Harolin looked at Dominic for a long moment.
The cuffs were an issue. The clothes were expensive, which meant whatever had brought him here had happened fast enough that he hadn't changed into anything practical first. His hair was the same. His face was the same.
Harolin did not know yet how he had gotten here. It was not in any report he had seen this morning—no news coverage. No official processing notice had passed through the standard channels.
Which meant someone had been paid. Or someone had arranged something quietly. Either option pointed to the same conclusion.
Dominic was here for Ruaan.
Harolin thought about Ruaan sleeping in the room last night with his face pressed against his chest, about the key on the chain around Ruaan's neck. About two weeks of a complicated situation becoming something he had stopped pretending to himself was simple.
Ruaan was his.
