Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 38
I felt myself falling, felt Sebastian catch me, felt us both sink into wet grass while I came apart in his arms like something that had been held together with wire and will finally giving up the fight.
And he held me.
Didn't try to shush me or tell me it would be okay or any of the useless platitudes people offered when they were uncomfortable with someone else's grief. Just held me. Let me break. Let me bleed out years of poison I'd been swallowing to stay functional.
I cried like I hadn't cried since I'd dug Anya's grave with hands that refused to stop shaking.
Cried for the girl I couldn't save. For the man I'd become trying to make up for it. For all the years I'd spent alone because being alone meant no one else could die on my watch. For every wall I'd built and every connection I'd refused and every moment of warmth I'd turned away because warmth meant vulnerability and vulnerability meant loss.
Sebastian's hand moved through my hair. Gentle. Steady. Anchoring me in the present when all I wanted was to drown in the past.
“I've got you,” he murmured against my temple. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You can break. I'll hold the pieces.”
“You should—”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Sebastian—”
“Shut up and let me hold you.”
So I did.
I shut up and let him hold me while I fell apart. While rain washed blood and tears and eighteen years of pretending into the grass. While thunder rolled overhead and roses bloomed pale in darkness like ghosts I'd spent my whole life running from.
I don't know how long we stayed there. Could've been minutes. Could've been hours. Time felt different. Slippery. Like we'd stepped outside normal reality into some pocket where grief was allowed and breaking wasn't weakness and you could fall apart without disappearing completely.
Eventually the tears slowed. Turned into shuddering breaths. Into silence.
My face was pressed against his shoulder. His shirt was soaked through with rain and tears and everything I'd been holding back. His hand still moved through my hair in slow, steady strokes. Patient. Infinite. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it right here holding me together.
“I am sorry,” I managed. Voice wrecked. Unfamiliar in my own mouth.
“For what?”
“For falling apart. For being—”
“Don't apologize for being human.” He pulled back just enough to look at me. Rain streaked his face. Made him look younger. More vulnerable. More real than anything I'd ever held. “Don't apologize for having feelings in a world that tried to beat them out of you.”
“I am supposed to be professional. In control. I am supposed to—”
“You're a person.” His hands framed my face. “A person who's been through hell and is still standing. That's not weakness, Viktor. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen.”
I searched his face. Found nothing but honesty. No pity. No disgust. Just acceptance so raw it hurt to look at directly.
“I do not know how to do this,” I admitted. “How to be close to someone without destroying them. Without failing them the way I failed her.”
“Neither do I.” His smile was small. Real. Sad in the way that comes from understanding. “But we can figure it out together. Make new mistakes instead of old ones.”
“What if I fail again? What if—”
“What if you don't?” He leaned closer. Close enough to kiss but not quite. Waiting. Giving me the choice even now. “What if this time, it works? What if we both make it through whatever's coming? What if choosing to try is enough?”
“Statistically unlikely.”
“Fuck statistics.” He closed the last inch. “I'd rather live one real moment with you than a thousand safe ones alone.”
I kissed him.
Kissed him like he was air and I'd been drowning. Like he was the only solid thing in a world made of water and darkness. Like he was the truth I'd been running from my entire life, the warmth I'd convinced myself I didn't deserve, the grace I'd never thought to ask for.
He kissed me back just as desperately. Hands in my hair. Mouth opening under mine. Tasting like rain and hope and everything I'd spent eighteen years telling myself was impossible for men like me.
It wasn't the fierce, hungry kiss from before. This was different. Slower. Deeper. Tender in a way that terrified me more than violence ever had. Like we were learning each other from the beginning. Like everything that came before had been preparation for this moment right here, kneeling in wet grass while the world fell apart around us and we held each other through it anyway.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
“I am not going anywhere.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.” The words felt like vows. Like signing my name in blood. Like stepping off a cliff and trusting he'd catch me. “I promise I will stay. Will try. Will be human with you even when it terrifies me.”
“That's all I'm asking.”
The words felt like absolution.
Like finally, after eighteen years of carrying guilt alone, someone was telling me I was allowed to put it down. Not forget it. Not pretend it never happened. Just allowed to carry it with someone else instead of letting it crush me in the dark.
Like maybe choosing to live instead of just survive wasn't betraying Anya. Maybe it was honoring her. Maybe she'd want me to be happy instead of spending the rest of my life punishing myself for failing her.
Maybe grief could coexist with joy.
Maybe I could hold both.
We stayed there, kneeling in the grass, holding each other while rain washed everything clean except the things that needed to stay dirty.
And for the first time in eighteen years, the ghosts felt a little quieter.
Not gone. Never gone.
Just. Quieter.
Like maybe I could learn to live with them instead of being haunted.
Like maybe I deserved this.
