Michael's jaw clenched as he emerged from the ensuite bathroom, carefully balancing two crystal glasses of water. The one in his right hand—Ryaz's glass—felt heavier with the weight of what it contained. Three drops from the vial Pharraseus had given him, perfectly clear and undetectable in the water.

For us, he reminded himself. For our future.

Ryaz sat propped against the headboard, copper hair loose around his shoulders, looking deceptively innocent in one of Michael's old shirts. The soft fabric dwarfed his slender frame, making him appear younger, more vulnerable. The sight should have melted Michael's resolve, but all he could focus on was that smell.

Peppery. Masculine. Distinctly draconic.

"Here," Michael said, forcing a smile as he handed Ryaz the doctored glass. "You should stay hydrated."

"Thank you." Ryaz's fingers brushed against his as he accepted the water, sending a jolt of guilt through Michael's chest.

He settled onto his side of the bed, watching over the rim of his own glass as Ryaz drank deeply, adam's apple bobbing with each swallow until the glass was empty. Something twisted in Michael's stomach—triumph or remorse, he couldn't tell anymore.

"That was exactly what I needed," Ryaz murmured, setting the empty glass on the nightstand before sliding down beneath the covers. He turned toward Michael, arm outstretched in invitation.

Michael leaned closer, intending to take Ryaz in his arms as he had countless nights before. The scent hit him again—stronger now, unmistakable. Not just soap or incidental contact. This was the intimate mingling of scents that came from skin-to-skin contact.

"Michael?" Ryaz's voice held a note of confusion as Michael pulled back abruptly.

"You smell like him." The words scraped his throat raw.

Ryaz blinked, momentarily uncomprehending. "What?"

"Kovax." Michael spat the name like poison. "You reek of him. That peppery dragon stink."

Ryaz's face paled, guilt flashing across his features before he could mask it. "I had to borrow his robe earlier. After the... treatment."

"Treatment." Michael laughed, the sound harsh and ugly in the quiet room. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

He flung back the covers and stood, unable to bear another moment of closeness with that scent between them. His chest felt too tight, each breath burning as if he'd inhaled dragonfire.

"What are you doing?" Ryaz pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes wide with alarm.

"I won't sleep next to that stink." Michael turned away, unable to look at Ryaz's face without seeing Kovax's hands on him. "I'll take the couch."

"Michael, please." Ryaz's voice cracked. "It's not what you think. I was ill—the baby was draining my magic. I needed draconic energy or we both would have—"

"Stop." Michael held up a hand, not wanting to hear the details. Not wanting to picture what had happened. "Just... stop."

He stalked from the bedroom, yanking open the storage cupboard in the lounge with enough force to rattle the hinges. The blanket he pulled out was inadequate—too thin, too small—but he couldn't bring himself to go back for another.

Behind him, the bedroom door remained open. He could hear Ryaz's shuddering breath, the soft hiccup that always preceded his tears. For a moment, Michael wavered. He'd never been able to bear Ryaz's pain, had always been the first to offer comfort when those lilac eyes filled with sorrow.

But not tonight. Tonight, the betrayal cut too deep.

He arranged the blanket on the couch, punching a decorative pillow into submission for his head. The poison would do its work soon enough. The child would fade, and with it, the necessity for this unholy union with the dragon prince. Ryaz would grieve, of course, but Michael would be there to help him through it.

Eventually, things would return to normal. To how they were meant to be.

Michael lay down, turning his back to the bedroom door, to Ryaz, to the future that threatened everything he'd planned. He wouldn't sleep—his mind was too full of rage and fear and jealousy—but he couldn't bear another moment in that bed with the scent of dragon between them.

In the bedroom, Ryaz's tears dried more quickly than he expected. He should have been devastated by Michael's rejection, should have been desperate to explain, to make things right. Instead, he felt a strange calm settling over him, a heavy lethargy that seemed to press him deeper into the mattress.

His hand drifted to his abdomen, where the spark of life glowed steadily, no longer draining him but simply existing, safe and protected. The magic Kovax had shared hummed beneath his skin, warm and comforting in a way he couldn't explain.

As sleep pulled him under, Ryaz realized with distant surprise that he wasn't as heartbroken as he should be. The thought should have troubled him more, but exhaustion claimed him before he could examine it further.

