hangman's noose

by elphyse

Summary:

rope, silk, touch—call it what you want. you still wear it, anyway.

Chapter 1

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

She freezes, heart caught in her throat. Her hand stills mid-stroke, brush poised in the air. She doesn’t move even as his footsteps pad softly across the carpet—doesn’t flinch when his arms circle her waist, his breath warm against the nape of her neck.

“You’ve been away from me for too long,” he murmurs, lips grazing her bare shoulder.

She swallows. Her chest tightens.

“I’ve been here all day,” she says, setting the brush down on the vanity. She turns, meets his gaze, violet and hooded in the low light.

“But you didn’t come to see me.”

“I thought you were busy.” Her fingers drift into his hair, automatically, shamefully. Her stomach flips. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He smiles. Slow. Lazy. Affectionate. “You’re never a disturbance, chérie.”

She hates how guilty she feels every time he looks at her like this. Talks to her like this. She wonders what she’ll do when this ends—when the spell breaks, and whatever holds him soft and warm like this finally burns off. Wonders if he will cast her out without a second glance.

He’s not cruel. Not really. Or—he wasn’t. Not until she started stealing his choices from him. His will. His right to decide who he’d fall in love with.

“Lumine,” he whispers.

She startles.

“Look at me, my sweet.”

She does. Her heart kicks hard against her ribs. He’s smiling—his hand comes up, cupping her cheek with unbearable tenderness, like she’s made of porcelain. Precious. Fragile.

“You think too much,” he murmurs. “My lovely wife, always worrying that pretty head of hers.”

His voice dips. Low. Seductive. A velvet promise.

“Why don’t you let all those thoughts go and think of me instead?”

She wants to say no. Not for her sake, but his. She shouldn’t keep indulging in a love that was never freely given.

But his hand is already at the small of her back, and he’s guiding her away from the vanity, slow and careful, like she might break. She doesn’t resist. She never really can.

“That’s my wife,” he says, distinctly pleased. “I love it most when you listen to me. When you let me carry your burdens.”

He always knows what to say. Always. That silk-soft voice—so sweet, so persuasive. She’s defenceless against it.

And her guilt? It weighs nothing against the warmth of his arms. Against the way he wants to offer and offer and offer.

So she lets herself fall. Again. Pretends—just for tonight—that this is love. That she isn’t doing something terrible.

And in some quiet, frightened corner of her mind, she wonders how much longer she can keep this up. How many more nights she’ll get to fall asleep beside him. How many more times she’ll feel his fingers twine with hers before she has to run.

---

The young Duke of Perinheri was Fontaine’s most eligible bachelor.

Lyney Perinheri inherited the title three years ago, after his mother, Arlecchino, retired to the countryside, citing health concerns. Since then, just about every unmarried woman in Fontaine has had their eye on him.

And why wouldn’t they? He was beautiful. Polite. Disarmingly kind. He had a way of speaking that made people feel like the centre of the universe. He always knew just what to say and when to say it. His smile alone was captivating.

The first time she saw him was at a charity salon hosted by the queen.

She could only attend because the event was open to all unmarried nobles aged twenty to twenty-five. Ostensibly, it was for charity—but everyone knew it was also the queen’s subtle attempt to identify a suitable bride for the crown prince, who’d been notably vocal in rejecting all proposed matches.

Not that it mattered to her. She was never a contender. Her family, a run-down noble house vassal to another, lacked the lineage or prestige for any serious consideration. But she’d always been curious—painfully so—about the world of the upper echelons. Eventually, her ailing mother agreed to let her attend.

She wore the best dress she owned. Shabby by comparison, but she hadn’t gone to impress anyone. She only wanted to see. She arrived early, kept to the edges of the room, and spent the next twenty minutes quietly marvelling. The gowns, the light, the laughter. The sheer splendour of it all. Perfumed air thick with blooms, silver trays bearing wine and champagne weaving through the crowd. For a moment, she let herself believe this was enough.

Even if it was the only ball she’d ever attend, that was fine.

She never asked for more. Her family was noble in name alone. Her father was dead. Her mother was ill. Her twin brother was drafted two years ago to the northern front, and hadn’t been home since.

She harboured no illusions of grandeur. She only wanted to catch a glimpse of that other world—the one where everyone was beautiful, and no one had to worry about hunger, or sickness, or war.

So when a server offered her wine, she took it. And when the crowd’s noise grew too loud, she retreated to a nearby balcony.

That was when she saw him.

A young man, dressed in black. His pale hair turned silvery under the moonlight. His back was to her, but he turned at the sound of her footsteps. And when their eyes met, she forgot how to breathe.

He was stunning. Easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, eclipsing even the other nobles inside. The moon itself looked dim next to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, already half-turning to go. “I thought this balcony was empty.”

“No need to run,” he said. His voice was soft. Melodic. The kind of voice that wrapped around you and made you want to close your eyes. “It’s big enough for both of us.”

She hesitated, unsure if he truly meant it. But then he smiled.

“Why don’t you join me?” he said. “I promise I won’t bite. And I’d welcome the company. It gets lonely, drinking alone under the moonlight.”

After a pause, she approached. He raised his wine glass to her in greeting. She lifted hers in response. His smile widened as he took a sip.

“So,” he said. “May I know the name of my companion tonight?”

“Lumine,” she replied. “Lumine Viatrix.”

“Viatrix?” He tilted his head. “Ah. I remember your brother.” Another sip of wine. His gaze met hers, unflinching. “Didn’t know his sister was so beautiful.”

She didn’t know whether to thank him or deflect. She wasn’t used to this—being noticed, being seen. Most people didn’t even know the Viatrix name.

So she kept it simple. “You know my brother?”

“Aether, yes. He’s skilled. I hear he’s doing well on the northern front. You must be proud.”

“I am,” she said softly. “I just wish he could come home soon.”

His expression shifted. Gently. “I understand. My sister’s at the front too. I worry every day.”

“Your sister?”

“Lynette Perinheri. You probably haven’t met her. She doesn’t care for social events.”

Perinheri.

The name hit her like ice water.

“I-I’m so sorry,” she gasped, suddenly mortified. “I didn’t realise you were—”

“It’s fine,” he said. His smile softened. “I liked that you didn’t treat me formally. It was… refreshing.”

“But I was being so disrespectful—”

“You weren’t.” He shook his head. “If anything, I was the one at fault for not introducing myself properly. But I wanted to speak with you first. Without the barrier of title or name.”

Her heart pounded. She was still cold with nerves.

This wasn’t just any man.

This was Lyney Perinheri—the young Duke of one of Fontaine’s oldest, most powerful houses. The Perinheri name carried wealth, influence, and history. In certain circles—especially among the military and the old guard—it held more weight than even the royal family’s.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said as if sensing her tension. “Right now, where we stand, we’re just two people. Names and ranks don’t matter here, do they?”

The moonlight spilt across his face. She stared, entranced.

He really was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

Violet eyes, pale blond hair. A face so exquisitely sculpted it bordered on unreal. As if some obsessive artist had spent years perfecting the details—his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Nothing about him felt natural. He was too polished, too perfect.

He looked like a dream, and she half-wondered if he was one.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving her, “I haven’t spoken to anyone like this in weeks.”

“Why not?”

Something in his expression flickered—wistful, almost sad. “Because most people only speak to me when they want something. You didn’t. You just wanted the balcony.”

Her cheeks warmed. “You make me sound like a recluse.”

“And if I did? What would that make me?” He tilted his head, amused. “Usually, I’d be out there entertaining the crowd. But it wasn’t my show to steal tonight,” he added. “The queen would’ve had my head.”

“Then why attend at all?”

“A good question.” He looked up towards the stars. “I suppose I was feeling lonely.”

“You?” she said, surprised.

“Yes.” He glanced back at her. His smile lingered, but his gaze turned distant, like he was looking past her, not at her. “Even I get lonely. Is that so strange?”

“Not really. I think everyone does.” She took another sip of wine, the bittersweet tang giving her more courage than she expected. “Especially those who are always expected to perform. Always in the spotlight. Always on stage.”

His eyes sharpened. The languor in his gaze faded, replaced by a cool, precise interest. “You think so?”

She nodded. “It must be… tiring. Being expected to live up to what others want. To always be presentable. Charming. Perfect.”

He regarded her for a moment, blinking slow, catlike. “Do you think I’m performing, Lumine?”

The wine made her bolder than she ought to have been. “Aren’t you? You wouldn’t be speaking to me like this if you weren’t. When you said it wasn’t your show tonight… you sounded relieved.”

A pause.

And then something shifted. It was subtle. His posture remained relaxed, his smile easy—but the warmth behind it cooled, just enough to notice. There was a glint in his eyes now. Sharp. Curious.

Like a cat sizing up prey.

She felt suddenly exposed. Like she’d said too much. Like he was reading her, calculating her, slotting her into a space she couldn’t yet name.

Then he inclined his head. “It’s been a pleasure, Lady Viatrix. I look forward to our next conversation.”

He turned, smooth and graceful, and disappeared into the crowd.

She remained by the railing, wine glass cold in her hand, heart still racing.

She thought about the way he’d looked in the moonlight. The way he had studied her—not like a man admiring a woman, but like a puzzle he meant to solve. Something he didn’t understand yet.

She shivered.

---

It wasn’t that she fell in love with him. Not really.

She just found him… interesting. He didn’t fit into the mould of what she imagined a young duke should be.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected—just not this. Not him.

After that night on the balcony, she started attending more balls. Or the scant few she was invited to, anyway. Her mother was a little concerned, likely worried she’d fall prey to some awful nobleman, but Lumine reassured her it was only curiosity. That she just wanted to see. To understand.

