“Arthur,” Tristan said, his voice instantly losing its edge.

He tried to smile, but his mouth only twitched at the corner.

“We were just catching up,” Tristan added, his shoulder shifting back.

“Take your hand off her,” Arthur said.

He did not raise his voice.

He took two slow steps into the gallery.

The soles of his leather shoes made no sound on the Persian rug.

Tristan’s fingers remained locked around my skin, a desperate reflex.

“Sterling, you don’t understand,” Tristan said, his tone turning eager and thin.

“She has the override codes,” Tristan said. “She’s been keeping them from you.”

Arthur didn’t let him finish.

He reached out, his gloved hand moving with a sudden, silent speed.

He gripped Tristan’s wrist.

I heard the faint, sickening pop of Tristan’s joint flexing too far.

Tristan gasped, his fingers instantly releasing me.

He stumbled back a step, clutching his arm against his chest.

I pulled my arm back to my ribs, the skin already blooming with dark red marks.

Arthur stepped between us, completely obscuring Tristan from my view.

“I believe I gave you an instruction,” Arthur said.