Regan had come to realize being a Royal Guard was more of a vocation than a job. Breaks were few, and even when they were allowed, the pull to be near the king never quite went away. Her entire life had started to revolve around him in a way that was unexpected, and perhaps a little unsettling.

And at present, she was glad for it. Focusing on the task ahead made it easier to forget about Grant. Grant, her partner, her best friend, the one who was now off on a fantastically exciting mission she had no part of, who was emotionally and physically further away from her than ever. And it hurt. Regan didn’t want it to hurt, but it did. And her hellhound form, which always managed to dump fuel on whatever ire-filled fire she had burning, didn’t help matters. On a good day, Regan was always two seconds away from snapping her jaws, and this was far from a good day.

But, she’d eaten, and was feeling better.

Regan was marching back to the king, back to where they’d portalkey back to Lorendale and the madness unfolding there. As she walked, her mind was a million miles away. It was wherever Grant was, in a place full of thrilling danger. Frustration and worry tied a tight knot in her chest, setting a timer that ticked away in her chest.

All she wanted to do was burn. But now wasn’t the time, and certainly not the place.

Regan almost didn’t stop for the Morrigan, but it was something in the cadence of her voice that brought her to a halt. It was a familiar lilt, one she’d heard before out of Keelan Morrigan’s mouth. Her tone made Regan’s stomach drop.

She’d left the garden party and Keelan behind with it. It was cruel, perhaps, but their affair was doomed from the start. Regan was never to be anything more than a mistress, though Keelan was deluded to believe otherwise. And because the needy, hungry side of her didn’t want to lose him, she’d shown up at that picnic like he’d requested and made fools of them both.

And so, in typical Regan fashion, she’d cut and run. The matter was settled, the affair dead, and she wasn’t about to rehash it now. She turned, looking at the woman with a surly expression. Regan didn’t know who she was exactly, but she had Morrigan written all over her.

“I think you have me confused with someone else, my lady,” Regan answered simply, preparing to once again be on her way.

The name ‘Lassiter’ smacked like a cold wind. Not a name, but a place. A reminder that she belonged not to a family but to the orphan home she’d burnt to the ground; the unforgiving past that she dragged with her everywhere.

Regan narrowed her eyes for a moment, sizing up the witch in front of her. They both had a vested interest in not making a scene, she supposed. Regan didn’t need any more waves being made given her recent conflict with the king, and the Morrigans didn't need the world knowing that their prized son had been entertaining and orphaned mistress. So, grumbling, Regan stepped forward, glowering at the woman in front of her.

“What do you want?” Regan’s voice was little more than a whisper.

Regan bristled at Gunne’s initial condescencion, but by the time she was finished, the royal guard was fuming. Barely more than a commoner. One who should be bowing and scraping, grateful for whatever scraps of affection the higher-ups handed down. Well, if that’s the kind of girl Gunne wanted, she would be sorely disappointed.

“Oh yeah?” Regan hissed through her teeth, “And find out just how deep dear Uncle Adder can bury a dirty commoner like me? I don’t think so.” She narrowed her eyes. “Besides, you should be grateful. Now Keelan is free to find someone worthy of the Morrigan name.” Her nose wrinkled as she said it.

Young lady.

Regan honestly had no idea just what this broad wanted. Maybe if she did she’d be tempted to give it to her, but as it was, Regan’s guess was that all of this nonsense was simply theatre. She was just a privileged Morrigan darling, all het up because a commoner had contaminated one of thier own and not suffered for it.

“If you think there was another way this could have happened,” Regan responded, each syllable snapping with a hiss, “Then perhaps you don’t know Keelan like I do. With him, there are no goodbyes he doesn’t want to give. And if I went back…” Regan shook her head. What is it Keelan had said? That he wanted to possess her. Own her. And that he’d do things, bad things, to see that was the case.

“No, I’m not.” Regan answered honestly as a crack formed in her obstinance. She stared at Gunne, cheeks starting to burn as she tried to keep her breathing steady. A woman like her—a Morrigan—couldn’t possibly understand. Walking away from Keelan was the greatest gift she could have given him. He would have been disowned and disgraced, and she would have been the woman that had brought him there.

“What is it that you want?” Regan muttered, the hurt showing through the stubbornness for a moment before she covered it again.

Regan stared at her dumbly for a moment, trying to cypher through the jumble of emotions that surrounded Keelan Morrigan. She wanted to tell her to piss off, to turn on her heel and march away, but Regan was acutely aware that they were still in public, and this woman didn’t seem like she minded making a scene.

“You’re not stupid. You know what it would be for a Morrigan to marry a commoner. He’d be disowned. A laughing stock.” Regan eventually said, voice barely more than a whisper, “Keelan said that’s what he wanted, and I didn’t believe him. If I knew he was serious, I would have walked away sooner. Not because I don’t care about him, but because I do.”

“Having a mistress is one thing. Taking a wife is another.” The word mistress had Regan’s cheeks burn. She’d never fully appreciated that’s what she was, but now, with the word on the air, she felt the full weight of its shame.

There was a part that Regan was omitting. The truth that she didn’t love Keelan, not as he seemed to love her. That he’d been a thing of comfort and control, something that had made the nights warmer and quieted the hellhound at least for awhile. She cared about him yes, but it wasn’t love. It never had been. The ferocity of his need for her juxtaposed with her indecision made it easy enough to run

Right into Grant’s arms.

Gunne’s disdain made Regan’s cheeks burn. It made her hate her, hate the Morrigan family, made her glad that she’d left Keelan behind if this was what she would have had to suffer. Regan was done with this: with her, with Keelan, with the Morrigans. For good.

“I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.” There was venom in her voice. Disdain that dripped from every single syllable. Regan bowed a slight, stiff bow—eyes flashing for a moment with veins of copper before going dark once again. “Good day to you, my lady.”

Regan would turn on her heel and walk away—unless stopped. There was nothing to be gained by staying, after all. If Gunne wanted to make a scene and shout after her, that was her prerogative. But the Morrigans were a proud people. Scrapping in the courtyard with some commoner would be a change of pace for them.