The muscles in Trey’s arm tense beneath Gannon’s hold, the air crackling with a current of challenge and restraint. Their eyes lock, two forces colliding without a word, each man’s resolve clear in the stillness that follows.

Gannon’s grip tightens on Trey’s arm, his knuckles whitening with the force of his hold.

“You aren’t trusted to be around her,” Gannon states, his voice firm.

Trey’s face twists into a snarl, shaking off the hold with a jerk of his shoulder. “I am the last person that would hurt her,” he spits back at Gannon, defiance flaring bright in his eyes.

Trey’s shove sends Gannon stumbling back a step, the force behind it betraying the anger and frustration boiling under his skin. A vein throbs at Trey’s temple, his jaw set in a hard line.

“Bullshit! You’re not under the King’s oath,” Gannon snaps, regaining his balance with an ease. His eyes narrow on Trey, searching for any hint of deceit.

Trey stands his ground, his chest heaving slightly. “Yes, not under oath to the King. But to the Landeena’s I am,” he snarls, his voice a low growl that seems to resonate.

Dustin’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles going white with the effort to contain his fury. “Bullshit! You were a dick to her when Kyson chucked her to the stables! And always interfering with my shifts,” he exclaims.

Trey’s face hardens, his eyes flashing a shade darker with memories and regrets.

“I thought she killed my charge is why. I didn’t know she wasn’t Marissa’s daughter.

The King said she was. I believed him.” He pauses, his voice dropping to a pained whisper.

“If someone killed your King, would you like them or their family?” His demand hangs in the air, as raw and sharp as an open wound.

Dustin turns towards Gannon, searching for some kind of guidance.

Gannon only tilts his head to the side, his gaze locked onto Trey watching him carefully searching for any deceit.

His silent scrutiny seems to probe at the truth of Trey’s words, weighing them against every action, every choice they have observed him make.

The atmosphere hangs thick with unanswered questions and distrust.

“Whose charge were you?” Gannon finally demands.

Trey straightens, his shoulders squaring.

His jaw clenches before he replies, his words carrying the gravity of confession.

“Baby Azalea’s. I was the one that reported Marissa.

About her getting Azalea to call her mommy,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries in the silent kitchen like a shout.

The revelation seems to hang in the air, a piece of a puzzle falling into place with an echoing click. Gannon’s expression doesn’t waver, but there is a flicker in his eyes, a spark of understanding—or perhaps it is the beginning of more doubt.

“Those reports didn’t have your name on them,” Gannon states.

Trey’s face, already etched with lines of barely contained anger and frustration, contort further into a mask of indignation. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles whitening as he fights to control his rising fury.

“I had to fill out the same paperwork as everyone else did.” Trey’s voice is ragged, strained with the effort of holding back his emotions.

He takes a step forward, his stance wide, ready to defend not just his actions but his loyalty.

“You all know I come from the Landeena Kingdom! Fuck! I helped search for her for years!”

Without another word, Trey turns sharply on his heel. The door swings open with a bang, protesting against the abruptness of his exit, and then slams shut.

The door trembles in the aftershock of Trey’s departure, the silence thickening around us as we try to figure out what just happened.

Gannon’s jaw tightens as he turns toward Clarice, the lines etched on his brow deepening with concern. “Did you know that?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Clarice, her hands pause mid-wipe on the already spotless counter, meets Gannon’s gaze. She shrugs.

“I knew he was from the Landeena Kingdom, and was in the castle. But I thought he was a guard,” she says.

Her fingers resume their work, brushing invisible crumbs into her palm, each sweep a methodical attempt to order the chaos that had erupted in her kitchen.

Gannon’s fists clench at his sides, the veins in his forearms standing out like cords as he turns sharply on his heel. With a purpose that silences any residual murmurs from the other staff present, he makes for the door, his steps heavy and deliberate.

“I’m finding his documents,” he growls over his shoulder, not bothering to glance back at us.

He pauses, just before crossing the threshold into the foyer, his profile etched against the dim light filtering through the windows. “Mindlink the King and get him back here,” he says to Dustin.

“What? Why?” I ask, my confusion knitting my brows together. I know Azalea will get in trouble with Kyson for commanding her guard.

“Because, if Trey is indeed pact oathed to the Landeenas,” Gannon’s voice echoes back to me, “that means someone else in the castle was poisoning her.”

The severity of his words settles in my stomach like lead. All this time, their suspicions were misguided, pointing fingers at the wrong person while the true culprit lurked unnoticed. Which means Azalea is once again in danger.

“And we have been looking at the wrong person all this time,” he finishes before walking out.