The convoy had been waiting with inhuman patience. The guards straightened as Arion and Dean emerged from the building, and not one of them looked at the fact that Dean was carrying the pastry box again. Professionals. Survivors. Probably still sugared.
Dean slid into the car and immediately leaned back against the seat with a long, exhausted sigh.
Arion entered beside him.
Dean looked at him. "Do not put me on your lap."
Arion paused.
Dean closed his eyes.
The car began moving. Ylico passed beyond the tinted windows in darkening autumn colors with wet stone, amber streetlights, gold leaves pressed to the pavement, and cafés glowing like small promises beneath apartment balconies. The convoy turned away from the old luxury street and climbed toward the quieter hills where the imperial family's small palace waited.
Small, of course, was a royal lie.
Dean knew that before they arrived.
Still, when the gates opened, he forgot to insult it for half a second.