21
OBSIDIAN FLAMES
SEBASTIAN
Istood under the stone arch where Viktor and I had first argued months ago, back when I'd thought he was just another bodyguard who'd try to cage me. Back when I'd been stupid enough to think I could keep him at arm's length.
Now his hand brushed mine as we walked, and the world didn't end.
That was the strange part. The terrifying part. We'd crossed every line, broken every rule, and nothing had collapsed. No lightning from heaven. No palace guards dragging us apart. Just this: sunlight and fountains and his fingers grazing my wrist like he couldn't help himself.
“Feels strange,” I said quietly, watching a pair of maids hurry past with linens, their eyes carefully averted from us. “Being allowed to want something and not apologize for it.”
Viktor's mouth curved. Barely. Just the ghost of a smile. “It will not last forever. But we'll take it while it does.”
The words should've felt ominous. Instead they felt true. Real in a way most promises weren't.
We stopped beneath the arch. The same place where he'd towered over me with that stone-cold expression, telling me in clipped Russian-accented English that my security was his responsibility and I'd damn well cooperate. The same place where I'd told him to go to hell and walked away feeling something I'd refused to name.
Now I tilted my head back, looking up at him. “You realize we're in plain view.”
“Da. I know.”
“Guards at two o'clock. Kitchen staff at the windows. Three ambassadors' aides probably watching from the east wing.”
“I see them.”
“So you're aware that if you kiss me right now, you're basically announcing to the entire palace that the prince and his bodyguard are...”
I trailed off. Because I still didn't have a word for what we were. Lovers felt too simple. Together felt too fragile. Mine felt too possessive and not possessive enough.
Viktor's hand came up, cupped my jaw. His thumb traced my cheekbone with the same deliberate care he used when checking weapons. Like I was something valuable that required attention.
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not performative. Just firm and real and claiming in a way that made my chest go tight.
I heard a soft gasp from somewhere behind us. Probably one of the maids. Definitely someone who'd be gossiping in the staff quarters within the hour.
Good.
When we pulled apart, I was grinning. “You just started three rumors in thirty seconds.”
He stepped back, hand falling to his side, but his eyes stayed on mine. Warm. Real. “We have work to do.”
Right. Work. Because even with my father's blessing and the morning sunlight making everything feel possible, the world was still trying to kill us.
“Ghost Zero,” I said, sobering. “You really think it's someone inside?”
“I know it is.” Viktor's expression shifted. Professional. Focused. “Pattern is too precise. Too informed. Someone with access to schedules. To routes. To exact positioning.”
“Could be anyone on the security council. Half the advisory board. God, even some of the senior staff.”
“Which is why we trust no one.”
I nodded. My hand drifted to my pocket, found the small wooden falcon Viktor had carved. I'd been carrying it for weeks now, ever since he'd left it on my workbench with no explanation. Physical evidence that the stoic bodyguard had a heart buried somewhere under all that tactical armor.
“When do you check in with Adrian?” I asked.
“In five minutes. Encrypted line from the Sentinel office.”
“I want to be there.”
His jaw tightened. “Sebastian—”
“Don't. Don't try to protect me from your world.” I stepped closer, voice dropping. “We're in this together now. That means all of it. Your contacts, your network, your past. I'm not some porcelain prince who needs to be kept in the dark.”
For a moment, I thought he'd argue. Saw the war playing out behind his eyes, duty versus trust, professional distance versus whatever the hell we'd become.
Then he exhaled. “Fine. But you let me do the talking.”
“Deal.”
We started walking again, his hand finding the small of my back.
A guard passed us, young guy with nervous eyes. He nodded to Viktor, glanced at me, then away fast. Too fast. Like he'd seen something he wasn't supposed to acknowledge.
“This is going to make security harder,” I said as we climbed the stairs toward the east wing.
“Everything about you makes security harder.”
I laughed. “That's not what you said last night.”
His hand tightened against my back. Warning. But I caught the flush creeping up his neck, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying not to smile.
God, I loved that. Loved that I could make him react. Loved that underneath all that ice and discipline, there was a man who blushed when I teased him about sex.
We reached the Sentinel office, tucked away in a corner of the palace most people forgot existed. Viktor's private domain. All reinforced walls and encrypted communications and weapons lockers that probably violated half a dozen international treaties.
He keyed in the access code. The door hissed open, revealing a space that looked more like a military command center than an office. Screens on every wall. Weapons mounted in locked cases. A desk that had seen better days, covered in reports and surveillance photos and the kind of organized chaos that spoke to obsessive attention to detail.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Viktor said, already moving to the communications array. “This may take a while.”
I settled into the chair opposite his desk, watching him work. The way his hands moved across the keyboard, fast and sure. The way his shoulders carried tension like a second skin. The way he looked in his element, all focus and deadly competence.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine.
The screen flickered to life. Blue light washed across Viktor's face as the encryption protocols booted up. Then static, then a face.
Adrian.
