Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 22
I stayed on the mat. Hands shaking. Cock aching. Briefs ruined.
What the fuck had we just done.
I forced myself to stand. To walk back to my quarters on unsteady legs. To peel off clothes that reeked of sex and desperation.
The cold water didn't help. Didn't wash away the memory of his body under mine. The sounds he'd made. The way he'd commanded me to grind harder. The way he'd come with my cock pressed against his.
When I closed my eyes, I felt it all again. His legs around my waist. His hand in my hair. His cock pulsing against mine as he came.
One more second and I would've kissed him. Would've stripped us both and fucked him right there on the training mat.
One more second and everything would've changed.
But he'd walked away. Left me wrecked and wanting. Left me knowing exactly how he tasted when he fell apart. Left me knowing I'd never be able to look at him the same way again.
12
POLITE INTERROGATION
SEBASTIAN
Cedar curled off the chisel in pale ribbons that smelled like rain and memory. I turned the box toward the lamp, checking the inlay groove along the lid. The crescent and star would sit there clean if I didn't rush it. Silver on cedar. A surprise for my father's desk that he would pretend not to cry over.
Footsteps in the corridor. Not palace steps. Different cadence. Less ceremony, more purpose. Heavier. The kind that came from men who walked crime scenes instead of marble halls.
I didn't look up when the knock came. “Enter.”
Detective Chief Inspector Akintola stepped inside like the room belonged to neither of us and he'd been invited anyway. No uniform. Dark coat, damp at the shoulders. Close-cropped hair catching the lamplight. He shut the door with a soft click and took in the workbench, the tools, the unroyal mess.
“Your Highness.”
“Detective Chief Inspector,” I said, keeping my eyes on the inlay work. Making him wait. “I would offer you a seat, but most of them are covered in sawdust.”
“I've survived worse.” He didn't sit. Instead, he walked a slow line along the shelves, reading the room the way other men read faces. His gaze passed over the half-finished toys, the stacked wood, the careful organization of tools. Professional interest. Not accusation. Not yet. “The palace said you were busy. I asked them to define busy. They said 'carving.' I asked them if that was a euphemism. They said no.”
“It rarely is.” I set the chisel down and brushed the bench with the back of my wrist. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a late-night inspection?”
“Not an inspection. A conversation.” He moved to the window, looked out at the grounds. “About the vigilante situation.”
“Ah. The archer.” I picked up sandpaper, started smoothing the lid's edge. “I've seen the news coverage. Very dramatic. The press loves a good mystery.”
“The press loves spectacle. I prefer solutions.” He turned back, leaned against the windowsill. Casual. But his eyes tracked everything. “What are your thoughts on vigilantism, Your Highness?”
I paused my sanding. “In general? Or specifically?”
“Let's start with general.”
“I think people resort to vigilantism when they believe the system has failed them. When they think justice moves too slowly or not at all.” I examined the wood grain, kept my voice neutral. Academic. “It's understandable. Misguided, but understandable.”
“Misguided how?”
“Because one person deciding what justice looks like is how we got monarchies. And we all know how well that's worked out.” I met his eyes. Smiled. Empty and perfect. “Present company excluded, of course.”
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “And specifically? This archer. The one who's been leaving bodies around London.”
“I think he's reckless. Dangerous. Playing at hero without understanding the consequences.” I set down the sandpaper, picked up the box. Examined it in the light. “I also think he's probably terrified. Angry. Desperate to do something when everything feels out of control.”
“You've given this thought.”
“I think about a lot of things. Occupational hazard of being a prince with too much time and not enough purpose.” I set the box down, turned to face him fully. “Why are you here, Detective? Surely you don't think I have insight into the mind of a vigilante archer.”
“You'd be surprised what insights royalty can have.” He pushed off from the windowsill, moved closer to the workbench. “You travel through the city. Talk to people. See things from angles I don't. I'm curious what you make of him.”
“Of someone I've never met?”
“Of someone who's doing what you might do if you weren't bound by protocol and security.”
The observation landed like a punch. I kept my expression neutral. “That's quite an assumption.”
“Is it?” He picked up one of the wooden animals, turned it over in his hands. A rabbit. One of Emma's rabbits. “You make toys for sick children. Visit hospitals in secret. Skip official engagements to spend time with people no one else remembers. That doesn't sound like someone content to let the system handle everything.”
“There's a difference between carving toys and shooting people with arrows.”
“Is there? Both are about trying to fix what's broken. Both are about giving something to people who have nothing.” He set the rabbit down carefully. “Both require a certain level of skill and dedication.”
I didn't like where this was going. “If you're suggesting—”
“I'm not suggesting anything. I'm observing.” He moved along the workbench, examining tools with professional interest. “These are quality instruments. Expensive. Well-maintained. You take your craft seriously.”
“Is that a crime?”
“No. But it shows discipline. Patience. The ability to focus on detail work for extended periods.” His eyes met mine. “Similar traits to someone who might make their own arrows, for instance.”