In truth, she was looking for Lyney.

He didn’t attend every gathering. But some, he did. And what struck her most was how different he seemed from that quiet man under the moonlight.

Lyney Perinheri, among a crowd, dazzled. He was kind, charming, impossibly charismatic. Women flocked to him. Men sought his company. He was never alone for long. It made her wonder how he’d ever managed to find solitude on that balcony.

She never got the chance for another long conversation. He was far too in demand to spare her more than a nod or a greeting. But he always acknowledged her. Sometimes they exchanged pleasantries. Once, he asked her to dance.

She still remembered how warm his hand was at her waist. How he guided her through the steps with smooth, easy confidence. How he leant in, just a little too close to be proper. She didn’t know what he was trying to get out of that. Maybe it was a test. Maybe he was trying to rattle her.

Whatever it was, she didn’t think she gave him what he wanted. After the dance ended, he left without a word, but she could feel his gaze on her for the rest of the night—curious, thoughtful, edged with something unreadable.

She wasn’t foolish enough to think he liked her. Who was she? Just a minor noble with no wealth, no influence, no connections. A burden, not a prize. She had nothing to offer.

But maybe—maybe he felt some kinship. Their siblings were both at war. Maybe that was why his gaze found hers again and again across crowded rooms.

It wasn’t fate. Nothing so grand. It wasn’t even attraction; she was neither the prettiest nor the most interesting girl there. She didn’t linger at his side, didn’t try to draw attention to herself. She couldn’t bring herself to be that shameless.

Still, he noticed her. Not enough to act on it. But enough.

She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really.

At least, not until the day her mother coughed up blood.

She’d rushed her to the doctor, only to be told it was a mana deficiency illness—treatable, but expensive. Thousands of mora expensive.

She didn’t have thousands of mora. She barely had a hundred.

Her mother told her to let go. Said it might be better if she passed—at least then Lumine would be free to forge her own future. To stop carrying the weight of a dying woman.

But Lumine couldn’t accept that. Not from the woman who had sacrificed everything to raise her and her brother. She couldn’t.

So she began to think. What was the fastest way to earn that kind of mora?

It wasn’t war. It wasn’t trade. It wasn’t begging.

It wasn’t even selling her body, though the thought had crossed her mind.

No. After eliminating every other path, she arrived at one option: marriage.

Her family name was all she had. Destitute though they were, they still held noble status, and under Fontaine law, that meant she could marry into a more powerful house.

The question was, who would want her?

And then she thought of Lyney. Of his eyes under the moonlight. The curve of his smile. The way his warmth had cooled when she said he wasn’t what he seemed.

Some instinct told her to stay away. That she was brushing up against something dangerous.

But she knew what power meant. Secrets. Scandals. Skeletons in the closet.

And in a family like the Perinheris, she only needed one bone.

---

She’d expected it to be difficult. But it was still staggering, just how clean the Perinheri family appeared to be.

Everywhere she looked, there was nothing but praise. The Perinheris were beloved. Revered, even. They took in war orphans, donated regularly to the elderly and infirm, built hospitals, churches, libraries. In every corner of their domain, people spoke of their kindness with stars in their eyes.

Too perfect. Far too perfect.

She didn’t believe it. Couldn’t. Not after seeing the way Lyney looked at her sometimes—sharp and unreadable, with something too clever glittering behind his smile.

She knew what true benevolence looked like. Her brother wore it plainly: honourable to a fault, self-sacrificing in a way that hurt to watch. Lyney wasn’t like that. Not at all.

No, Lyney had the gaze of a man with secrets. Of someone who could drape a whole city in velvet and light while quietly cutting out the rot beneath. She was sure of it.

So she began digging.

She went to the town council. Requested access to the public archives—ledgers, census records, old reports. The Perinheri entries were immaculate. Scrubbed clean. Not a blemish in sight.

But when she changed tack—when she started looking into the Perinheris’ vassal families—that was when she began to find the cracks.

Small things, at first. Things most readers would miss. But she wasn’t most readers. She was desperate. Careful. She noted every accounting discrepancy, every unresolved incident, every vague reference to a tragedy quietly swept aside.

The Perinheris’ records were spotless. But the records of those beneath them? Patterns began to emerge.

Dissidents who vanished. Distant relatives who died abruptly—illness, accident, war. Suspicious amounts of mora transferred between vassals, always written off as investments or loans, never paid back or accounted for.

She made notes. Wrote down the names of servants who “retired” and were never seen again. Advisors who left the country with just enough capital to start entire enterprises. Trade routes that shifted with no explanation. Transactions labelled only as reserves—a vague term that appeared more often than it should.

Magical stones. Weaponry. Enchanted goods with no clear origin.

It took her a week to comb through everything the town hall had to offer. By the end of it, she had more questions than answers, but she also had something else: a thread.

A theory. A shape. A conjecture that wasn’t quite proof, but looked enough like it to hold weight if delivered with conviction.

She just needed to string it together. Make it coherent. Sharp enough to wound. Undeniable enough to make someone like Lyney listen.

It wasn’t the full truth. Not even close. The Perinheris were far too careful to leave the real story lying around in public record.

But still—this was enough.

Her bone from the closet. She’d finally found it.

---

“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

She sat stiffly in the parlour of the Perinheri family’s town manor, trying her best to appear nonchalant when she was anything but.

The place was magnificent. Not gaudy, but steeped in understated luxury. Tasteful, elegant. The kind of home that whispered wealth, not screamed it. Her house, by comparison, was shabby. Still technically aristocratic, but barely.

She’d written to him. Requested an audience. She hadn’t expected a reply—not from someone like Lyney, not when he likely received dozens of letters a day—but he did respond. Quickly, too. His reply arrived just two days later.

She’d honestly been considering planting herself outside his gate and refusing to leave. But in the end, she hadn’t needed to.

He invited her to his manor the very next day.

Now here she was, ushered in by a retinue of quiet, efficient servants, seated in an armchair far too plush, with tea and delicate pastries laid out before her. She waited for fifteen minutes, fidgeting, until she’d started rising—distracted by the paintings along the hall, which she suspected were originals by a master artist she admired—when Lyney walked into the parlour, and she promptly sank back down like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

And now, he was seated across from her. Smiling. Calm. Perfectly composed.

She cleared her throat. “I have… a proposition for you.”

He blinked, slow and feline. “Is that so? Do tell.”

He sounded faintly amused. She didn’t like that. It didn’t feel like he was taking her seriously at all.

“Marry me,” she blurted.

Lyney didn’t even flinch. He just sipped his tea, unbothered. Like they were chatting about the weather.

“Why would I?” he asked, finally setting his cup down.

She swallowed. Her grip on the dossier in her lap tightened. “If you don’t, I’ll tell the king what your family has done.”

He raised a brow, his smile widening. “What my family has done? I’m not sure we’ve done anything that warrants the king’s attention, Lady Viatrix.”

“Is that so?” Her voice shook. “Then explain this.”

She passed him the dossier.

His eyes flicked down to it, then back up at her. A beat passed before he reached for it, flipping through the pages. As he read, she saw it happen—the slow shift in his face, the light fading from his eyes. His expression grew still. Sharpened. Something distant, unreadable, started to settle in.

He looked… cold.

Not the charming duke she’d met at a party. Not the man who’d once looked at her like she was intriguing. Just cold, calculating quiet.

“This is well-documented,” he said, voice smooth and even. “I can tell you’ve spent quite some time on this. Though it only scratches the surface.”

Her stomach turned. He didn’t sound angry. Didn’t sound anything. But the air in the room had changed. The pleasant civility from earlier had vanished. Now, there was only precision. Professional detachment. A hint of something darker beneath the sweetness.

“I know your family has secrets,” she managed. “And I don’t mean to expose them. But I need this marriage. And if you don’t—”

“I’ll marry you,” he interrupted, mild as ever. “If that’s all you want. When would you like the wedding?”

She blinked. “Really?”

“There’s no reason for me to lie, is there?” His smile was courteous. Empty. “You’re the one with leverage. I’d rather not stir up trouble. And it’s no real loss to me, either way.”

She hesitated. This was too easy. She’d expected resistance. Negotiation. Something. But not… this. Not a man who agreed like it didn’t matter.

“I… as soon as possible,” she said, voice small.

He leant back, fingers steepled. “Then we’ll aim for next week. I’ll need to inform the palace and get the royal family’s blessing first—”

“What?” She stared. “The royal family?”

He tilted his head. “You didn’t know? The Perinheri line is an offshoot of the royal bloodline. I’m sure the king won’t object, but I do need to notify him. Formalities, you understand.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. She hadn’t anticipated this—hadn’t thought it would spiral this far. In her mind, this was supposed to be a short-term arrangement, just long enough to save her mother. Then they’d separate quietly, no fuss, no spectacle. Certainly nothing that required the attention of the royal family.

“I thought… I thought we’d marry for a year. Then divorce.”

“What for?” His smile curled, slow and wolfish. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Why relinquish the position of Duchess Perinheri? Most would kill for it.”

“I don’t want to be a duchess,” she whispered. “I just need—”

“I don’t care what you need, Lady Viatrix.” His voice dropped. Cold. Final. The kind of voice that could silence a room. Her breath caught. He flipped back through the dossier with idle grace, utterly unbothered. “You came to me with this. You’ll follow through.”

Then—just like that—the moment passed.

Lyney stood, tucking the dossier beneath his arm. The pleasant mask slid back into place. “You’re very meticulous,” he said lightly. “You’ll make a fine duchess.”

