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“I cannot condone this,” says Jenkins, his words like steel as they cut through the quiet hum. “It’s far too dangerous. If your father finds out—”

“Don’t tell him,” I say quickly. “Please. If—when he wakes up—”

“I cannot—I will not lie to my king,” he says, and I hesitate, my mind a jumbled whirl.

“Then try to hold off on telling him for as long as possible,” I say. “You don’t have to lie, but just…buy me some time. Please.”

Jenkins holds my pleading stare as the Range Rover veers toward an exit. He and I both know that this all might be a moot point—that Alexander might never wake up, and Jenkins will never have the chance to lie to him. Or tell him the truth.

But at last, his chin dips in the slightest of nods, and I reach forward, squeezing his fingers gratefully. “Thank you,” I say, relieved. But Jenkins isn’t looking at me anymore, and after a beat, he lets my hand go. Most people would hardly notice, but to me, it’s a stab in the heart.

My throat tightens, and I force myself to push past the brief ache as I turn toward Kit. “You don’t need to do this,” I say. “I can figure it out on my own.”

“I know you can,” he says, his voice so low that he sounds hoarse. “But you won’t have to.”

My heart is thumping, and I don’t know if it’s from fear or nerves or excitement, or a potent combination of all three. “Are you sure?” I say, searching his face for any hint of reluctance or doubt.

But Kit takes my hand—the same one Jenkins dropped—and raises it to his lips, brushing them against my knuckles. “We’re in this together,” he says, his breath warm against my skin. “Let’s finish it.”

The cold rushes in as he lets me go, setting his palm on my knee instead, and I hold his gaze for several long seconds before picking up my phone once more. I dismiss another call from Maisie and open my contacts, where I have to scroll to find the right name. And as Jenkins speaks to the driver, grudgingly giving him our new destination, I type out my message.

We’re in.