My pulse kicked. I forced myself to stay still. Stay calm. “I make toys, Detective. Not weapons.”
“I know. I've looked into your workshop requisitions. Wood orders. Tool purchases. All legitimate. All accounted for.” He smiled slightly. “Very thorough record-keeping. Your staff is meticulous.”
“They're paid to be.”
“Still. It's impressive.” He moved toward the door, paused. “You know what else is impressive? The vigilante's accuracy. Professional-level archery. Military-grade training, probably. Not the kind of thing you pick up at a weekend course.”
“I wouldn't know. I've never shot a bow in my life.”
The lie tasted bitter. But necessary.
Akintola studied me for a long moment. “Right. Of course you haven't.” He pulled out a small notebook, flipped through pages. “Let me ask you something else, then. These murders. The ones the vigilante commits. What do you think about them?”
“I think murder is murder. Justified or not.”
“Even when the victims are criminals? When they're planning attacks, moving weapons, threatening innocent people?”
“Even then. We have laws for a reason. Courts. Process.”
“Process takes time. People die while we follow procedure.”
“And people die when individuals decide they're judge, jury, and executioner.” I picked up the chisel again, needed something to do with my hands. “The vigilante might think he's helping. But he's just creating more chaos.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am certain. Because I've seen what happens when people take justice into their own hands. I've seen the collateral damage. The innocent bystanders caught in crossfire. The way violence begets violence until no one remembers what they were fighting for in the first place.”
Akintola tilted his head. “That's... specific.”
Shit. I'd said too much. Let emotion bleed into what should've been detached observation.
“I read,” I said quickly. “History. Philosophy. The same patterns repeat. Vigilantes always think they're different. Special. That their cause justifies their methods. They're always wrong.”
“And yet they keep appearing. Why do you think that is?”
“Because the system fails people. Because justice is slow and imperfect and sometimes the bad guys win.” I set down the chisel with more force than intended. “Because sometimes the only thing standing between innocent people and violence is someone willing to step into the gap, even if it means breaking rules they're supposed to follow.”
Silence.
I'd said too much again. Revealed too much of what I actually thought instead of what I should think.
Akintola was watching me with those careful, assessing eyes. “You sound almost sympathetic.”
“I'm sympathetic to the impulse. Not the execution.” I met his gaze. “Is there a point to this conversation, Detective? Because if you're trying to determine whether I secretly admire vigilantes, the answer is no. I think they're dangerous, misguided, and ultimately counterproductive.”
“Even if they save lives?”
“Even then. Because the cost is too high. The precedent too dangerous. You can't build a just society on the foundation of individual violence, no matter how noble the intent.”
He nodded slowly. “That's a very principled position.”
“I'm a prince. Principles are part of the job description.”
“So is diplomacy. And yet you seem quite passionate about this.”
Because it was personal. Because I was arguing against myself. Because every word was a condemnation of what I did in the dark while pretending to be civilized in daylight.
“I'm passionate about the rule of law,” I said. “About maintaining order in a world that's constantly threatening to descend into chaos. The vigilante might think he's a hero. But he's just another person who thinks his judgment is better than everyone else's. That his violence is justified because his motives are pure.” I leaned against the workbench. “History is full of people who thought that. They all left corpses in their wake.”
Akintola was quiet for a moment. Then he closed his notebook. “You make a compelling argument.”
“It's the truth.”
“Perhaps.” He moved toward the door again, hand on the handle. “One more question, if you'll indulge me.”
“Of course.”
“If you were the vigilante. If you were the one out there making these choices. What would you want someone to say to you?”
The question caught me off guard. “I'm not—”
“Hypothetically.” His eyes held mine. “What would you need to hear?”
I thought about it. Really thought about it. About all the nights I'd spent running across rooftops, telling myself I was making a difference. About the weight of every arrow I'd loosed. About the way violence felt both necessary and unforgivable.
“I'd want someone to tell me it's okay to stop,” I said finally. Quietly. “That I don't have to carry the weight alone. That there are other ways to fight without becoming what I'm fighting against.”
“And would you listen?”
“I don't know. Probably not.” I picked up the box again, ran my fingers over the smooth wood. “Pride is a powerful thing. So is the belief that you're the only one who can fix what's broken.”
Akintola nodded. “Thank you for your time, Your Highness. And for your honesty.”
“I'm not sure I've been particularly honest.”
“More than you think.” He opened the door, paused. “The vigilante, whoever he is. He's going to get himself killed. Or kill the wrong person. Or cross a line he can't uncross. When that happens, I'll be there. I just hope he realizes before then that heroism and self-destruction aren't the same thing.”
He left. Door closing with a soft click.
I found Viktor in the security office, standing with his back to three monitors that cycled through palace feeds. His shoulders were locked tight, jaw working as he reviewed something on his tablet. He looked tired. More tired than usual.
“Viktor.”
He turned. Those steel-gray eyes found mine, and for half a second, something unguarded flickered there before the professional mask slammed back into place.
