“You’re to remain in separate rooms,” said a gruff man with cropped hair who reminded me far too much of Strand, and he stepped in front of me, blocking my way into Greyson’s suite.
“On whose orders?” demanded Greyson, standing up straight and radiating confidence. Maybe he was faking it, or maybe power suited him—either way, he was right. They should have been listening to him, not anyone else.
“On the Prime Minister’s orders,” said the guard.
“Greyson is the Prime Minister now,” I said sharply, but he didn’t so much as blink.
“Separate rooms. Those are the orders.”
I stared at Greyson, desperation coursing through me—not because we needed to be together, but because if the guards were still taking orders from Daxton, that meant one of three things:
One, Christopher wasn’t the only
