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He sculpted her chassis, giving her large, expressive eyes that glowed purple upon bonding. Her wings emitted a soft shimmer. Her algorithm was designed to sense hostile magic. She could create shields, project illusions, even disorient foes with bursts of light.

And his hard work paid off—Whirr saved his nanny’s life. A sweet, fresh-faced young woman with brown eyes and dark hair who was sitting with him one night when a House Myridan assassin came through the window. He wasn’t sure how many nannies he’d been through at that point, but in his youthful naivete, with that flicker of hope for something permanent, he’d learned her name.

Moira.

Moira survived two more assassination attempts. His family was so impressed they took the design, took Whirr, took all his work—and they sold it. Moira’s life, as it was explained to him, was worth less than what they stood to gain from reverse-engineering the prototype.

Moira died soon after. Skye couldn’t remember how. It was all a bloody blur. But to this day, the WhirrGuard Warden remained the standard in personal protection automatons, and the second-largest source of revenue for Emrys Magitek Armaments.

Skye was a prince. And his loneliness, his pain, his desperate longing for connection—it could be used to turn a profit.

Dawn had barely broken, but the Swap was already packed. Vendor carts and stalls spilled out of the old manor-house-turned-market, filling the small courtyard and snaking around the side of the building. Food, cloth, crystals, and other magical goods—the nature of items being traded hadn’t changed after the attacks, but their quality and availability had shifted dramatically. Fresh produce had turned into dried rations, fine cloth had become patched and worn, and the magical goods were now rudimentary supplies rather than rare luxuries.

Where once bright banners hung from the high ceilings, ration charts now flickered over magical displays, tracking supplies and hopes alike.

The temperatures were still dropping—a late-season cold snap. Bundled in a heavy coat, surrounded by the collective heat of bodies, Skye barely noticed the chill as he stood on the second floor of the inner market, surveying an assortment of jewelry laid out on black velvet before him.

Rubies and emeralds, moonstone and jade, all set in gold and silver. Everything was priced to sell—there was little use for such things in the new world order, and the shopkeeper, like everyone else, needed firewood and rations more than a necklace.

“Are you sure I can’t help you?” the shopkeeper asked for the fourth time, her pleasantly bland smile failing to hide her growing irritation. There was a noticeable bubble around him and, consequently, the table. Even if people didn’t immediately recognize him as the heir to Ghislain, they could still see the Highborn eyes, the angular features, the fine clothes, and they kept their distance.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Skye said and went back to looking. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there. A while if the scowl on the shopkeeper’s face was anything to go by.

A mating gift. It had seemed straightforward enough in his head. Something any woman would expect. Just because Taly was already his didn’t mean he got to skip this part. He wanted to do it right.

But now, staring at the glittering rows of jewelry, it didn’t feel straightforward. It felt impossible.

What if he picked the wrong thing? What if she thought it was stupid? What if this whole idea was stupid?

“Sire,” the shopkeeper said again, that polite mask beginning to crack. “Perhaps if you told me about the lady or gentleman… I might be able to assist.”

Oh, Taly would hate everything here. Large stones, rich settings—the same kind he’d seen Sarina force onto her, only for Taly to rip them off the first chance she got. Hell, he’d probably be better off getting her bouquet of daggers or a shiny new pistol, though neither struck him as particularly romantic. Plus, he wasn’t sure giving her something she could turn back around on him was wise, considering what he still needed to tell her.

He’d felt it last night. The bond thrumming between them like a third heartbeat. Soft and unguarded, her thoughts had slipped through—like whispers not meant for him.

I want to touch him.

I want to kiss him.

I want, I want, I want.

Each wave of longing rolled through him, rebounded, caught, and sent rushing back, carrying his own hunger with it.

Back and forth, building, cresting, until the air between them felt alive with static.

He’d answered her unspoken thought as easily as breathing.

Yes. Please.

And that’s when it hit him: she didn’t know. Taly hadno ideawhat they were, not the way he did. He’d let it slide, too caught up in her to stop and think.

Now, he had a problem. He didn’t regret last night—not for a second. But it also couldn’t happen again. Not until she understood what it meant.

He had to tell her about the bond. Which was why he was here now, in the middle of the market, freezing his ass off, staring at a tray of jewelry like it might hold all the answers.

It didn’t.

He rubbed a hand over his face, blowing out a breath that fogged in the icy air. Women were supposed to be easy. Charm them, tease them, bring them a trinket or two, and that was usually enough.