He walked to the door. Paused. Looked back. Smiled. “See you at the altar.”

Then he was gone. And she remained frozen in her chair, heart thudding, trying to understand what she’d just done.

---

The wedding captured public imagination.

Her mother was the first to hear of it. Lumine stumbled back, dazed, and told her she was getting married to Duke Perinheri next week.

Her mother grilled her for two hours.

Lumine lied. Said she and Lyney had been seeing each other in secret (lie), that he had courted her earnestly (bigger lie), and that she’d kept it quiet because she wasn’t sure until he went down on one knee (absolute fabrication). The lies weighed on her, but she couldn’t tell the truth. Not without letting go of the lifeline that was the Perinheri name.

Her mother remained suspicious, but Lumine didn’t crack. Eventually, she sighed. “Do you really love him?”

Lumine nodded.

That was all it took to receive her mother’s blessing.

A letter from Lyney arrived the next day. Polite. Formal. He asked her to prepare for a palace visit over the weekend. It came with a full outfit—dress, accessories, shoes. The fabric was thick and expensive, the gemstones real, the tailoring precise. Burgundy, black and silver. The Perinheri colours.

She tried it on. It fit perfectly.

It also felt like a chain.

Still, she couldn’t complain. Not when she’d forced his hand. Not when she was the one who’d demanded this marriage.

On the day of, Lyney came to fetch her himself.

He entered their residence, greeted her mother, spun a flawless tale of their courtship. Her mother practically swooned. Lumine’s stomach churned at how easily he could charm his way through her life.

He smiled at her. Offered his hand. She took it.

They said nothing during the ride to the palace.

She couldn’t read him. Couldn’t tell if he was angry, resigned, indifferent. He was so quiet. Detached. But that was better. She preferred her own guilt to whatever he might’ve said.

At the palace, they were ushered in to see the king, who was positively beaming.

“It’s high time for Lyney to get married!” he announced. Lyney simply laughed and reached for her hand, rubbing soft circles into her skin with his thumb.

It was terrifying how good he was at this.

The king asked questions—where they met, how long they’d been seeing each other, why the rush. Lyney answered all of them without hesitation.

“At one of the queen’s charity balls. I’ve been courting her for months now. And I want to marry her as soon as I can. She’s the love of my life. I don’t want to wait another second before I can bring her home.”

She shivered.

It was too smooth. Too perfect. When she glanced at him, he looked like he wanted nothing more than to be here.

And she—she probably looked like she was about to bolt. No wonder the king kept asking if she truly understood what she was marrying into.

“The Perinheri legacy is no small matter,” he said. “Our nation’s sword. Its shield. They’ve long kept the northern barbarians at bay. You’ll carry quite a burden as Duchess. Bearing an heir notwithstanding.”

Her stomach twisted. Bearing an heir.

She looked at Lyney again. He simply smiled, expression unreadable.

“I understand,” she said softly. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint Your Majesty.”

The king laughed. “I like your spirit, Lady Viatrix. We’ll see how you fare after the wedding!”

With that, the king gave his blessings, and Lyney handled the rest.

Days later, Lumine stood at the altar—dressed in white, holding a bouquet of lilies, carnations and bluebells—still struggling to believe she was watching him walk down the aisle towards her. He looked, by all appearances, like a man in love.

It was too much. Too fast. Too neat.

Her grip on the bouquet trembled as he took his place beside her.

The ceremony was beautiful. Tasteful. There weren’t many guests—she’d asked for it to be small, and he’d agreed without question.

On her side, only her mother was present. She’d written to Aether, but he was still stationed in the northern territories. It would take at least two weeks for any letter to reach him, and he was nowhere among the guests. The empty space beside her mother made her feel just a little more alone.

On Lyney’s side sat the king, the queen, and the crown prince—along with Arlecchino, his mother. She watched Lumine with a calm, curious detachment. Like someone observing a creature in a cage.

Lyney noticed. “You don’t have to be afraid of her,” he said lightly, his gaze following hers. “She doesn’t do anything to people who mean our house no harm.”

Then he smiled.

Too sweet. Too innocent. It made her skin prickle.

“Do you, Lyney Perinheri, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the priest now asked. “To love and cherish her in good times and bad, in sickness and health, for better and for worse, so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” he said, soft but clear.

The priest turned to her. “And do you, Lumine Viatrix, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and cherish him in good times and bad, in sickness and health, for better and for worse, so long as you both shall live?”

She hesitated. Looked at the priest. Then at Lyney.

He smiled again—that smooth, pleasant smile she was beginning to recognise. The one he wore when he was being polite. When he was playing a role. When nothing behind it was real.

But that was fine. She didn’t need it to be real.

She glanced towards the first pew, where her mother sat with folded hands and hopeful eyes. Her chest tightened.

She would do anything to protect her. Anything to lift her family out of this slow decline.

“I do.”

The priest nodded. “Then I pronounce you husband and wife,” he declared. “You may now kiss the bride.”

She looked at Lyney, and he moved towards her without hesitation.

His gloved fingers brushed her cheek, tilted her chin up, and then he kissed her. Gently. Deliberately. His eyes fluttered closed, and hers widened in surprise.

She hadn’t thought he'd actually do it. Not like this. Not when he clearly didn’t want her. Not when this was just a means to an end.

But he kissed her anyway, and she stood frozen beneath his mouth, her mind blank. When he finally pulled away, she inhaled like she’d been underwater.

“Shall we go, my wife?” he murmured.

She stepped back, her gaze catching on the band around his fourth finger. Their wedding rings. They’d been wearing them since before the ceremony.

Why wait for that? he’d said coolly, slipping the ring onto her hand in private. We already know how this ends. Might as well leave them on. Saves the trouble.

She lowered her gaze. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his lips curve.

“Then let’s go,” he whispered, leaning down, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. “There are many things the new Duchess Perinheri must grow accustomed to.”

---

They slept in separate rooms.

It wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t expected more. Hadn’t wanted more. She married him for his name, his power, his reach—the lifeline he offered her mother.

She desired nothing else. And it seemed Lyney didn’t either. He simply showed her to her chambers—lavish and vast beyond anything she was used to—and left without comment.

Fine by her. The less she had to see him, the less she had to feel like a fraud.

The guilt still came in waves, choking and persistent. Being near him only made it worse. So if he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist, she’d oblige. She’d live like a ghost in the Perinheri estate if that was what it took.

But he wouldn’t let her.

Barely an hour after she finished unpacking her meagre belongings—just a few dresses, some books, and modest accessories—there was a knock at the door.

It wasn’t Lyney. It was the butler. “Duchess,” he said, with a polite bow. “The Duke expects you for dinner.”

She blinked. “It’s barely evening.”

“The Duke eats early,” he replied.

She swallowed back any protest. She wasn’t in a position to argue. So she followed him down to the dining room, where two sets of place settings waited on the long, gleaming table. A servant pulled out her chair. She sat, tense. Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t imagine eating a single bite with Lyney seated across from her.

And yet she waited. Silent. Still. She half expected him to leave her there for an hour—make her stew in nerves, guessing at his mood—but he arrived within ten minutes, all effortless charm.

“Apologies,” he said, settling in. “Some reports to sign. Vassals hovering like flies.”

She nodded, unsure why he was bothering with this. Why have dinner together at all? It would’ve been easier to keep avoiding each other.

As if sensing her discomfort, he smiled. Steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Why?” he said. “Does my new duchess find my company unsettling?”

“No,” she muttered. “I just don’t know what you want from me.”

“Want from you?” he echoed, all silk and teeth. “Nothing at all. I only ask that you do your part. Keep the household running. I assume a woman clever enough to dig through the Perinheri archives can manage that much.”

She inhaled sharply. Bit back her reply. Didn’t rise to it.

“We should talk about how we’re presenting ourselves in public,” she said instead. “How we act around others.”

Lyney leant back, appraising her with languid interest. “Why, like any blissfully married couple, of course. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I don’t need you to fake being in love with me.”

“But I do,” he said lightly. “I can’t afford to let the aristocracy get the wrong idea. Nobles seize on weakness. If word gets out that my wife isn’t devoted to me…” He gave a mock sigh. “Disastrous.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No. You’re just naïve.” His tone turned indulgent, condescending. “You’ve been sheltered. Your mother worked hard to keep you from this world for a reason. It’s knives and whispers, not wine and roses.”

“You think anyone could damage your reputation over something so minor?”

“They’ve done worse with less.” He waved a hand. “There was a young noblewoman who changed the colour of the ribbon she wore daily. One day it was red instead of white, and by evening there were rumours of bankruptcy, betrayal and a failed elopement. She had to hide in the countryside for a month.”

Lumine stared. That couldn’t be real.

“You don’t believe me?” He laughed. “Ask your mother.”

She shook her head. “Fine. Let’s assume you’re being honest,” she said. “Then what would you like us to do?”

Lyney tilted his head. “What would you like me to do, my dear wife?” He rested one hand on the table, fingers tapping lazily against the polished surface. “You’re the one with the power here.”

She stiffened. Was he toying with her again? Saying whatever would throw her off balance just to watch her flounder? He was the one who’d insisted they maintain appearances—yet now he was handing her control? None of it made sense.

“I don’t want to be the duchess forever,” she said finally.

“I hear you,” he replied smoothly. “And I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. Like I said—” he smiled faintly, “in for a penny, in for a pound. You asked for this, so you’ll see it through.”

The genial tone didn’t disguise the edge beneath it. The finality in his words made her skin prickle. She knew better than to push further.

