Chapter 27: The Circle Closes

The Crown Prince had arrived.

Sirius Alaric of Palatine.

He didn't need an introduction. Everyone in the Capital knew that face—sharpened by birthright, war-forged by responsibility, and tempered by a charisma so cool it could cut. Brown hair slicked back with precision. Blue eyes like cold fire. His presence commanded silence the way generals command armies.

He strode past the nobles and courtiers without glancing at a single one, cutting through the sea of wealth and power like it was air. The whispers died the moment his shadow passed.

And then he was in front of them.

Sirius Alaric—Crown Prince of Palatine—stopped not at Lucas, but at Lucius, his gaze sharp and narrowing like a blade turned on its edge.

"You were supposed to wait for me."

Lucius didn't blink. He offered the most innocent expression he could conjure, all bright-eyed arrogance wrapped in too-clean lines.

"I did. You were late."

Sirius's voice dropped half a note.

"You arrived two hours early. Don't lie to me."

Lucius tilted his head, lips twitching at the corners.

"Who ratted on me?"

Sirius exhaled through his nose, then gave a tight smile—one that promised paperwork, lectures, and strategic vengeance.

"Really? Lucius, you're not a kid."

"But I'm still your problem," Lucius replied sweetly.

"Not for long," Sirius muttered. "I'm assigning you a handler."

Lucius's smirk deepened. "You tried that once. She married a diplomat in two months and moved continents."

Behind them, Serathine hummed low in her throat. "Charming," she murmured. "He'll get along perfectly with mine."

Lucas, watching the exchange like someone caught in the front row of a very formal disaster, arched a brow.

"This is really going to be my life now, isn't it?"

Lucius and Sirius both looked at him—two different shades of blue, the same weight behind them.

"Yes," Lucius said, without hesitation.

"You made your bed," Sirius added. "Now you get to hear us argue over it."

Trevor blinked slowly. "That's disturbing."

Lucas raised his glass again, deadpan.

"To being the heir. May the political gossip be less exhausting than the family."

"Unlikely," Serathine said, sipping. "But you're holding up well."

Lucas's eyes tracked the rim of his glass.

"I don't know any of you yet," he said, frowning lightly.

The words weren't accusatory—just honest. Quiet. Raw around the edges.

He stood in a ring of power: two princes, a duchess, and a northern king-in-everything-but-title. They were allies, protectors, and political players with blood ties or forged vows. But they were strangers too.

Lucas hadn't grown up with family like this.

In his past life, it had always been Ophelia and Misty.

And then Andrew, briefly—until Misty couldn't stand her husband's attraction to Lucas.

Then it had been just Christian.

Always Christian.

And Christian had never allowed anyone else.

Lucas hadn't learned how to exist in a room full of people without watching for the trap. Without checking for the next hand around his wrist. The next price to be paid for someone's version of affection.

"You have enough time to get sick of us. Especially Lucius." Said Sirius, then, "Speaking of knowing people, Trevor, how did Serathine convince you to be here? I had to use my power to invoke you last time we needed you."

Trevor didn't answer right away.

He finished the sip of wine he'd been nursing far more slowly than anyone should nurse wine, his purple gaze flicking from Lucas to Serathine, then landing squarely on Sirius.

"I wasn't convinced," he said at last, his voice as sharp and dry as the glass in his hand. "I was cornered."

Sirius raised a brow. "That tracks."

Trevor went on, perfectly composed. "She used a boy as leverage. A rare male omega, recently reborn under a noble house, with enough political volatility to cause a civil disturbance if so much as a napkin is folded wrong at dinner."

"I don't use children," Serathine interjected, unbothered. "I liberate them."

"From their lives?" Trevor deadpanned. "Or from their peace?"

Lucas snorted, despite himself. "I'm literally sitting right here."

Trevor gave him a sidelong look, too measured to be casual. "And yet somehow, still the calmest person in the room."

Lucas tilted his head. "You're just mad she got you involved again."

Trevor didn't deny it. His silence was its own kind of confirmation, the kind that said: yes, but I stayed anyway.

Sirius watched all of this unfold like someone watching a game he hadn't learned the rules to yet—and realizing, belatedly, that he might be one of the pieces.

"You care about him," the Crown Prince said slowly.

Trevor turned his glass between his fingers. "If I didn't, I wouldn't still be here."

Lucius leaned against a marble pillar, arms crossed, voice light. "I'm actually relieved. I thought Serathine was just keeping you around to spike the court wine."

"Don't tempt me," Trevor murmured.

Serathine's smile, thin and elegant, curved like a blade unsheathed. "I don't need to tempt you. You're already invested. Deeply."

Lucas, still cradling his own untouched drink, didn't interrupt. His expression had sobered again—watchful, but not closed. He didn't know how to name this yet: this group, this strange alliance, this place between protection and strategy where affection didn't feel like debt.

It was too early to trust it.

But he wanted to.

And that, in itself, was a revolution.

Sirius looked at Lucas then, more closely. "You really don't know what you're walking into, do you?"

"No," Lucas admitted. "But I think I'm not walking alone anymore."

Trevor's jaw flexed slightly. Lucius's arms loosened at his chest. Serathine glanced down into her glass, hiding a look that was something dangerously close to pride.

"Good," Sirius said, his voice like stone settling into place. "Then let's make sure no one drags you back."

And for the first time since Lucas had entered the Empire's orbit, he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, the past wasn't chasing him anymore.

—

The music had shifted—something string-heavy and baroque, a courtly rhythm meant to remind people of their posture. Nobles drifted like petals across polished marble, their words dipped in flattery and strategy, silk brushing silk as alliances spun in half-meant compliments.

And in the middle of it all stood Lucas.

He navigated with the kind of charm that didn't beg attention—it earned it. Effortless small talk, the right laugh at the right volume, and the flick of a gaze that made men second-guess their words and women straighten their spines. He moved from group to group like a shadow touched by gold.

No sharp edges. No visible thorns.

But everyone who spoke to him left knowing they'd been handled.

A young marquess attempted to corner him into a dance, and Lucas declined with a smile too kind to protest.

A matron from the western provinces mentioned opium tea and arranged marriages in the same breath—Lucas answered with a disarming nod and excused himself before her companion could recover from the dismissal.

Everything flowed.

Until it didn't.

He didn't notice the alpha at first—not as anything more than another name in the sea. Well-dressed, polished, leaning against the side table with that loose-hipped confidence young alphas liked to wear before they learned what real dominance looked like.

The alpha stepped into Lucas's orbit like he belonged there. Like it was a favor.

Lucas turned to acknowledge him, expression smooth.

And then—

It hit him.

A surge of pheromones—thick, cloying, aggressively sweet—spilled into the space between them like smoke through a closed room. Not a tease. Not a mistake.