Morning found them in a quiet room and a tangle of warm sheets. Pale light pressed at the shutters. They hadn’t slept for some time, just silently basking in each other’s embrace.
Dante turned on his side. “Last night you claimed a request I could keep,” he said. “What is it?”
Cordelia hesitated for a moment, but then turned to face her husband, ‘Listen to Daniel,’ she said. “Alone. No Silas, no Herrick. No one to steer you. He stood with us when we married in secret. He didn’t act out of malice. He told me he may have been framed. I want you to listen before you decide the rest.”
The words pressed against Dante like a thumb on a bruise. Alone sounded like a test. Framed threw a shadow across the house. And Daniel had come to her, not to him.
He kept his face even. “You’re asking for a private hearing.”
“Yes,” she said. “Only that.”
He couldn't understand why she was asking him this now, why Daniel's dignity wasn't a concern when he passed judgment on him. Irritation rose, but he pushed it down. “I’ll think on it,” he said. “Today.”
“Thank you.” She kissed his wrist, a light touch, and let it go.
They lay in each other's arms for a moment longer, exchanging lazy kisses. But Dante felt a strange sense of relief when they got out of bed. The consequences of his unexpected request still weighed heavily on him, but he tried not to show it. They dressed. He kissed her temple and hastily left the room.
The den moved as it always did. Hammers in the armory. Voices in the long hall. Frost lifting off the rails by noon. None of it cleared his head.
The morning kept replaying. He told himself it was a fair request. He told himself he should have offered it first. The thoughts did not sit well. A smaller, meaner thought asked if she had chosen the timing—right after their first time together—so he would agree without question. He rejected it at once, then disliked himself for having it at all.
He was angry with Daniel for going to her. He understood it, too. She listened; she steadied people. A man in trouble would choose her door. Understanding did not help.
He walked the west wall. He checked rosters with Herrick. He signed a note for the miller. The sour taste stayed.
By midafternoon, he had made a decision: he would hear Daniel alone, and soon. He would keep the room clean—no chairs, no audience. It sounded like leadership. It also sounded like giving ground because she had asked. He took two laps of the yard to run that feeling out. It dulled, but it did not die.
The day passed as if in a fog. With dusk came the time for dinner. Talk rose and fell. Cordelia took the seat beside him. Under the table her fingers brushed his hand, a small question. He gently squeezed her fingers in his hand. He was still in pain, but he would not become another source of worry for her.
Silas watched from halfway down the room. He was looking for precisely these details. When the bowls were down and the first noise had settled, he waited until his bride left Alpha unattended and sat down in her chair.
“Alpha,” he said in a mild voice, “two things from the day.”
Dante nodded without looking up. “Speak.”
“First, river patrol found an old snare near the ford. I’ll mark the path with iron.” A beat. “Second is a small house matter, but it touches reputation. I’d rather say it to you than let it float.”
Dante felt the prickle he always felt when Silas called thorns by soft names. “Say it.”
“The south wing,” Silas said. “Servants pass there all day. One came to me to avoid rumor, not to spread it. He said he saw Gamma Daniel yesterday at your door. He knocked, went in, and left some time later. He checked the corridor before he went. The boy didn’t want to carry tale. He wanted to know if he should tell men not to talk at all.”
Dante stops the spoon in the air. Silas’s tone stayed plain.
“Servants see more than they should,” Dante said. “Daniel comes and goes on house business.”
“Of course,” Silas said, palms open. “That's what I told the lad. But just in case, I decided to tell you too. After all the rumours going around about him after the fight... I decided it was better to tell you.”
“Enough for today,” Dante said. Not loud, but finished. “Get out of here.”
Silas bowed his head and hurriedly rose from his seat. He sensed Alpha's irritation and walked away satisfied with the work he had done.
After this conversation, Dante lost his appetite. He trusted the woman beside him. But the picture that his imagination had painted today, thanks to Silas, became clearer. His imagination began to fill in what might have been happening behind closed doors, but he stopped himself with gritted teeth. He hated that his chest had tightened, that he could not make it untighten now.
The hall emptied. Fires were banked. Dante walked the east passage alone, letting the cold bite until it cleared some of the noise.
He would hear Daniel alone tomorrow if he could make the hour. He would listen hard. If Daniel had been pushed, he would have discovered who had done that to him. If Daniel had made a story to cover pride, rank would stay where it was, and men would hear why.
He stopped in front of the door to his and Cordelia's room. He wanted to confess to her about the demons that had been tormenting him since morning and admit that he couldn't fight his own mind, but that was unacceptable. So he didn't sleep with her that night, choosing instead to stay in the cold guest room.
At the window slit, he looked out over the yard. A sentry crossed the far wall. The moon made a thin edge on the snow. The den was his to hold. The people inside it were his to keep safe, including the woman who would fall asleep, waiting for him. But for some reason, he couldn't shake the unpleasant feeling that those he trusted most were weaving a web of conspiracy around him.