And he twisted it—subtly, carefully—refining it into a blade so smooth it would not look like one.
"That the nobles… the council… everyone is supporting Morgan and his dream. After all, he's the eldest heir," Ryley said lightly, as if the thought were obvious. "I thought that was why you allowed the celebration to be held in Berlin. The European Branch Office is practically the crown seat... isn't it?"
Clyde went still.
Shock flickered first. Then something heavier—anger, perhaps, or fear. He pulled back slightly, confusion tightening his expression as calculation began to form behind his eyes.
Before it could deepen, Ryley reached for him.
His hand slid along Clyde's arm in a slow, grounding stroke, easing the tension he himself had stirred. Then his palm rose to cup the Alpha's cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye.
"I might be misunderstanding," he whispered, voice soft again, almost apologetic. "If I am, forgive me."
He leaned closer.
