lips curved, with the faintest edge of admiration in it. "Well, that is an interesting turn of events. I assume Serathine and Cressida are helping."

"Of course," Lucas said without hesitation, his grin flattening into something sharper. "But Trevor, Chris is barely hanging there. If Dax fucks it up, no amount of us meddling would make Chris even trust him."

Trevor’s violet gaze deepened, like he was weighing far more than the words in front of him. "So you’re not stopping him from running. You’re buying him time. Teaching him to breathe in the space Dax leaves."

Lucas nodded once. "If Dax pushes too hard, Chris will break."

Trevor leaned back slightly, a hand lifting to adjust his cuff absentmindedly, though his eyes never left Lucas. "And you care because...?"

Lucas’s smirk flickered, softer at the edges, the gleam in his green eyes turning almost dangerous. "Because I know what it’s like to sit in a cage and think there’s no air left. And because if Chris collapses, Dax won’t just lose an omega, he’ll lose his leash. And the last thing this continent needs is a king without one."

Trevor hummed low in his throat, a sound between agreement and warning. His lips curved, faint but genuine this time. "Practical. Very practical."