“Fine,” she said. “Then… while we’re inside the manor, I don’t want to pretend we’re in love. I’m sure you don’t want that either.”

He hummed. “If that’s your preference, I’ll abide. We only need to play the part in public. Though I would prefer if you weren’t too cold around the staff.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It can be uncomfortable, you know. Working for a household where the master and mistress loathe each other.”

She glanced at the servants lining the room—silent, impassive, watching. She nodded once.

Lyney’s voice dropped. “I take it this means you’d rather not consummate the marriage, either?”

The question hit her like a slap. She flushed, warmth rushing to her cheeks. Consummate? She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Didn’t want to think that far at all.

“I—um—” Words failed her. Her brain scrambled for an answer, but before she could fumble through one, the dining room doors opened and two servants entered with trays.

Saved. She exhaled as a bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of her—rich, fragrant, impossibly warm.

Her stomach growled on cue. She bit her lip and lifted her gaze. Lyney was watching her, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“You don’t have to be polite,” he said. “Go on. Dig in.”

She hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of every movement, every breath. Was this another test? Another game? But the scent was overwhelming—hearty chicken, fresh leek, sweet onion—and hunger won out. She picked up the spoon and tasted it.

It was so good she nearly moaned. Creamy. Comforting. The best thing she’d eaten in weeks. The kind of food you got at noble banquets, and only if you were lucky.

Still, Lyney hadn’t touched his bowl. He was just watching her eat.

A cold thought flickered through her mind. Was the food poisoned?

“It’s not,” he said, and she flinched. “You’re surprisingly easy to read, ma chérie. I can see your thoughts before you even voice them.”

He lifted his spoon and took a sip. “See? Perfectly safe.”

She flushed again, frustrated by how easily he saw through her. She didn’t reply—just focused on eating, ignoring him as best she could. They finished dinner in silence.

Afterwards, they retreated to their respective rooms. She was grateful for it.

But lying in bed that night, staring at the ornate ceiling above her, wrapped in silks softer than anything she’d ever owned, she realised something—

She’d never answered his question.

Chapter 2

The day after their wedding, Lyney left the manor, citing an urgent business trip.

Lumine didn’t mind. It was easier, not having to face him—the man who was now her husband.

Something about him unsettled her. The way he looked at her. The way he spoke. The way he smiled, always too knowing, like he’d glimpsed something inside her she hadn’t even seen for herself. It was… vexing.

With him gone, she had space. She could breathe again, even if waking up in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by absurd finery, felt stifling in its own way.

Before departing, Lyney had assigned her a maid: a quiet girl who spoke only when spoken to. Lumine preferred it that way. She had no interest in forced chatter.

The maid—Desyree—appeared four times a day. Once in the morning to help her dress and serve breakfast. Once to summon her for lunch. Once for dinner. And once before bed, when she drew the bath. That was it. Lumine never asked for more, and Desyree never offered. They coexisted in silence.

So Lumine spent her days wandering the manor, idle and untethered.

She wasn’t sure what Lyney expected of her as duchess. He’d never said. But sitting around all day gnawed at her. She didn’t marry for wealth and title just to become ornamental. She wanted to do something.

Unfortunately, the manor ran like clockwork. The servants were polite, but distant. They moved with quiet efficiency, each one clearly trained to perfection. There was no space for her to step in.

When she once asked—just out of curiosity—to see the household ledger, the butler had smiled with gentle regret and told her that the Duke handled all financial matters personally. By direct instruction, no one else was to touch it.

Perhaps Lyney thought she was still looking for leverage. She wasn’t. But she didn’t blame him for the suspicion.

With nothing else to do, she explored.

The butler had given her a full tour on her second day, and it took two hours just to walk the grounds. The place was enormous. Calling it a manor felt almost laughable.

Two things had stood out: the library and the gardens.

The former was vast and richly stocked. The latter was sprawling and beautiful, home to a hedge maze the butler warned her against. Too many had gotten lost in there, he’d said. One or two… hadn’t come out quite the same.

She kept her distance from the maze.

But the library—now that was a discovery. She spent the next few days buried in books. Ancient grimoires, obscure histories, long-lost myths. Some of the volumes she found were fabled texts she’d only heard whispers of, sitting here as though they were nothing special, tucked away on polished shelves under glass.

She could have stayed there for months. And maybe, she thought, it was a small mercy that Lyney was gone. Without him watching, she could lose herself in the pages.

But by the fifth day of solitude, the silence began to fray. Waking in a bed too plush, in a house too quiet, surrounded by phantoms that moved with practised grace—it was starting to feel like she was the ghost instead.

When Desyree came in that morning to draw the curtains, Lumine watched her for a long moment before speaking.

“I want to go out,” she said.

Desyree paused. “Where to, my lady?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere’s better than being cooped up here.”

Desyree considered. “There’s a market in the town square. It appears only on certain days. You might find charms, spells… rare things.”

Lumine blinked. It was the most the maid had ever said in one breath.

“It’s open today?”

“I believe so. If not, there’s still shopping. Or dessert.”

Lumine got to her feet. “All right. Let’s go. Will you help me dress?”

“Yes, my lady.”

As Desyree moved behind her, Lumine closed her eyes. She remembered the butler’s mention of her allowance—generous to the point of absurdity. Enough to pay for her mother’s medicine, and then some. She’d sent a portion back home already, unsure what to do with the rest.

Perhaps that was reason enough to go out. To see what else this life could buy her.

The market probably wouldn’t sell anything genuine. But it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

---

The market was bustling.

Lumine moved through the stalls with Desyree beside her, silent and watchful as ever. She wore a plain white dress and a wide-brimmed hat to shield her face. No duchess’ finery today. She wasn’t comfortable with opulence, and she didn’t want to draw attention.

The market sprawled beyond the town square, spilling into side streets and alleys. Near the outskirts, the goods were simple—snacks, trinkets, sweets. Innocent, everyday things.

But the deeper in she wandered, the stranger it all became.

Not just objects, but services too. Palm reading. Prophecy. Mediums who claimed to speak to the dead. Witches offering blessings or curses, depending on your coin.

Lumine had never seen anything like this in her part of Fontaine. She eyed a stall that boasted hexes for heartbreak and whispered to Desyree, “Is this even legal?”

Her maid’s voice was calm, as always. “His Grace sees no reason to prevent people from making an honest living.”

A non-answer if there ever was one. She let it go.

They were passing through a narrow aisle, the air thick with smoke and perfume, when her steps suddenly faltered. She didn’t know why. Her gaze had snagged on a tent—dark velvet, edges torn, nestled between two crooked stalls. Something about it called to her. Like a pull in her chest. She couldn’t walk past.

She ducked towards it and pulled the flap open.

Immediately, she reeled back, coughing as a cloud of incense hit her full in the face.

“My lady?” Desyree asked, voice laced with concern.

“I’m fine,” Lumine choked, waving a hand in front of her. Her head swam a little. “Just got ambushed by whatever that was.”

From within the tent came a rasping voice. “A customer?”

Slow, shuffling footsteps, then a head poked through the flap.

It was an old woman, small and stooped, with white hair and eyes sharp as needles. Her skin was a map of wrinkles, deep and endless.

Lumine stared. She couldn’t help it. The woman looked like she’d stepped out of another century.

“Come in, dearie!” she chirped. “Hold your breath. The scent is a bit strong at first.”

Lumine glanced at Desyree, who offered no objection—just a quiet, unreadable look.

Fine. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

This time, she held her breath and ducked inside.

The tent was dim, lit only by a glowing crystal orb on a rickety table. The old woman was already seated beside it, perched on a low stool like a spider in a web.

“Here for your fortune?” she asked.

Lumine hadn’t exactly planned on it. But now that she was here… “How much?”

The woman grinned, revealing a mouth of missing teeth. “For you? No charge.”

That gave her pause. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need your mora, dearie.” Her smile stretched further, just on the wrong side of kind. “But I do need that girl to leave. Her aura’s too strong—it’ll cloud the reading.”

Lumine hesitated. So did Desyree.

“I really shouldn’t leave your side,” the maid said quietly.

“I know,” Lumine murmured. But curiosity tugged at her. Something about this moment felt… inevitable. “Just for a minute? You can stand right outside.”

Desyree’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then she nodded and slipped silently out of the tent.

“Come here, dearie,” the old woman said, gesturing to the stool across from her.

Lumine stepped forward and sat carefully.

“You’re a beautiful girl,” the woman said, squinting at her face beneath the hat. “Just married, yes? To a young man who is not what he seems.”

Lumine might have been more impressed if her wedding hadn’t dominated public gossip for the past week. “Right.”

“You’re afraid he wants to hurt you.”

The bluntness of it sent a chill down her spine. But she didn’t flinch. Anyone could throw out ominous lines like that. “Why do you say so?”

“There’s a darkness in him,” the old woman murmured, ignoring the question entirely. Her voice had shifted—softer, vaguer, like she was half-speaking from a dream. “Your husband. He obsesses over what he cannot understand.”

Lumine glanced at the crystal ball. It pulsed faintly, casting a hazy glow that made the shadows stretch long and thin across the tent walls.

“And I’m supposed to worry about that?” she asked.

The old woman met her gaze. Her smile was gone. “He returns tomorrow,” she said. “And you’ll begin to see.”

Lumine didn’t like the sound of that.

“Thanks,” she said briskly, starting to rise. “But I think I’ve heard enough—”

“Wait.” The woman began fumbling through her robes. Lumine hesitated, more out of courtesy than genuine curiosity. After a moment of rustling, the woman drew out a small glass vial, filled with a clear, glinting liquid. “This will help you.”

