"But what if he grows sick of waiting?"
Dean had nothing to say to that.
Not because the question was clever.
Because it was wrong in the most dangerous way.
Nero would not move on.
Dean knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name. Nero was Dax's son. Whatever madness burned in King Dax of Saha had not diluted itself politely through inheritance. It had been refined. Focused. Become white-blond hair, violet eyes, and a smile too beautiful to be anything but a warning.
Dax had never moved on from Christopher.
Not before the bond. Not after the marriage. Not after twenty-five years of rule, children, scandals, treaties, and every possible force in the world trying to make obsession mature into something reasonable.
It had not.
Dax still looked at Chris like he had found him yesterday and might burn a kingdom if someone suggested giving him back.
Nero had grown up watching that.
Worse, Nero had inherited it.
