Derek pushed through the front door of the mansion at half past eleven, his suit jacket over one arm and his patience thoroughly depleted.

The council had gone two hours over what was supposed to be a final review session, largely because three of the senior advisors had strong and conflicting opinions about the borders and absolutely no interest in keeping those opinions brief.

He went to the kitchen first, as he usually did, to confirm Kira had eaten. It was a habit he had developed without particularly deciding to.

Ishita was still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter with the posture of someone bracing for impact.

"What did the Queen eat this evening?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Ishita jumped, nearly dropping a dish. "Oh! Your Grace." She bowed.

Derek frowned, tilting his head, staring at her quizzically.

"The Queen... she... ah... she refused to eat what I prepared."

Derek’s eyes snapped to hers, his weariness replaced by an instant concern. "What do you mean she refused? Is she ill? Did she say she felt sick?"

"No, Your Grace!" Ishita kept her eyes on a neutral point slightly to the left of his face. "She... she insisted on cooking herself. I assisted her as best I could, but she was quite determined, and I did not feel it was appropriate to physically prevent the Queen from using her own kitchen."

Derek was flabbergasted. "You allowed her to cook? In her condit—" He stopped himself, clearing his throat. "How could you let her stand over a hot stove for hours?"

"I could not disobey Her Highness, Your Grace," Ishita said softly, looking at her feet.

He turned and left the kitchen without another word, already heading for the bedroom. The suite was empty. The balcony was dark. He checked the connecting bedroom out of habit, then stood in the centre of the room for a moment, that particular alertness that never fully left him sharpening quietly.

Finally, he headed toward his study. The light was off. He turned it on and found her curled on the couch with her head resting on the armrest, breathing evenly, entirely unconscious. She had waited long enough to fall asleep waiting. Something about that sat oddly in his chest.

He looked at the coffee table. A tray sat there with covered dishes, still faintly warm. On top of the nearest dish was a folded napkin. He picked it up and opened it.

Dear Overworked Tyrant,

In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m the one who lives in your house. I also cook now, apparently. You should feel honoured. So I made this. Not because I like you or anything dramatic like that. Just... don’t collapse on my watch. It would be inconvenient.

Also, if you ignore this, I’ll take it personally. And you don’t want that problem.

— Your very neglected Queen

He read it once. Then he read it again.

The thing in his chest did something he had no name for.

Truly, he had been avoiding her, and he knew it. Ever since Snow Crest, the walls he had spent years building had been crumbling. The war councils were real, the threat was genuine, but the avoidance had been a choice, and he had made it because being near her lately felt like standing too close to a fire he was afraid would consume him.

Every time he looked at her, he felt this suffocating urge to just... be near her. To hear her laugh, to watch the way her nose crinkled when she was annoyed. It scared the life out of him. Love made Lycans weak. He couldn’t afford that.

But staying away was proving to be its own kind of torture. He found himself watching her from the shadows of the gallery, or checking the security feeds just to see her walking in the gardens. And every time he thought about her—really thought about her—there was a persistent, demanding ache in his trousers that no amount of war council meetings could suppress.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at her. "You woman would be the death of me," he muttered.

He noticed her hugging herself slightly. He set the note down and grabbed the cashmere blanket from the back of his desk chair and leaned over, carefully draping it over her.

Just as he was tucking the edge under her chin, one eye fluttered open.

"You’re so sweet when you think I’m not looking," she murmured, her voice filled with that hint of a tease.

Derek jerked back as if she had bitten him.

She opened her eyes, entirely too pleased with herself, given that she had just been pretending to sleep.

"I’m not sweet," Derek grunted.

"You’re not? Then why are you tucking me in like a baby?"

He cleared his throat and looked somewhere above her head. "You were cold."

She smiled, the soft, unguarded kind she reserved for moments like this when she just wants to annoy him. "Thank you, Derek."

He straightened his back, feeling suddenly like he needed to be anywhere else than in the same room with her.

"I have work to do," he muttered, turning toward the door. "Go back to sleep, Kira. You’re an annoying girl."

"Sweet Kira: 5! Grumpy King: 0!"

He walked out of the study at a pace that was just slightly faster than his usual measured stride.

Kira didn’t look offended. She sat up, pushed the blanket off, and hurried after him.

"Oh, no you don’t!" she called out, catching his arm just as he reached the hallway. "You’re going to sit down, and you’re going to eat the food I nearly burnt my fingers making. Come on, let’s have our meal together!"

Derek looked down at her hand on his arm, then back at her stubborn, hopeful face. He knew he should say no. He knew he should go back to his maps and his cold, safe isolation.

But as she tugged him back toward the study, he found that, for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind being conquered.