The Threat of War

The fallout from Xander's death unfolded over the next few days—days far more stressful than I'd prefer. Luckily, Cora stayed by my side, knowing I needed her support.

"Well," she said, lounging in bed with me and scrolling through her phone, "you'll be happy to know that incidents of people calling you a hero outweigh those calling you a murderer three to one by now!"

I sighed and threw a pretzel at my sister, giving her a glare she returned with a grin. We were both lounging in pajamas because Sinclair had asked me not to leave our suite until things calmed down. Rafe lay peacefully between us, gurgling and grabbing his toes.

"Don't tease me," I murmured. "You know I hate this."

"You need to get over it, Ells," Cora murmured, returning to her phone. "You care way too much about what people think. You did what you did for everyone's good. People love to have someone to dogpile on. And, like I said, far more people are on your side, so I think it's all turning out nicely."

"Easy for you to say," I sighed. "You're the martyred duchess whose wedding I ruined."

"I know," she said, flashing a wicked grin. "No one's saying anything bad about me, the poor innocent duchess!"

I growled and tossed another pretzel at her, satisfied when it bounced off her head.

We both turned towards the door when it opened, and twin smiles lit our faces as Sinclair and Roger entered.

"Hey!" Cora called, sitting up and waving to her mate. "Welcome to the slumber party!"

"I'm jealous," Roger said as he and Sinclair approached. He easily slid onto the bed next to Cora, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "You three look so comfortable and cozy."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, leaning against Sinclair as he settled behind me, kissing my cheek before tickling Rafe's belly. The baby giggled, making me smile. "You wouldn't be so happy about it, Roger, if you were forced to be cozy because you're on house arrest—or suite arrest, or whatever."

"Well, Ella," Roger said, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes and a wicked grin, "you could always, you know, leap out the window if you're feeling too contained."

Cora burst into laughter as I threw a pretzel at Roger—hard. He caught it and popped it into his mouth, grinning.

"Settle, settle," Sinclair said, sighing as he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. He rubbed his cheek against my head, passing warmth and love through our bond. It hadn't been easy these past few days, even with the Tempest article's efforts to reveal the truth. I hadn't exactly been living up to my nickname.

"Ready for your update, trouble?" Sinclair asked, kissing my cheek. "Or do we need more snacks to temper the anxiety?"

"Just tell me," I sighed, popping another pretzel in my mouth. I'd been snacking a lot. Anxious eating wasn't usually my thing, but I'd never been the focus of international attention before.

"All right. The justice system decided not to press charges, calling you a political agent and a technical extension of the military. Since Xander was a war criminal actively committing a violent crime that would have resulted in an order to use lethal force, your actions were deemed an extension of that order."

"Wow," Cora said, raising her eyebrows. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"It took some doing," Roger said. "Dad was behind a lot of it. But, as a result, the role of Queen has been officially designated a military and political figure in this nation, which is…pretty cool."

"I got lucky," I muttered, looking down, feeling guilty.

"You didn't," Sinclair said, nudging me. I looked up, meeting his frown. "It's right, Ella. The Queen should have political and military power if the King does, and no one who truly understands this situation believes you did anything wrong. All right? So stop blaming yourself."

I shook my head, sighing. "You're not telling me everything," I said, knowing I was right.

Sinclair grimaced, making me groan and lie down next to Rafe. I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent as he grasped my cheek, making me smile. "Go on," I said, my eyes still closed. "Let's have the whole story."

Sinclair sighed before he began. "The Atalaxians, as we guessed, are…displeased."

"Understatement," Roger added dryly.

"They're using this so-called offense as a rationale to go to war."

"What?" Cora gasped, shocked, and my eyes flew open. "Does this mean…that we're at war?"

"Not yet," Sinclair said seriously. "They haven't declared war. They're saying this is an offense worthy of it. It's a bullshit move, and everyone knows it—Xander was barely their citizen. But they're taking advantage of it, trying to back us into a corner so we give them what they want to avoid war."

My lips thinned as I stared at Rafe, wondering about his future.

War.

War was the last thing I wanted for our world, for Rafe's future. And yet, somehow, I was at the heart of it.

I racked my brain, wondering if I could have done anything to stop it.

"Don't," Sinclair murmured, placing a hand on my hip. I looked up as he shook his head. "It's not your fault, Ella. It would have happened no matter what."

"Do you think that's true?" I asked, holding his gaze. "Prince Calvin confirmed as much the night of the wedding—that the Atalaxians encouraged Xander to overstep. Was this a setup from the start?"

"Is that what the Prince said?" Cora asked, fascinated.

I nodded.

"That's so…odd…" Cora said.

"Why?" Sinclair asked, and I sat up to easily look between them.

"Because," Cora said, thinking aloud, "if that was their plan, to force your hand, then why on earth would Calvin tell you? It gives you the power to point it out—to pass the blame back to them."

"Well, we don't have any proof," I said, shrugging. "It was just a personal conversation. Nothing written, nothing recorded."

"Still," she said, frowning at Sinclair. "It is…odd. Either there's something else going on, where the Atalaxians want you to think they set you up, or, more simply…" She cocked her head.

Sinclair finished for her. "…that the Prince is up to something else," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Who is this guy?" Roger asked, leaning forward.

Bizarrely, as if in answer, a knock came at the door.

Sinclair called for entry, and an aide peeked in, looking odd.

"A note," she said, holding out an envelope. "For the Queen."

Sinclair took the note. "Who is it from?" he asked.

"From…Prince Calvin of Atalaxia," she said.

We went still. Sinclair thanked the aide and crossed the room to give me the envelope.

"Well, Ella?" he said as I took it. "What does your Prince have to say for himself now?"