“You look worse than your reports, Volkov,” Adrian said. His voice was cultured. British. The kind of accent that belonged in boardrooms and opera boxes, not criminal empires.
“Have not been sleeping well,” Viktor answered.
“I can see that.” Adrian's eyes shifted, found me in the frame. “Your Highness. I hope my operative has been satisfactory.”
“He'll do,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. Playing the game. “Saved my life a few times. Hasn't murdered anyone I actually liked.”
Adrian's mouth curved. “High praise.”
“He tries.”
Viktor shot me a look that promised retribution later. I smiled back innocently.
“We have a codename,” Viktor said, steering the conversation back to business. “Ghost Zero. Whoever it is, they're funding the attacks and using the palace as cover. Multiple cells. Coordinated strikes. Someone with deep pockets and deeper connections.”
Adrian leaned forward. “I'll send extraction if it goes sideways. You're not alone in this.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you've gone radio silent for three days and I'm wondering if the prince's pretty face has compromised your judgment.”
I bristled. Viktor's hand came down on my shoulder, gentle pressure. Shut up and let me handle this.
“My judgment is fine,” Viktor said, voice flat. “Prince Sebastian is asset, not distraction. He has combat training. Intelligence gathering skills. Access to palace intel I cannot get on my own.”
“And you're sleeping with him.”
Not a question. A statement.
The room went very quiet.
Viktor's hand stayed on my shoulder. Steady. Claiming. “Yes.”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Adrian asked.
“No.”
“You're sure? Because I've seen good men make bad calls when their hearts get involved.”
“I am sure.” Viktor's voice went hard. “This changes nothing about my ability to protect him. If anything, it makes me more motivated to ensure his survival.”
Adrian studied him for a long moment. Then his expression softened. Just slightly. “Good. Because I like you alive, Volkov. And I suspect the prince does too.”
A second voice cut in, warm and teasing. “You say that like he's ever taken backup.”
Someone moved into frame. Smaller than Adrian. Dark hair. Gentle features that contrasted sharply with the crime lord beside him. But his eyes held fire underneath the softness, the kind that said he'd survived things that should've broken him.
Noah.
Adrian's husband. The angel in the beast's den. The man who'd somehow tamed London's most dangerous criminal.
Viktor's entire posture changed. Softened in a way I'd never seen. “You still keeping him alive?”
“Every day,” Noah replied. “Some days I even enjoy it.”
There was affection there. Real and deep. Like these three had history that went beyond professional.
Like Viktor had a life before me. People who mattered. Connections that weren't just duty and blood.
“Find Ghost Zero,” Adrian said, voice sharpening back to business. “And watch the King's advisors. Too many threads lead back to the palace. Someone close is dirty.”
“I know.”
“Then stop fucking around and finish it.” Adrian's eyes moved to me. “Keep him alive, Your Highness. He's one of the best men I have. I'd prefer not to lose him to palace politics.”
“I'll do my best,” I said.
“See that you do.” The screen flickered. “And Viktor? When this is over, come home for a visit. Noah's been asking about you.”
“I will.”
The call ended. Static filled the silence, then nothing.
Viktor sat there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen. The soldier. The bodyguard. The man caught between two worlds.
“Come on,” I said. “You've been up for twenty hours. You need rest.”
“Still have work—”
“Work can wait.” I pulled him up. “You're exhausted. And when you're exhausted, you make mistakes. And mistakes get people killed.”
I was using his own logic against him. Saw the moment he recognized it, the way his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement.
“You are too clever for your own good,” he muttered.
“Learned from the best.”
We left the office together. The palace had shifted into afternoon mode, staff busy with whatever thousand tasks kept the monarchy running. We moved through corridors like ghosts, Viktor's hand on my back, my shoulder brushing his arm.
We reached my chambers. Viktor did his automatic sweep, checking corners and windows and all the places threats could hide. Old habits. Useful ones.
“Clear,” he said finally.
I locked the door. Started toward him, then paused. “Actually. Before we...” I gestured vaguely between us. “I need to check something with Élodie. About tomorrow's schedule changes.”
Viktor's eyebrow rose. “Now?”
“She texted earlier. Said there's a conflict with the economic summit.” I pulled out my phone, typed quickly. “Won't take long. Five minutes.”
His jaw tightened. Disappointment flickering across his face before professional mask slammed back into place. “Of course. I will wait in hall—”
“No. Stay.” I caught his hand. Squeezed. “Please. I just need to sort this, then we have all night.”
A knock came almost immediately. Élodie must have been close.
“Come in,” I called.
She entered carrying her ever-present tablet, looking apologetic. “Sorry about the timing. I know it's late.” Her eyes flicked to Viktor, then back to me. Taking in the locked door. The intimate distance between us. “I can come back—”
“It's fine. What's the conflict?”
She moved to the desk, pulled up her calendar. “The French ambassador moved his dinner to Thursday. Same night as the economic summit reception. Your father wants you at both.”