Lumine eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“A potion that reveals the truth,” the woman replied. “One that draws out what lies underneath. It forces the drinker to mirror what you feel.”

Lumine blinked. “So… a love potion?”

The woman tilted her head. “It is whatever you make of it.” A pause. “Most use it for love. So yes. You could call it that.”

Lumine turned the vial over in her palm, watching the liquid catch the orb’s faint light. “Does it actually work?”

The woman smiled again. “If you believe it does.”

Right. Of course. Cryptic nonsense.

She tucked the vial into her pouch, mostly to be polite. She’d throw it out later. “Thanks,” she said.

“You’re welcome, child.” The woman rose—slow, fragile, stooped—and hobbled towards the entrance. Lumine followed, more worried she might collapse than anything else. As the flap was pulled open and the light hit her face, she thought she heard the woman whisper:

“You’ll need all the help you can get.”

She turned, half-ready to ask what that meant—

But Desyree was there. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“Fine,” Lumine said distractedly, eyes scanning for the woman. “Did you see where she went?”

Desyree blinked. “Who?”

“The old woman. The tent—”

But the tent was gone. In its place stood a fruit stall. No velvet, no incense. Just baskets of apples and sunsettias.

Her heart pounded. She touched her pouch. The vial was still there.

So it hadn’t been a dream. Had it?

She didn’t know what to make of any of it. A love potion. As if.

There was no one she wanted to fall in love with her. Still… she kept the vial. Just in case.

---

Just as the old woman said, Lyney returned the next day.

He was sweet. Polite. Kissed her cheek and murmured apologies for leaving her alone so long.

But the look in his eyes—violet, bright, slicing with amusement—sent a shiver down her spine.

That was the look of a man playing a game.

She could feel it in the air between them, taut and crackling. He was toying with her. She just didn’t know the rules. Or the goal. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“So,” Lyney said over dinner, carving neatly into his roast, “what did my lovely wife do while I was gone?”

She pushed her chicken around her plate. Her appetite had evaporated the moment he walked through the door. “Nothing.”

“Really?” His tone was indulgent. He clearly didn’t believe her.

She sighed, offering the least compromising truth she could think of. “I read. You have a beautiful library.”

He hummed. “I’m glad you like it. Otherwise, I’d be the only one putting it to good use.”

“Your sister doesn’t read?”

“She prefers swordsmanship,” he said with a small shrug. “That’s why she went to the northern front. Not me.”

“You couldn’t have,” she said. “You’re the head of the house.”

“No, I could.” He smiled faintly. “But she wanted the assignment. So I let her have it.”

He returned to his meal with quiet grace. His every motion—fluid, elegant, almost aristocratic in its ease—made her feel uncomfortably conscious of herself. She was trying not to chew too loudly, trying to remember the endless little rules she hadn’t practised since girlhood.

He made it all look effortless.

She cleared her throat. “I walked the gardens, too. They’re lovely.”

“Oh? Did you see the maze?”

“I didn’t go in. The butler warned me off it. Said people had gotten lost before.”

“He’s being dramatic.” Lyney popped a bite of chicken into his mouth, followed it with a sip of wine. “It’s a little tricky, but not dangerous. I could take you if you like.”

It didn’t sound like an offer. More like a trap.

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time,” she said.

“It’s not a waste. After all, I wouldn’t want my darling wife to feel like a stranger in her own home.”

There was something off about the way he smiled when he said it. Like a test she didn’t know she was failing.

She shifted tactics. “Where did you go for your trip?”

To her relief, he answered easily. “Liyue. My mother had loose ends to tie up, and I offered to help.”

“Loose ends?”

“Just an intermediary. He ran off with the profits from a transaction.” Lyney idly traced the rim of his wine glass with one finger. “He thought he could vanish behind a gang of treasure hoarders. But as it turns out, they weren’t much help.”

Her skin prickled. “You… didn’t do anything to him, did you?”

He looked up, perfectly innocent. “Me? What do you take me for?”

She stayed silent.

“I’m not a barbarian.” His tone was light, almost laughing. “I gave him a stern talking-to. We reached an agreement. The profits were recovered.”

Right. Totally believable.

He tilted his head. “Why?” The softness in his voice turned sharp. Velvet lined with steel. “Are you uneasy around me, my dear?”

She swallowed. Didn’t answer.

She didn’t doubt the part about him not being a barbarian. He didn’t need brute force to hurt someone. It was written all over him—menace wrapped in silk. A voice like honey, a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“What do you want me to do as the Duchess?” she asked instead.

“Oh?” His tone lifted in amusement. “Another topic change. You do like to keep me on my toes, ma chérie.”

She ignored that. “I didn’t have much to do this past week,” she said. “It didn’t feel good. I want to help. I want to do something.”

He blinked. Slow. Assessing. “How fascinating,” he murmured. “That the woman who blackmailed me into marriage now wants to contribute. Ironic, don’t you think?”

She gripped the arms of her chair, fingers curling around the wood. “I don’t want to be useless. I know I can help.”

“Can you, sweet?” His voice dropped lower—indulgent, almost tender. Almost. If not for the glint in his eyes. Cold. Amused. Intrigued. “What makes you so sure of that?”

She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “I’m a hard worker.”

“I know you are.” His smile sharpened. “You certainly worked hard to manoeuvre me into this situation.”

She flinched. Didn’t try to retort.

He’d always hold it over her head. Fine. Let him. If one moral failing could save her mother, she’d make the same choice again.

She met his gaze and said nothing. Let the silence hang. Eventually, he sighed, like he was bored of her resistance. “Very well. If you want something to do, start with the manor. I think it could use a refresh.”

She blinked. “A refresh?”

He glanced past her, likely at the painting on the wall. “I’m tired of the same décor. Work with the butler and head maid to replace the paintings. Maybe the cutlery, too. And speak to the gardener—have them switch out some of the flowers.”

She stared. “You’d let me do that?”

“Why not?” He laughed—low, smooth, rich. The sound curled down her spine. “You’re my duchess. You can do whatever you like.”

“Do I have a budget?”

He waved a hand. “Spend what you need. If you’re worried, ask the butler.”

The sheer freedom startled her. And the scope of the task was more than she’d expected. But good, too. She needed something to throw herself into. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Of course you will, chérie,” he said, almost fond. “You’re the woman who brought me to heel, after all.”

He rose from his seat, dinner half-finished. Smiled. “I’m sure you’ll always offer your best.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving her sitting there, pulse thudding loud in her ears.

---

It was surprisingly stressful, trying to pick out new decorations for the manor.

Every noble house had its aesthetic codes, unspoken rules passed down from one lady of the household to the next. Colours, finishes, textiles, art, sculptures, even the flowers in the garden—none of it was ever arbitrary.

But Lyney’s mother, the former Duchess of House Perinheri, was uncontactable. And his sister Lynette was still away at the northern front. Lumine didn’t want to ask Lyney directly—she wasn’t sure she could handle the emotional volatility that would follow—so she turned to the best resource she had.

The library.

Just a few days ago, she’d found a shelf of old journals from former heads of the family. They were centuries old—the most recent dated back a hundred years—but for a house as storied as Perinheri, tradition rarely changed much. What was written then would likely still hold now.

The butler and head maid were also startlingly helpful. Not that they’d ever been cold before, but she’d assumed they were too busy to bother. Yet the moment she casually mentioned that Lyney had asked her to “refresh the manor’s interior”, the butler lit up. He began surfacing suggestions every time they crossed paths.

We could change the drapes. His Grace prefers rainbow roses; we could plant some near the main gates. There’s a young painter the lady admired before she left—perhaps a few of his works would brighten the corridors.

She hadn’t expected so much advice. But she appreciated it. It was… comforting, in a house where she otherwise felt alone.

The head maid, too, had plenty of thoughts. Stern and impeccable, always with her hair in a tight bun, she softened whenever she saw Lumine poring over curtain samples or cutlery sets.

“Bone china,” the maid told her once, when Lumine picked up a delicate bowl. “Imported from Liyue. His Grace has a fondness for beautiful, exotic things.”

Lumine found herself consulting with the entire household staff: the butler, the gardener, the head maid. Even Desyree, who was her age and had grown up in the manor, had quiet opinions.

“The stables could use a new paint job,” she’d said once. “And the uniforms. The fabric’s fine, but it’d be nice to have a summer variant. It gets hot.”

Lumine noted everything down in a little journal. Each week, she and Desyree ventured into town to browse galleries and shops. She looked for inspiration, jotted ideas, discussed with the butler what could be imported if it wasn’t available in Fontaine.

And through it all, Lyney watched.

He never asked how her project was going. Never offered help. He simply observed—from somewhere. That too-patient smile on his face whenever they crossed paths made her uneasy. She couldn’t tell if he was expecting brilliance or waiting for her to fail.

Still, for these three weeks, he left her mostly alone. No demands, no public outings. They exchanged only polite greetings, and when night fell, they each retreated to separate rooms.

She liked it. Liked the space. The quiet. Even if she could feel his eyes on her from somewhere, at least he wasn’t in her space. And that, she could live with.

A month into their marriage, she finally finished her proposal. She tucked her neat stack of documents under her arm and went to knock on the door of his study.

“Come in,” came his voice.

She entered. It was the first time she’d been in his study—she’d never had reason to visit before. Lyney looked up at her approach, then set aside the document he’d been reading. It landed atop a stack of reports, written in a language she didn’t recognise.

“How rare,” he said. “My wife, coming to me of her own accord.”

She ignored the jab. “You told me to start with refreshing the manor. I’ve done the research, spoken to the staff, and put together this plan. The butler has reviewed the budget—it’s within reason. I’d like you to look through it.”