His last conscious thought was not of Michael storming away, but of amber eyes and gentle hands, and the unexpected peace he'd found in a dragon's arms.

Morning light sliced through a gap in the curtains, rousing Ryaz from a dreamless sleep. His hand reached automatically for Michael's warmth, finding only cold sheets. The emptiness felt significant somehow, more permanent than just a night spent on the couch.

Ryaz pushed himself up, wincing at the heaviness in his limbs. The magical transfusion from Kovax had stabilized him, but his body still felt the aftereffects of near-collapse. He padded to the bathroom, avoiding his reflection as he splashed cold water on his face.

"Michael?" he called, voice still rough with sleep.

No answer.

The suite felt too quiet, too still. Ryaz pulled on a robe—not Kovax's, which he'd carefully folded and set aside—and ventured into the living area. The blanket Michael had used lay crumpled on the couch, but Michael himself was nowhere to be seen.

A flutter of white caught Ryaz's eye as he passed the foyer table. A note, hastily scrawled on hotel stationery. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up.

Need time to think. Don't try to find me.

No "I love you." No explanation. Just seven cold words that hit Ryaz like a physical blow.

The initial hurt crystallized into something harder, sharper. Anger. After everything they'd been through, after all his attempts to explain last night, Michael had simply... left. When Ryaz needed him most, when their future hung in the balance, Michael had walked away rather than listen, rather than try to understand.

"So he's gone."

Ryaz turned to find his father standing in the doorway that connected their suites, silver robes immaculate even at this early hour. Ru'unan's ancient eyes missed nothing, taking in the note still clutched in Ryaz's hand, the tightness around his mouth.

"He left a note," Ryaz said, voice flat as he handed the paper to his father.

Ru'unan scanned the brief message, his expression unreadable. "I see."

"He couldn't even face me," Ryaz continued, the anger building. "After everything—after I tried to explain last night—he just... left. Like a coward."

"Perhaps he needed space to process," Ru'unan suggested, though his tone lacked conviction.

"He needs space?" Ryaz laughed, the sound brittle. "What I need is support. Understanding. Someone to listen without judgment while I explained what happened with Kovax. What did he do instead? He smelled dragon on me and couldn't get away fast enough."

Ru'unan guided Ryaz to the sitting area, gesturing for him to take a seat while he ordered breakfast from the suite's communication panel. Ryaz sank into the plush armchair, suddenly exhausted despite having just woken up.

"His behavior was... disappointing," Ru'unan acknowledged as he joined Ryaz, choosing his words with diplomatic precision. "Though I bear Lord Forrester no ill will, his actions suggest a certain immaturity in the face of crisis."

"That's putting it mildly," Ryaz muttered.

Ru'unan studied his son's face, his gaze penetrating in that way that had always made Ryaz feel transparent as crystal. "May I ask you something, Ryaz?"

"Of course."

"Do you love him?"

The question seemed so simple, yet Ryaz felt its weight. He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

Ru'unan nodded, accepting this without judgment. "And what is love, to you? How would you define it?"

Ryaz blinked, caught off guard by the philosophical turn. He found himself speaking almost without thinking.

"Love is... acceptance. Seeing someone completely—flaws and all—and choosing them anyway. It's protection without possession, support without demand. It's standing beside someone even when it's difficult, even when you don't understand everything they're going through."

The words felt right as they left his lips, though something about them nagged at him. Why did they feel so familiar?

Ru'unan's eyes gleamed with something Ryaz couldn't quite identify. "And with that definition in mind, do you think Michael loves you?"

The question hung in the air between them. Ryaz opened his mouth to say "yes" automatically, then closed it again. The memory of Michael's face last night, twisted with disgust and jealousy. The cold note left behind this morning. The pattern of small rejections when things became difficult.

"I..." Ryaz faltered, unable to complete the thought.

Michael cared for him, desired him, wanted to build a life with him. But did he accept Ryaz completely? Did he support without demand? Stand beside him when things were difficult?

The silence stretched as Ryaz confronted the uncomfortable truth: Michael did these things sometimes, when it was easy. But when truly tested—like last night, like this morning—he withdrew. Retreated. Left.

"Is he the right husband for me?" Ryaz asked quietly, voicing the doubt that had crept into his heart.

