The saloon had been designed to look effortless.
Open air, warm lantern light, low music that bled into the night without becoming intrusive, enough to make conversations feel private even when they weren’t.
Andrew sat with his back to a carved wooden pillar, a position that let him watch the entrance, the bar, and the terrace without looking like he was doing any of that. Old habits didn’t leave simply because you’d been handed a title and told to smile.
His phone buzzed against the table.
Andrew glanced down, expecting a staff update or one of Milo’s carefully worded reminders about appearances, and instead found Chris.
A simple ssage.
’Tomorrow. We’ll be in the capital.’
Andrew stared at it for a second longer than necessary, because his chest always tightened whenever Chris reached out like this, casually, like he hadn’t spent most of his life surviving other people’s decisions.
’Tomorrow.’
Which ant Dax would be in Palatine’s capital tomorrow as well.
Andrew set the phone down and let his gaze drift back to the crowd, but his mind didn’t follow. It went straight where it always went when Dax was involved: to the problem of a king who loved like a conquest and smiled like a performance.
He didn’t dislike Dax because Dax mistreated Chris.
That would have been simpler. A straightforward enemy.
No.
Dax treated Chris with devotion bordering on reverence, the kind of attention that made people coo and refer to as romance. The problem was everything under that devotion. The possessiveness hidden beneath the theatrical leisure, the way Dax could lean back in a chair like he didn’t care about anything and still control the air in the room without lifting a hand.
Andrew was an alpha. He understood dominance on a physiological level, the subtle shifts in posture and breath, and the instinctive pull of hierarchy. Most people didn’t register it. Ogas read it differently, through safety, threat, and compatibility.
Dax was sothing else. Sothing he couldn’t quite na.
And Chris... Chris had chosen him anyway.
Andrew’s fingers tapped once against the edge of his glass, the motion small, restrained. Because being adopted into the Black family had not erased what Andrew was: a man who had learned early that if he didn’t guard the people he loved, soone else would decide their fate for them.
Mia had been adopted with him, both of them placed into the Black family’s care like pieces on a board, raised into power, and shaped into usefulness. Milo had never pretended adoption was charity. It had always been a strategy, wrapped in warmth to make the children accept it.
Andrew had accepted it.
For Chris.
He had accepted Milo’s proposal to beco a Black because Chris needed political backing, and the Black na could offer that without flinching. Chris had needed a wall at his back, and Andrew had given it, even if it ant becoming the heir who smiled at dinners and married for alliances.
That was the deal.
Support in exchange for obedience.
A marriage that would benefit the Blacks, and an alliance that would be loud enough to make lesser houses think twice before circling Chris like prey.
Larosa.
A family whose na carried old money, old blood, and the social reach that could make or break a narrative with a single well-placed invitation. Third-grade cousins, technically, which ant the union looked tasteful instead of desperate. The Blacks wanted a bridge between houses.
Andrew didn’t have Larosa blood. He was the perfect match.
Perfect, in the way a sacrifice was perfect when it fit the altar.
He took a slow sip of his drink and let his gaze pass over the terrace again, asuring ti, reading entrances, and watching for movent that didn’t match the flow of the night.
Then the saloon’s atmosphere shifted, and Andrew looked up.
She stepped in like she belonged to the building.
Elisabeth Larosa.
Long, straight blonde hair that caught the lantern light. Around thirty, tall enough to carry presence without needing heels, posture clean and confident in that way alphas had when they didn’t doubt their own right to take space. Her eyes were amber, and she scanned the room with the expertise of soone who had learned to read threats as easily as flirtation.
When her gaze landed on Andrew, she gave a polite, simple smile.
She walked toward his table without hesitation, steps asured. She was making clear that she was not here to impress him, she was here to evaluate whether he was worth the ti she’d spent getting dressed.
Andrew stood when she reached him, because he had been raised correctly even if he hated half the rules.
"Elisabeth Larosa," he said, voice smooth.
Her mouth curved into sothing that wasn’t quite a smile but could beco one if she decided he’d earned it. "Andrew Black."
She didn’t offer a hand. She didn’t curtsy. She simply looked at him, openly, the way alphas looked when they weren’t pretending to be soft for the comfort of others.
"Sit," she said lightly, as if it was her table.
Andrew sat, equally composed, and gestured to the chair across from him. "I’m glad you ca."
"I was curious," Elisabeth replied, settling with controlled elegance. She placed her clutch on the table and sat in front of him. "Milo doesn’t propose marriages without reasons."
Andrew’s gaze held hers. "He doesn’t."
"And you agreed," she continued, amber eyes steady. "So either you’re desperate, or you’re loyal."
Andrew didn’t flinch at the bluntness. If anything, it made him like her more than he wanted to.
He had expected either a capable woman raised into power or a spoiled noble. None of that mattered to him now.
"Loyal," he said simply.
Elisabeth’s eyes flicked once, quick and keen. "To the Blacks?"
Andrew’s phone sat on the table near his glass, screen dark now, Chris’s ssage still glowing behind the lock like a quiet pulse.
He glanced at it for half a heartbeat, then t her gaze again.
"To my brother," Andrew answered.
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