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she’d gotten used to. His expression was rock hard, deep lines bracketing his mouth. He was every bit the warrior. Her hopes fell.
    “I must go.”
    “What? Aren’t we going to talk about this?”
    “No.”
    She had to stop him. “I thought I was the queen, and we were supposed to rule together.” Even she had to cringe at that statement.
    Jackson’s posture remained rigid as he simply lifted a brow. “Look, Ryleigh. I have to go. Now. It was a huge concession for Elijah to offer as much information as he did. His visions are…private, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t share them. He either can’t or won’t for fear of negatively affecting the intended outcomes. Fate, if you will. We can discuss it more when I return.” He turned and walked away, effectively ending their conversation.
    Oh no. He did not just dismiss her. She rushed after him. “Don’t you walk away from me, Jackson.”
    He kept walking.
    “Get back here. We are not done with this.”
    He reached for the elaborate iron door handle.
    “If you walk out that door without finishing this conversation, I’ll…I’ll…” She lowered her voice as he pulled the door open. “I won’t be here when you get back.”
    He paused, door held open wide.
    “And I won’t return. Ever.”
    He straightened his shoulders, strode purposefully from the chamber, and let the door fall shut behind him.
    * * * *
    Jackson shoved his feelings ruthlessly aside. He’d spent hundreds of years without emotions, he’d be damned if he’d let them rule him now. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the empty hallway, beating at him, reminded him of what it was to be truly alone. His heart ached to return to Ryleigh. To beg for her understanding and forgiveness. To plead with her to wait for him to return so they could talk.
    Urgency pushed him forward. Whether it was his own sense of foreboding, or the stern warning from Elijah to hurry, he had no idea. He wished fleetingly his father was still there to make this decision, but he didn’t let the thought linger. King Maynard—the true King Maynard—was gone, and no amount of wishing would bring him back. Too bad Jackson was such a poor substitute. He shook off the self-pity as he shoved the door open and stormed toward the stable. What choice did he have?
    “Hey, Jackson. Wait up.” Dakota Knight jogged to catch up, then fell into place beside Jackson as he continued on his way to the stable. “What’s happening?”
    Obviously Elijah had called the Death Dealer team to order but hadn’t told them what to expect. Great. Jackson would have to bring them up to speed before they could leave. “I’ll go over it once we all meet. No sense repeating it twice.” He pulled open the door and held it for Dakota to precede him.
    “I heard Mia’s back?”
    Jackson shot him a grin.
    Dakota’s cheeks, already ruddy from running in the cold, reddened even more. “Uh…and Ryleigh, I mean.”
    “Sure you did.” He punched his best friend in the arm. “I’ll meet you at the pens.” Jackson pulled aside the curtain to his dressing cubicle and took a lit lantern from a hook beside the entrance. He let the curtain fall shut behind him.
    After hanging the lantern beside the long table against the back wall where his equipment was laid out, Jackson ran a hand along the smooth black breastplate he’d worn so many times, had worn into battle the day his father was killed. Only then, there had been no symbol covering the breastplate. It had simply been the smooth black armor of a novice, even though the Death Dealer ceremony had been completed in private, and he’d already worn the mark of the Death Dealer and the future king on his arm.
    He traced the pattern now adorning the breastplate. The primitive, tribal design surrounded two crossed swords set in the exact center. The mark of the Death Dealer, the warrior he’d trained for hundreds of years to become. Similar to the tattoo covering his upper right arm