“Your Highness.”
I hated that title from his mouth. Made the space between us feel like miles instead of feet.
“I need you to accompany me somewhere,” I said. Kept my voice level. Reasonable. Not a command. Not quite a request either.
His eyebrow lifted. “Where?”
“St. George's Hospital. Children's ward.” I watched his expression, looking for... what? Judgment? Refusal? “The toys are finished. All of them. I need to deliver them tonight.”
Silence stretched between us. He studied me with that careful intensity that made my pulse kick. Like he was reading subtext I hadn't meant to write.
“You want me to escort you,” he said slowly. “Not sneak out. Not disappear. Actually coordinate security.”
“Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of reasonable decisions occasionally.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Occasionally.”
“Don't let it go to your head.” I finally looked at him. “Will you come with me?”
Something shifted in his eyes. Softened. Just for a moment. “Of course.”
The children's ward smelled like antiseptic and artificial cherry. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Nurses moved between rooms with practiced efficiency, checking monitors, adjusting IVs, offering tired smiles to families camping in uncomfortable chairs.
I hated it here. Hated the sounds of machines keeping small bodies alive. Hated the way hope and despair lived in the same hallway. Hated that kids like Emma and Marcus and Aiden had to fight battles most adults would crumble under.
But I came anyway. Because they deserved better than my discomfort.
Nurse Rachel spotted us first. Mid-thirties, Jamaican heritage, kind eyes that had seen too much suffering. She'd been working this ward for a decade, knew every patient by name, every parent's coffee order, every small victory worth celebrating.
She also knew me.
“Your Highness.” She kept her voice low. No fanfare. No fuss. Just the way I'd asked. “I wasn't expecting you tonight.”
“Finished ahead of schedule.” I lifted the bags. “Where should I start?”
“Emma's been asking about you. Keeps telling everyone she's getting a treasure chest fit for a princess.” Rachel's smile went soft. “She's been rough this week. Infection after her last treatment. But she's awake now if you want to go in.”
My throat went tight. “Yeah. Okay.”
Viktor stayed close as we moved down the corridor. Not hovering. Just... present. His bulk somehow reassuring in this place that felt fragile and temporary.
Emma's room was at the end. Small. Private. Walls covered in drawings she'd made, taped up by nurses who understood that beauty mattered when the world was mostly pain.
She was tiny in the hospital bed. Eight years old but looking younger without hair, without the vitality that should've been her birthright. Dark eyes too big for her face. Brown skin gone ashy from treatment. An IV snaking into her thin arm.
But when she saw me, she lit up. Actual light, like someone had switched on a lamp behind her eyes.
“Prince Sebastian!”
“Hey, Em.” I moved to her bedside, set the bag down carefully. “Heard you've been having a rough go of it.”
“The medicine makes me throw up.” Matter-of-fact. Like nausea was just another part of her day. “But I don't care because I get ice cream after and Nurse Rachel says I'm the bravest girl she knows.”
“Nurse Rachel is correct.” I crouched down so we were eye level. “I brought you something. Something I've been working on for a while now.”
Her eyes went wide. “Is it...?”
“See for yourself.”
I pulled out the chest. Cedar wood, smooth under my hands. The carved animals danced around the sides, each one detailed enough to feel alive. The rabbit on the lid sat proud, ears up, ready to bolt or stay. Lucky, like her mother said.
Emma's breath caught. Her small hands reached out, hovering over the wood like she was afraid touching it would make it disappear.
“It's yours,” I said gently. “Go ahead.”
She traced the rabbit with one finger. Slow. Reverent. Then she opened the lid and the music box mechanism inside played a soft, tinkling melody. Something my mother used to hum. Something I'd spent hours getting right.
“It's beautiful,” Emma whispered. Tears streaked down her face. Not sad tears. The other kind. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” I reached out, touched her cheek softly. “You're fighting so hard, Em. Every day you wake up and choose to keep going, even when it hurts. That's beautiful. That's brave. That's everything.”
She threw her arms around my neck. Small and fragile and fierce all at once. I held her carefully, like she was made of glass, feeling her silent sobs shake against my chest.
When she pulled back, she was smiling through the tears. “Can I keep treasures in it?”
“That's what it's for. Special things. Important things. Things that remind you why you're fighting.”
“I'm going to put my rabbit collection in it. And the card my dad sent from America. And the bracelet Nurse Rachel made me.” She looked up at me. “And I'll remember you made it for me. When I'm scared at night and the medicine hurts. I'll look at it and remember.”
I had to look away. Had to blink hard against the burning in my eyes.
Viktor stood by the door, and when I glanced at him, his expression was wrecked. Raw. Like seeing this had cracked something inside him he'd kept carefully sealed.
“I'll come visit again soon,” I told Emma. “Bring you some new drawings to hang up. Maybe some of those terrible jokes you like.”
“The ones about chickens?”
“Those are the ones.”
She giggled. Actual joy. In this terrible place, surrounded by machines and medicine, she still had space for laughter.
