The World Cannot Know

Chapter 68

Prince Sebastian

The moment I pushed through the doors of the drawing room, I didn't see the velvet drapes or the warm firelight or the plate of half-finished pastries. I saw Matthew—whole, breathing—and the tension in my chest broke like a dam.

"Where the hell have you been?" I demanded, louder than I intended. My voice echoed off the high ceiling.

Matthew turned from where he stood near the hearth with Arney, who was nursing a bruised knuckle and a smug expression. Matthew's face shifted from surprise to something softer—regret, maybe, or guilt.

"Sebastian," he said quietly. "It's okay. We're fine."

"You're not fine," I snapped, striding across the room. "There was a riot in the Lower Quarter. The guards said there were rocks, fists—gods, Matthew. You're not just some street rat anymore."

"I never was," he replied, lips quirking faintly.

"That's not the point."

I stopped just before him, searching his face for injuries, for signs of pain. My eyes flicked down to his hands, his arms. His coat was dusty, his collar tugged slightly askew.

"You could've been killed," I said, my voice breaking into something smaller.

Matthew sighed and touched my chest, just over the line of buttons on my doublet. "But I wasn't."

Arney groaned behind us. "Alright, alright, can we skip the tragic lovers' quarrel and get to the part where I get thanked for saving this idiot's life?"

"You got hit with one rock and suddenly you're a knight," Matthew shot back.

"Nearly a martyr, actually."

I ignored their banter and took Matthew's face gently in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes.

"You can't just disappear like that, not now," I said. "Not with what's coming. People are on edge. The city is split down the middle. We can't afford another scandal—"

"I'm not your scandal," Matthew said, firmly. "I'm your consort."

The word still struck me like thunder. Not just a title. A claim.

"I know," I whispered. "And that's why I'm terrified."

There was a beat of quiet. Arney muttered something under his breath and limped out of the room, probably to find wine or attention—whichever came first.

I let my forehead rest lightly against Matthew's. The fire cracked behind us. Somewhere in the hall, the bells began to chime the hour.

"You're everything they hate and everything I need," I murmured. "And I don't know how to protect you from all of it."

Matthew's voice was steady. "Then don't protect me. Stand with me."

The doors creaked open again with that familiar regal weight, and the moment Queen Eleanor stepped into the room, the air shifted.

Matthew pulled away from me like I'd burned him. His back straightened, his shoulders set. That instinct—worn into him by years of scrutiny and shame—still hadn't dulled, and it twisted something painful in my chest to see him retreat like that.

He bowed his head stiffly, gaze fixed on the hearth.

"Your Majesty," he said with crisp, practiced formality.

Eleanor's eyes moved over the scene with measured precision, never missing a thing. She stood tall in her deep green gown, hands clasped at her waist, her expression unreadable.