She handed it over. Lyney smiled as he took it, his fingers brushing hers a moment too long. She didn’t pull away, though she wanted to.

“As meticulous as ever,” he murmured, running a hand over the first page. Still not reading. “Curious, really. You’re so sharp. So intelligent. One wonders how your family ever fell into such dire straits.”

She tensed. A shiver ran down her spine. “You investigated my family?”

Lyney’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Why? You did the same to me. Is it only foul play when I return the favour?”

She bit her lip. “I expected it. I just… what are you trying to say?”

He opened the proposal, eyes flicking through the first page. “Your mother,” he said, far too casually. “She’s in poor health. That’s what drove you to my family, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. Not yet. Whatever he was building towards, he already held all the cards. She had to be careful. Had to read his angle, anticipate his next move before he backed her into a corner.

“Yes,” she said finally, lifting her chin. “The doctor diagnosed a mana deficiency disease. It’s curable. But expensive.”

“I’m aware. One of my cousins had it too. Before a treatment was developed. It was fatal, then.” He flipped a page. “I believe the cure was released only five years ago. Your mother’s very lucky.”

Her stomach turned. “Are you… threatening me?”

“Why would you think that?” Another page. “You’ve done nothing to harm me—aside from the little blackmail, of course. But I agreed to this arrangement, didn’t I?” He looked up, violet eyes aglow. “If you ever need more mora for her care, don’t hesitate to ask. I’d hate for money to be the reason my mother-in-law dies. It’s such a… trivial obstacle.”

Her skin prickled. It wasn’t a threat. Not quite. A warning, maybe. She swallowed. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

He nodded. “This is a good proposal,” he said. “Thoughtful. Detailed. I can see you’ve accounted for my preferences—and Lynette’s.”

Still on edge, she asked, “Then you support it?”

“More or less. A few small tweaks. I’ll go over them later. You can move ahead after that. The budget looks acceptable—your choices seem sound. Although…” His eyes skimmed the list. “Some of these suppliers. Unfamiliar names. Are they really reliable?”

“I’ve met them myself,” she said. “Their workshops are small, but they’re earnest. And talented. I think they deserve a chance.”

He laughed—low, velvet-soft. Then rose from his chair and approached. She held her ground as he took her hand, lifting it gently to his chest.

“You’re such a bleeding heart,” he said. “Trying to offer people a chance. How do you know they won’t bite the hand that feeds them?”

He was watching her too closely. Too intently. She couldn’t look away.

“I want to believe in the good of people,” she said. “And if their work aligns with what we need, then why not help them? They want to succeed. They just need someone to believe in them.”

“I don’t disagree,” he said. “I only wonder if sentiment clouds your judgement. Take the ceramics, for instance. You wanted bone china—good. But we usually import from a Liyue workshop the butler would’ve told you about. Why source locally?”

She shook her head. “The local workshop is run by a Liyuean. He moved here a few years ago. Wants to offer a more affordable alternative without compromising on quality. I’ve seen the pieces myself. They’re well-made.”

“Hm.” Lyney lifted her hand from his chest and pressed it to his cheek. His skin was warm. Her heart skipped a beat as he leant into her touch, nuzzling softly into her palm.

“If my beloved wife says so,” he said, “then it must be true.”

The words were sweet, but they felt like a taunt. A challenge. She knew he didn’t see her as an equal. He was indulging her, humouring her. Letting her play duchess while he held the reins.

But she refused to be ornamental. If Lyney wanted her to play a role, then she would, and she’d do it properly. This might be a loveless political arrangement, but she would not fade into the background. Not without leaving something behind.

So she pulled her hand back and folded it to her chest. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Something flickered in his eyes—quick, unreadable. He smiled and stepped away, unbothered by her retreat.

“I’m sure,” he said, voice soft as silk. “I look forward to seeing the fruits of your effort, ma chère.”

He returned to his chair, settling in with that same effortless grace. “Unfortunately, I’m quite busy today. If you need anything else, you may send word through the butler.”

Dismissed. She nodded, took her proposal, and stepped out of the study.

The door shut behind her with a quiet thud. She exhaled, slow and shaking. Clutched the dossier tight against her chest. Her heart was racing too loudly to hear anything else.

Her first challenge. Her first real step towards proving herself.

If she wanted power in House Perinheri—if she wanted to be more than just a blackmailer or a title—she had to succeed.

---

To her surprise, the household staff threw themselves into the renovation project.

She hadn’t expected much. She was fully prepared to liaise with merchants and suppliers alone. But the moment the butler heard that Lyney had approved her proposal—pending a few minor tweaks—he moved into action with startling enthusiasm, pulling the head maid aside to discuss who could take on which roles.

Lumine stood by, blinking as the two older staff spoke with a level of detail and familiarity she hadn’t even thought to consider. Before long, they turned to her.

“Your Grace?” the head maid asked. “Does this arrangement meet your approval?”

“Mine?” Lumine echoed, thrown. “Not Lyney’s?”

The head maid offered a rare smile. “Of course yours. You’re the duchess. Household affairs fall under your purview—including staff delegation.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest. She bit her lip and nodded, fingers clasped. “I trust your judgement,” she said. “You know best where everyone fits.”

“Then we’ll get started,” the butler said briskly. “Some of the décor you requested may take several weeks. Best to place the orders early.”

They scattered with purpose. Lumine’s assigned task—one she’d specifically asked to handle—was to liaise with the Liyuean craftsman supplying the new bone china sets. That afternoon, she set off with Desyree to confirm the order in person.

The craftsman’s workshop was in one of the poorer parts of Fontaine, a good hour’s ride from Poisson. Along the way, Lumine chatted with Desyree, who had started opening up a little more after all the questions she’d fielded about the renovation.

“The staff are excited,” Desyree said. “It’s been a long time since anything in the manor changed.”

“Does Lyney not care about that?” Lumine asked, genuinely surprised. He struck her as the type who’d redecorate out of boredom.

Desyree shook her head. “He’s too busy. And the young lady wasn’t one for such things either. Before she left for the front lines, she spent most of her time at the training grounds.”

Lumine turned her gaze to the window, the trees outside blurring into green. “What’s Lyney so busy with?”

There was a pause. “His Grace bears a heavy burden,” Desyree said carefully. “The Perinheri family has many enemies. There are factions who would love nothing more than to see them fall. His Grace… handles those threats.”

Lumine blinked. “Enemies? Even for a family this powerful?”

“Some are from other nations,” Desyree said. “But not all. There’s internal strife, too.”

Interesting. Lumine tucked that away, already wondering what the family archives might reveal. There was something to be mined here—some hint of the pressure Lyney was always under, the sharp edge he wielded so easily.

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

They arrived at last in a quiet, rural district, mountains flanking either side of the narrow road. Green rippled across the landscape, and in the distance, a faint coil of smoke marked their destination. The workshop was nestled in the shadow of a hill, modest and still. Outside sat a young man cross-legged in the grass, staring absently up at the sky.

“Changfeng,” she called.

He startled and jumped to his feet. “Duchess Perinheri,” he greeted, wiping his hands on his trousers. “What brings you here?”

She still wasn’t used to the title. She doubted she ever would be. But she let it pass, glancing past him at the quiet workshop. “How’s business?”

Changfeng’s smile faltered. “Not great,” he admitted. “Lately, I’ve been wondering if I should close up and head back to Liyue. People here only seem interested in imported ceramics. No one’s keen on my take.”

She peered past him to the display shelf, where several of his newest creations sat under the filtered afternoon light. A pang of sympathy struck her.

His work had so much potential.

Changfeng had been experimenting with blending Fontainian aesthetics into traditional Liyuean designs—lush mountainscapes fading into sharp geometrics, dragons and cranes rendered in fine, fluid ink across glazed white porcelain. It was lovely. Unique. And, in her opinion, tragically underappreciated.

“Well,” she said gently, “I’m here to place an order.”

His eyes widened. “Truly, Duchess?”

She nodded and held out a slip of paper detailing the quantities she needed—an extensive list of bowls, vases and tea sets. Changfeng scanned the page, his expression growing more astonished with every line. “O-Oh,” he murmured, voice catching. “This is… this is quite a bit.”

She smiled. “Do you think you can manage it?”

“Yes! Yes, of course—I absolutely can.” There was something raw in his voice, something that clung to her ribs: not just gratitude, but hope. Like she’d thrown him a rope when he was already chest-deep in water. “Thank you, Duchess Perinheri. I’ll give you my very best.”

“I’m hoping to have it all within two weeks. Will that be enough time?”

He nodded, fast. “More than enough. I’ll send word once everything’s ready—and I’ll arrange for delivery to your manor.”

She glanced at Desyree, who stepped forward and offered him a pouch of mora. “Half now,” Lumine said. “The rest upon delivery. Will that work for you?”

Changfeng accepted it with both hands, then opened it slightly to peek inside. His breath caught, and he snapped it shut just as quickly. “Yes,” he said, almost reverently.

Lumine inclined her head. “I look forward to seeing your work.”

She turned, and Desyree followed as they made their way back towards the waiting carriage. As they walked, Lumine asked, “What do you think? Did that go well?”

“He seemed happy,” Desyree replied, then hesitated. “Though… I have a feeling he’s distracted.”

Lumine nodded. She’d noticed too. The last time she visited, Changfeng had been energetic, elbow-deep in clay, eyes bright with purpose. But today, there was a haze to him, like someone slowly losing their footing. He’d looked like a man trying to convince himself it wasn’t already too late.

