The gift arrived the next morning, hand-delivered by a messenger too pretty to be trusted and too nervous to question.
It was a box. Long, thin, wrapped in dark velvet and sealed with a wax stamp bearing the royal crest.
Seraphina opened it with a flick of her letter opener and a raised brow.
Inside: a dagger.
Not just any dagger—a ceremonial royal blade. Filigreed. Decorative. Useless in war but very good for stabbing metaphors.
A card sat beside it.
"For future duels. Or dinner."
—Alaric Vaelith
Lucien read it over her shoulder. "Is that... flirting?"
Rhys stormed into the room and snatched the dagger before she could reply. "I hate it."
He held it up, squinted, and promptly snapped the blade in half against the edge of the hearth.
"Really?" Seraphina asked, one brow arching. "Jealousy is so unbecoming on you."
"I'm not jealous," Rhys growled. "I just don't like royals trying to sleep with my boss."
"Ah," she said dryly, "but you're allowed to?"
He paused.
Lucien coughed. Loudly.
Seraphina turned back to the box. "I suppose I'll have to thank the prince in person."
"Send him a fruit basket," Rhys muttered. "With poison."
She grinned. "Too obvious."