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When we get to the street, I instruct, “Turn left.”

Graves gives me a long look. “The way to the house is to the right.”

“We’re not going to the House of Night.” I’ve been anticipating this conversation. “I want to go home.”

Graves arches a brow, but I continue before he can open his mouth. “My recovery will be faster without interruption,” I say, my voice even despite the dull pull across my upper torso when I shift my weight. “I have everything I need for my rehabilitation: A private gym for physical therapy and I’m closer to the hospital if I need it. I’ve also got a home office for any issues at the hotel,” I rattle off, “but most of all, no distraction.”

“You mean,” he adds dryly, “no one can get close to you.”

I glance at him.

He smirks, unrepentant. “Like your wife.”

I don’t take the bait.

I haven’t heard from Arianette since I sent her away from my hospital room a week ago.

DK and Hunter have kept their distance, too, beyond the bare minimum updates. I told them to step up, and from what I’m hearing, they have. It only confirms that I chose well–a validation I never thought I’d need, but here we are.

Graves pulls onto the street, taking the left, heading through the city instead of away from it. It feels surreal after being cooped up for so long, teetering on the brink of death, to be back on the streets that have continued moving, whether I’m standing at the center of it or not.

“How long has it been since you’ve been back here?” he asks, turning into the neighborhood.

“Not since Remington found out the truth about me being the Baron King.” I’d stayed in the home, living my life as Timothy Maddox to keep up pretenses, but once we had our altercation on the cliffs, there was no reason to continue.

I’d left the impressive house, locked the iron gates, and moved into the House of Night, resigned to the fact that my son had embraced his life with DKS. There would be no legacy at BRN. He knew my secret, which meant there was no reason for me to continue the facade of staying in the family home. Not when we were no longer a family.

“You were smart to keep it maintained for the last few years,” he says, parking in the curve of the circular drive. “Mr. and Mrs. Willett should have everything in order.” He cuts me a look at the inconvenience I’m creating for my caretakers. “Although a little notice would’ve been nice.”

I look up at the house and its big front porch. Amber and I bought it right after we graduated and got married. It was where we were going to build our lives. Now it’s just a place where I can exist without the weight of the crown. Without the mask and the knowledge that another man sits in my throne, wearing a borrowed title, until I’m fit to wear it again.

If I’m fit to wear it again.

Graves takes me through the side door instead of the front, both of us aware I can’t handle the steps right now. The moment I step inside, the shift from hospital to home is immediate and tangible, but my body betrays me. The short walk from car to entry leaves a fine sheen of sweat at my temples, a tightness in my chest I refuse to acknowledge out loud.

Graves watches me like a mother hen, a step away, prepared to step in if needed.

I ignore him and move toward the leather chair in the living room and lower myself into it with measured care. The cushions give under my weight, familiar and grounding–but the exhaustion hits anyway, heavier than I allow anyone to see.

While I steady myself, Graves heads back outside and returns with a large black woven basket. He sets it on the coffee table.

“What’s this?”

“Since we didn’t know you were leaving the hospital today, Arianette sent it with me this morning.” He reaches in and begins pulling out items one by one. “Your favorite tea. Several bottles of the supplements the doctor recommended to help with inflammation. She even sent the mug you always use for your morning tea.”

My chest tightens as he sets the familiar dark ceramic mug on the table; it reminds me of the nights when Arianette was locked in the cage in my bedroom. I realize now, she’d been watching and paying attention.

She’d been learning about me.

Graves continues, “There’s also a bag of some of your clothes that I can bring in.”

A strange mix of irritation and unwanted pleasure twists inside my chest. The fact that she thought of these small details–things no one outside of Graves would know–stirs something dangerously soft in me. At the same time, it pisses me off. I don’t want her care right now. I want distance. I need distance.

“I want my location kept private,” I finally say, turning away from the basket. “From everyone.”

“Timothy–” he starts.

“No exceptions. Not until I’m ready.”