Ru'unan's expression softened with rare paternal tenderness. "It is not my heart you have to convince, my son." He reached across the small table between them, covering Ryaz's hand with his own. "It is yours."

A soft chime announced the arrival of breakfast. Ru'unan rose to answer the door, leaving Ryaz with his thoughts.

His heart felt like a battlefield, torn between the comfort of the familiar—years with Michael, plans made, a future imagined—and the unsettling new awareness that perhaps that comfort had blinded him to deeper truths.

And beneath it all, like a current flowing beneath ice, was the memory of amber eyes and gentle hands. Of feeling understood without words. Of a connection that defied explanation.

"You should eat," Ru'unan said, setting a tray before him. "The Accord ceremonies continue today, and you'll need your strength."

Ryaz nodded, picking up a piece of toast without enthusiasm. As he mechanically spread preserves across it, he realized he had another decision to make—one that might prove even more difficult than the political marriage that loomed before him.

Should he go after Michael, try once more to make him understand? Or should he finally acknowledge that love, true love as he had just defined it, might look very different from what he had settled for all these years?

Ru'unan studied his son's face as Ryaz stared blankly at his barely-touched toast. The circles under his eyes had deepened despite his rest, and tension lined his shoulders like an invisible weight. This was more than simple relationship troubles—his son was drowning.

"I think," Ru'unan said, setting down his teacup with deliberate care, "that we both need a respite from these negotiations and... complications."

Ryaz looked up, confusion crossing his features. "Father, we can't just leave. The Accords—"

"Won’t start for another day. The requests were submitted early remember?" Ru'unan waved his hand dismissively. "Our staff have their instructions. Nothing critical requires our presence until tomorrow's official Renewal Conference and the following closing ceremonies."

"But—"

"No arguments." Ru'unan's tone was gentle but firm. "I've heard the sylphs have established a remarkable spa retreat just beyond the city limits. Crystal springs, living air currents for therapeutic breathing, harmony pools that resonate with one's natural frequencies."

A flicker of interest sparked in Ryaz's tired eyes. "That does sound... peaceful."

"Precisely." Ru'unan smiled, pleased to see even that small response. "No politics, no dragons, no consort drama. Just father and son, taking one day to breathe."

Ryaz hesitated, then nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally. "Alright. When do we leave?"

"As soon as you're dressed. I've already arranged transport."

Twenty minutes later, Ryaz scribbled a quick note for Michael, should he return. His pen hovered over the paper, uncertain what to add beyond the basics. In the end, he simply wrote: Gone out with Father. Back this evening. We need to talk. —R

He placed it on the center of the bed where Michael couldn't miss it, then joined his father in the corridor.

The sleek diplomatic magi-carriage whisked them away from the hotel's private entrance, the city's intricate architecture gradually giving way to rolling hills and carefully preserved woodlands. Ryaz leaned his head against the cool window, watching the landscape blur past, grateful for the silence between them. His father had always known when words were needed and when quiet was the greater kindness.

Michael entered the hotel through the service entrance, having spent hours walking the city streets, wrestling with his thoughts. The poison in his pocket felt heavier with each step. Last night's anger had cooled into something more calculated, more determined. He would make Ryaz understand. He would save them both from this nightmare.

The presidential suite was silent when he entered. Too silent.

"Ryaz?" he called, moving through the rooms with increasing urgency. "Ryaz!"

The bedroom stood empty, the bed neatly made save for a single sheet of paper in the center. Michael snatched it up, reading the sparse message with mounting frustration.

Gone out with Father. Back this evening. We need to talk. —R

No explanation of where they'd gone. No apology for leaving. Just another instance of Ryaz slipping away to handle "official business" without him. How many times had this happened now? Four? Five? Always the same pattern—Ryaz disappearing with other people, leaving Michael behind like an afterthought.

And now, after everything that had happened with Kovax, after Michael had given Ryaz space to think, he returned to find himself shut out again.

Michael crumpled the note in his fist, rage building in his chest like gathering storm clouds. This was Kovax's influence—it had to be. The dragon was poisoning Ryaz against him, using their unborn child to drive a wedge between them.

Well, two could play at that game.

Michael stormed from the suite, heading for the elevator that would take him to the dragon delegation's floor. It was time he and Prince Kovax had a proper conversation about boundaries—and consequences.