Still, he seemed encouraged by her commission. Hopefully, that would be enough to keep things afloat a little longer.

“You don’t think it’ll affect his work, do you?” Desyree asked as the coachman opened the carriage door.

Lumine stepped inside, settling onto the plush seat. “I don’t know,” she said. “All we can do is wait.”

Desyree lingered at the door. “If you’re open to alternatives, there’s always the other workshop—the one in Liyue. His Grace has used them before. They’re very dependable.”

She knew that. And it would have been the safer choice. But safety wasn’t the only thing that mattered. Changfeng’s work deserved a place in the spotlight. She believed that. And she was willing to take a risk for it.

“I think he’ll come through,” she said. “Let’s give him the chance.”

Desyree nodded, quietly respectful. She climbed in, and the carriage rolled into motion. The rest of the journey passed in silence, the countryside unfurling outside as Lumine watched it drift by—green hills, a low breeze, the distant shimmer of water.

She hoped she hadn’t been wrong.

---

The letter arrived earlier than expected.

But when she opened it, she froze. Changfeng had written—regretfully—to say he couldn’t fulfil the order. He’d been attacked by treasure hoarders over unpaid debts and would be returning to Liyue. He promised to repay the advance in full, slowly, over time.

She read it once. Then again. A third time, slower. Still, the words didn’t quite settle. They slipped through her, like water refusing to be held.

“My lady?” Desyree asked, noticing how long she’d been holding the parchment.

Lumine passed it over. Her maid read quickly, eyes narrowing as she took in the jagged script and ink-stained paper. When she finished, she folded it with quiet precision. “What would you like to do, my lady?”

Lumine’s thoughts raced—about the order, the lost mora, what she’d say to Lyney, who had questioned her decision from the beginning. But louder than any of that was her worry for Changfeng. The torn edges of the letter. The mess of the ink. He was clearly in no state to write, let alone recover.

She couldn’t ignore that.

“We’re going to the workshop,” she said. “Now.”

Desyree hesitated. “Are you sure? The letter mentioned treasure hoarders. They might still be around. It’s a remote area…”

“I know,” she said. “But he’s alone in Fontaine. He has no one else.”

She couldn’t help thinking of herself. When she’d first arrived at the Perinheri manor, when her mother was ill, and all she wanted was a miracle. How desperate she’d been for someone to help. How terrifying it was to have nothing left but hope.

She couldn’t leave him to that.

“I’ll still go,” she said, firm. “You don’t have to come—”

“And where exactly are you going that might be so dangerous, ma chère?”

Her blood ran cold.

She turned slowly. Lyney stood at the threshold of the parlour, lean and composed, as if he’d been carved from poise itself. His smile was pleasant. His eyes were not.

“Nowhere important,” she muttered.

“I doubt that.” He glanced at Desyree, who met his gaze but said nothing. “This one rarely advises against anything. So whatever you’re planning must be… intriguing.”

“How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you suggest going somewhere dangerous without an escort,” he said, stepping further into the room. “As your husband, I do think I have the right to know.”

She didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to admit her concern, or how invested she’d become. But time was ticking, and every second she wasted trying to protect her pride was a second Changfeng might not have.

“The craftsman I commissioned for the chinaware,” she said, her voice tight. “He was attacked. He can’t complete the order. He’s returning to Liyue.”

Lyney looked again at Desyree, who silently offered the letter. He took it with a hum, scanning the contents with quick, practised eyes.

“Oh dear,” he said, folding it again. “Quite a mess he’s gotten himself into.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” she said. “He was attacked—”

“Because he borrowed from treasure hoarders,” Lyney said mildly. “That’s hardly wise. Starting a business in a foreign land with that sort of debt? Foolish, really.”

“That doesn’t matter. He could still be in danger.”

“You have to go check?” he asked. His voice was soft, almost teasing. “How touching. I didn’t know my duchess felt such personal responsibility towards a mere craftsman. One might wonder what sort of… relationship the two of you have.”

Her throat tightened. “There’s nothing between us. You know that.”

“But I don’t,” he said gently. “Not really. You keep so many secrets.”

“I just can’t leave him there,” she snapped. “I won’t.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t move. His fingers brushed her cheek.

“You can’t do anything, mon cœur,” he murmured. “Look at you. Trembling already. If they’re still there, what would you do? Offer yourself as a distraction? Sacrifice yourself for art?”

She met his gaze, stubborn. His smile didn’t waver, but it deepened, like he’d found something delicious in her defiance.

“You didn’t think it through,” he said, his thumb ghosting over her lower lip. “So impulsive. So easy to unravel.”

He released her. “I’ll go with you.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t kindness.

She wanted to refuse, but he was right. She had no plan. And for all his serpentine charm, Lyney would protect her. If only to keep her intact for later.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She turned, but he caught her wrist, pulling her back with an easy strength.

“No carriage,” he said. “Horseback will be faster. And Desyree—” his smile flashed towards the maid, “you may stay behind.”

Desyree nodded, but Lumine’s stomach dropped. “Just us?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?” His smile was too sweet. “My horse can only carry two, unfortunately. And I do think a carriage would take far too long.”

She swallowed her misgivings. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“That’s my good wife,” he purred.

Everything moved fast after that. Lyney’s horse was already prepared when they reached the stable. He helped her up, then mounted behind her, solid and warm, his presence pressed flush against her back.

Too close. He smelled too good. She didn’t want to notice, didn’t want to think.

She gave him the address, and they were off.

His horse galloped at a terrifying pace—much faster than any carriage. Wind whipped her hair into her face, and more than once, she thought she might fall off entirely. All she could do was cling to the saddle. Cling to Lyney. His arms braced around her, steady and sure as he held the reins.

She felt him laugh sometimes, low in his chest, whenever the horse picked up speed and she couldn’t suppress a yelp. Once, after a jolt sent her lurching against him, she thought she felt something soft graze the back of her neck. The brush of lips.

No—surely just the wind.

What was normally a two-hour journey took forty-five minutes.

When they arrived, she spotted them immediately: a cluster of men circling the workshop. Changfeng was crumpled on the ground, taking blow after blow. One of the men kicked him hard in the ribs.

Lumine jerked forward, trying to slide off the horse, but Lyney held her still. “Don’t be foolish,” he breathed in her ear. “What do you think you can do?”

“Be a distraction,” she snapped.

“And then what?” he asked, amused. “Let them beat you, too?”

Before she could answer, one of the treasure hoarders picked up a porcelain bowl and smashed it to the ground.

She flinched. Her heart ached—not just for the ruined work, but for the man behind it.

She turned to Lyney.

Her eyes were on her. Dark, unreadable. His hair was windblown, a little wild. A smile hovered on his lips—too calm, too knowing. His arms still bracketed her body.

She didn’t want to say it. But pride had to come second now.

“Help me,” she said quietly. “Help him. Please.”

Lyney tilted his head. One rein slipped from his hand as he reached up to cup her face. Then he leant in, his forehead pressing against hers. “Of course, my dear,” he said sweetly. “You only ever had to ask.”

And just like that, he slid off the horse.

It took less than five minutes.

The treasure hoarders turned as he approached. Then Lyney moved—something silver flashing in his hand—and the largest of the men collapsed with a scream. Blood stained his shirt. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle.

The rest fled.

Lumine stared. Lyney stood calmly over the groaning man, dagger in hand, its edge slick with red. He looked up. Smiled and waved her over.

Shaking, she climbed off the horse and hurried towards the workshop.

Changfeng was still on the ground, curled inward, one arm over his head. Lyney stepped back as she approached, his expression flattening into indifference—as though to say, he’s yours now.

She knelt. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “They’re gone.”

He stirred at her voice. When he looked up, she saw a black eye swelling shut, a split lip, bruises blooming across his face.

“Oh,” he moaned. “Duchess Perinheri. I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re alive. Can you stand?”

She offered her hand. He hesitated, then took it, letting her help him up. He swayed, unsteady, but managed to stay on his feet.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he said, his voice raw with shame. “It was dangerous.”

“But I did come. And I’m fine.” She glanced at Lyney, who was now peering into the workshop window, utterly uninterested in their conversation. “You should have told me, Changfeng. I could’ve done something.”

“How could I?” he asked, anguished. “This was my burden to bear, not yours.”

“Your life matters more than your pride,” she said. “What if we hadn’t come in time? What would your wife have done? Your daughter?”

He went quiet. His hands curled at his sides.

She let the silence hang for a moment. Then asked, “Have you eaten?”

He shook his head. “That’s not important. Once I reach the harbour, I’ll return to Liyue and repay the debt little by little—”

“Changfeng,” she interrupted gently. He stopped speaking. “I’m not here about the porcelain. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He stared at her like she was something holy. “I have nothing left,” he whispered. “And still you’re… kind. I don’t understand.”

She couldn’t explain it either. Only that something in his expression—bruised, beaten, yet still grasping for dignity—felt painfully familiar.

Before she could speak, she heard footsteps. Lyney came back into view, holding a broken teacup between his fingers.

“This is quite lovely,” he said, lifting it towards the sky. Sunlight caught the glaze, shimmered across the fractured porcelain. “Unusual. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Changfeng stared. Visibly swallowed. “It’s part of a set,” he said softly, voice trembling. “Inspired by old stories from my village in Liyue. About the gods. The adepti.”

She looked closer. The cup’s design was delicate—ink-soft strokes forming the shape of a crane in flight, wings outstretched towards the sun. A shame it was broken.

“Do you think you can remake it?” Lyney asked. “If I gave you the capital and the materials. Paid off your debts, too. Wouldn’t want the treasure hoarders interrupting your progress.”

