Liam was in a bathroom.

That, by itself, was not the problem.

Bathrooms were rooms with locks, plumbing, mirrors, and polished surfaces designed to make bad decisions look even worse under controlled lighting.

The problem was that Liam was in a bathroom inside the diplomatic residence assigned to the Agaron delegation, and he did not quite understand how he had reached it.

No.

That was not true.

He understood the route. His memory was annoyingly functional. Dining room, corridor, security checkpoint, and second-floor private wingsuite doors were opened by Agaron staff who had somehow behaved as if Liam’s presence there had been scheduled three weeks ago and notarized by six departments.

What he did not understand was how Arik had manipulated him into staying.

Liam gripped the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection.

Everything is madness. Total madness.

Arik had just told him, over dessert and wine pairing, that Agaron intended to take Wrohan through infrastructure. Not invasion. Not troops. Not a declaration dramatic enough for newspapers and patriotic idiots.

No.

Energy cooperation. Distribution audits. Embedded administrators. Infrastructure oversight. George as a legal bridge. Felix as an example. The royal house as decoration until Agaron decided the room looked better without it.

Liam closed his eyes.

Then opened them again.

His reflection remained there, pale, sharp-eyed, and offensively composed for a man whose life had just been dragged into a treaty trap by an imperial menace with excellent table manners.

The bathroom was nice.

Of course it was nice.

This was a diplomatic building prepared by George and Felix for the Crown Prince of Agaron. It had marble counters, brass fixtures, imported tiles, heated floors, and enough quiet money in the walls to make lesser nobles develop religious feelings.

Liam did not.

He had grown up between Armstrong, Ravenwood, and Canmore’s standards of wealth. Luxury did not impress him. Luxury was wallpaper with better funding. He knew the difference between old money, desperate money, inherited taste, and political overcompensation.

This room was not impressive.

It was informative.

The Wrohan structure was expensive and slightly anxious about it. Agaron had clearly corrected the space after arrival. The towels had been replaced. The toiletries were not local. The lighting had been adjusted to be warmer, softer, and less theatrical. Someone had removed the heavy gold-framed mirror that had probably hung over the sink and replaced it with a cleaner dark-edged one that did not look like it wanted to assassinate the viewer through reflection.

Agaron taste.

Severe. Controlled. Expensive without pleading to be noticed.

Liam hated that he recognized it already. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

He hated more that he liked it.

He turned on the tap and let cold water run over his fingers.

"Think," he told himself.

His reflection looked unconvinced.

He tried to reconstruct where the argument had failed.

He had objected to being moved from the dining area into the protected wing.

Strongly.

There had been several excellent points. Autonomy. Consent. The alarming speed with which Arik converted emergencies into architecture. The fact that Liam was not luggage. The fact that he still technically belonged to no delegation and certainly not to Arik’s.

Arik had listened.

That was where Liam should have become suspicious.

Then Arik had said, "You can stay in the public-facing rooms George and Felix prepared, where half the walls were chosen by people who want me watched and you cornered, or you can stay in the Agaron-controlled private wing, where every corridor has already been cleaned of Wrohan’s listening devices."

Liam had replied, "That is not a choice. That is a hostage negotiation with better upholstery."

And Arik had said, "Yes. Choose the better hostage-taker."

Liam’s crimson eyes widened with the realization while he was still watching himself in the mirror.

"Why the fuck am I here when I have a home in town?" he whispered.

His reflection did not answer.

Coward.

Liam gripped the edge of the sink harder. "Ravenwood Manor exists. It has walls. Doors. Security. A mother. An aunt. Several people willing to commit socially acceptable violence before breakfast. Why am I in the Agaron wing?"

Because Arik had said secure and Liam had heard safer.

Because Arik had said Felix and Liam had stopped arguing for half a second too long.

Because Arik had looked at him with those impossible gold eyes and said, Choose the better hostage-taker, as if that was a normal sentence instead of the kind of thing that should require psychiatric review and possibly exile.

Liam lowered his head.

"Oh no."

The second realization was worse.

Enia.

Mirelle.

His mother and aunt were not going to take this as news. They were going to take it as a declaration of war delivered by an idiot son with poor timing and worse self-preservation instincts.

Liam straightened sharply and reached for his comm.

Then stopped.

How did one send that message?

Hello Mother, hello Aunt Mirelle, minor update: I am now in the Agaron-controlled private wing of the diplomatic residence because the Crown Prince of Agaron told me Wrohan is about to become an infrastructure-dependent protectorate, Felix is on his personal murder schedule, George is a decorative bridge, and apparently I am his fiancée in a way that may be less temporary than previously advertised.

’No. Mother will kill me.’

Mirelle would not kill him. Mirelle would sit very still, pour tea, and ask questions in a voice so calm that three ministries would resign out of instinct.

Liam processed, with dawning horror, the fact that he had once again agreed to an arrangement with Arik.

’Am I stupid? Poisoned?’

He stared at himself in the mirror.

’Fuck. I like him. That’s why.’

The realization landed hard enough to make him grip the sink.

"No," Liam said to his reflection.

His reflection looked unconvinced.

"No," he repeated, sharper. "Absolutely not."

Because liking Arik was not harmless, it was not inconvenient in the cute, ridiculous way that romance novels made it seem.

Liam snatched his comm from his pocket and opened his calendar with fingers that were suddenly too cold. He scrolled past meetings, lab maintenance, supply schedules, and a court dinner he had marked with a skull and then found the neutral label he used because even his own calendar could not be allowed to tell the truth.

Cycle management - 24 hours.

Liam stopped breathing.

For one second, everything went still.

Then his stomach dropped.

"Fuck," he whispered.

His heat was close, and that was the ugliest part of him.

Liam had discovered the truth when he was young, during one of his first heats, before he had understood how ugly biology could become. He had been a teenager the first time a heat broke through his medication, and while other omegas might grow feverish or desperate for touch, Liam became something far worse.

A biological void.