Changfeng’s shoulders shook. “Y-Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

“In a month, perhaps?” Lyney’s voice was smooth, lazy. “I have a contact with workshop space closer to the city. I’ll arrange for you to use it. In return, I’d like exclusive rights to distribute your wares under the duchy’s name. You’ll receive a share of the profits, of course.”

Changfeng blinked rapidly. “The… the duchy?” Then realisation struck. “You’re—you’re Duke Perinheri. I—It’s an honour. And yes. Yes, I’ll do it. Gladly.”

“That’s good to hear.” Lyney crossed over, offering the broken teacup. Changfeng took it with trembling hands. “I do enjoy a worthwhile investment,” Lyney said, voice laced with something too soft to be safe. “Especially in beautiful, fragile things.”

He was staring at her when he said it. She looked away.

“Thank you,” Changfeng breathed. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me with words,” Lyney said lightly. “Just do good work. Don’t let the treasure hoarders get to you again.” His smile turned dazzling. “I hate watching potential go to waste.”

Then he turned to her, extending an arm. “We should head back.”

She glanced at Changfeng, still clutching the broken shard like it meant something sacred, then looked at her husband, who watched her with eyes full of warmth, like he hadn’t just maimed a man and bought someone’s life with a smile.

She swallowed and took his hand.

The ride home passed in silence. She said nothing. Neither did he. When they returned, a stable boy was already waiting. Lyney dismounted first, then helped her down.

His hands were steady at her waist. Warm. Firm. She tried not to react to the heat of his palms, to the way he didn’t quite let go right away. Tried not to remember the pressure of him behind her on the ride, or how many times she’d accidentally leant back into him, heart fluttering, teeth grit.

He still smelled good. That was the most unfair thing of all. Floral, musky, with some bittersweet trace that clung to him like a spell, even after bloodshed and ruin.

“Well,” he said, once her feet touched the ground, “I’ll see you at dinner. I’ve a stack of reports to catch up on. That little outing, charming as it was, threw off my entire afternoon.”

“Wait,” she said, before she could stop herself.

He paused.

“You… you called me a bleeding heart. And yet you stepped in. You helped—”

“Oh, that?” Lyney smiled, soft as honey. “That wasn’t for him, ma chère. That was for you.” He drew closer. “You were so impassioned. So earnest. I found it…” His lashes dipped slightly, voice going low. “Adorable.”

She froze.

He leant in, close enough to breathe her in. His voice brushed her ear, velvet-smooth. “I wanted to see more of that. You, caring. Hurting. For someone besides yourself.”

His fingers found her cheek. Brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Gentle. Tender. Too intimate.

“It makes me wonder,” he whispered, “how your face will look when you break.”

And then, without another word, Lyney turned and walked away.

Chapter 3

A few days passed.

One morning, Desyree woke her. Lumine blinked the sleep from her eyes.

Life here was getting easier. Her room still wasn’t comforting, not really—but she did think of it as hers now.

It helped that it was the first place she’d transformed. Lyney hadn’t objected to any of her choices: the drapes, the bedsheets, the vases on the tables, the oils in the bathroom. All of it her taste, paid for with mora that wasn’t hers.

But that was fine. Her husband had allowed it. And when it came to Lyney, she’d quickly learnt: the worst thing you could do was refuse what he offered. He didn’t mind her spending. On the contrary, he cared so little, not taking advantage almost felt foolish.

Still, the memory of Changfeng left her uneasy.

It was generous, what Lyney had done for him. But Lumine couldn’t shake the feeling that the craftsman didn’t understand what he’d given up. Exclusive rights to sales and distribution? She wasn’t a merchant, but even she knew that meant no diversification. No other clients. A glided cage.

And how long was the contract for? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure Changfeng knew, either.

She bit her lip, staring at her reflection as Desyree laced up her dress.

“Desyree,” she said.

The maid looked up, tugging hard at the sash around her waist. Lumine nearly choked.

“Yes, my lady?”

“What do you think of Lyney?”

Desyree blinked. Let go of the sash, apparently satisfied. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Lumine met her eyes in the mirror. “You’ve worked here for years, haven’t you? I thought you might have stories.”

Desyree hummed. “Are you ferreting for information, my lady?”

Lumine smiled. After a month and a half, Desyree had come to know her too well. “Something like that. I trust you won’t tell him.”

Desyree shook her head. “I don’t have much to say. His Grace is a gracious master. He pays us well. He’s never unjust.”

“Has he always been like this?” Lumine asked.

“Like what, my lady?”

“So…” She struggled. “So sharp.”

Desyree tilted her head. “He is quite kind.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean—he is, yes. But there’s always a second meaning to everything he says. Like he’s layered. Nothing he says feels simple.”

Desyree made a small noise of recognition. “Ah. You mean that.” Her gaze drifted, distant. “Yes. He’s always been like that.”

Lumine blinked. “Really?”

“He had a difficult childhood,” Desyree said. “Though it’s not my place to share. You might wish to ask him about it, my lady. You may find him easier to understand if you knew.”

There was something like sympathy in her voice—rare, coming from Desyree. Practically unheard of.

“Does he even trust anyone?” Lumine asked.

“He trusts his sister,” Desyree said. “He misses her very terribly.”

“Is that so? I’d never have guessed.”

But she did remember that first night on the balcony. How wistful he’d sounded, speaking of his sister. Maybe Desyree wasn’t wrong.

“His Grace doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. But we who serve him know. He misses the young lady. I think this house will come back to life once she returns.”

If this was what Lyney looked like grieving, Lumine wasn’t sure she wanted to see what he was like whole. He already gave her a difficult enough time.

“What’s Lynette like?”

“She’s the opposite of His Grace,” Desyree said, moving to Lumine’s hair. “Quiet. Withdrawn. Hates the spotlight. When the former duchess stepped down, she let the siblings decide who would succeed her. The young lady didn’t argue. She simply ceded the role.”

“So she wasn’t interested in power?”

“Not at all. She prefers the sword to the senate.” Desyree’s fingers moved swiftly through Lumine’s hair. She plucked a flower from the vanity and wove it through a braid. “His Grace was always the more cunning one. Better suited to play the games of the court.”

It was the most candid Desyree had ever sounded about her master.

“He is cunning,” Lumine said.

Desyree didn’t answer. She just kept braiding, slipping flowers through Lumine’s hair. When she stepped back to inspect her work, Lumine reached up, brushing one of the blooms.

“… Why did you doll me up today?” she asked.

“Ah. His Grace requested it. He said he wanted to bring you out this afternoon.”

“Wait—what?” Lumine blinked. “He didn’t tell me that.”

And honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend an entire afternoon with Lyney. Every conversation with him felt like a war of words—like he was peeling her apart with nothing but his gaze and a silvered tongue, and she was always two steps behind, scrambling to keep up with meanings she couldn’t quite grasp.

“He mentioned it to me in passing this morning,” Desyree said. “And he did ask for you to come down to the dining room for breakfast. He may tell you then.”

“I wish you’d said something earlier,” Lumine muttered.

“I apologise, my lady,” Desyree said, looking genuinely concerned. “I didn’t think it would trouble you. You seem to enjoy His Grace’s company. Or was I mistaken?”

Her? Enjoying Lyney’s company?

That didn’t sound real. And yet… she could understand why someone might think that. The way he treated her in public. The way he looked at her—soft, fond. The easy warmth in his voice when he called her ma chère or darling. Anyone would think she was cherished.

That was why he was dangerous.

He played the role of the perfect husband so well that even she sometimes struggled to tell how much was real, and how much was just theatre.

Because behind all the tenderness was something else. The double-edged meanings in his words. The touches that lingered a second too long. The grip that bordered on bruising. The gaze that didn’t feel like protectiveness, but possession.

She was part of the illusion. Another well-chosen accessory. A doll in his perfect little world.

“It’s fine,” she said finally. “He’s my husband. I suppose it’s only natural that he’d want to surprise me.”

Desyree looked relieved. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’m sure His Grace will be too.”

Lumine held back a snort. Desyree didn’t need to know how little love there was between them.

“You said he’s expecting me for breakfast?”

Desyree nodded.

Lumine smoothed down the fabric of her dress. It was one of many Lyney had given her—another sudden indulgence from one of his unannounced shopping sprees. He’d disappear for a day and return with gowns, jewels, towering bouquets of roses. Throwing mora like it meant nothing.

And of course, she took them. They were already bought. Refusing would only give him reason to act offended—or worse, curious. Still, the more she wore his gifts, the more she felt like a curated object. A beautiful thing he could dress up, parade around, and eventually discard.

She wasn’t sure which scared her more: the idea that he’d lose interest, or the idea that he never would.

Today’s dress was a soft blush pink. Airy, flowy, embroidered with silken flowers. It matched the blossoms braided into her hair. The pearl choker at her throat. Together, they made her look gentle. Delicate.

Like someone she didn’t recognise.

Not so long ago, she was still wearing hand-me-downs from her mother. Sturdy but outdated dresses, worn carefully, patched where needed. Not poor, not quite, but not luxurious. She never felt ashamed of them, not even at balls. But the contrast was striking. She wondered if even her family would recognise her now.

Her family.

Her mother was doing better. The medicine had reached her. And Aether had finally written back, apologising for missing the wedding, promising to visit her once he returned from the north. The letter had arrived just last night, which might explain why she wasn’t feeling quite so prickly about the surprise outing today.

She rose from her chair, turning from the mirror. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go see him.”

Desyree followed her as she made her way down the stairs. Halfway down, the maid spoke.

“You look very pretty today, my lady.”

Lumine smiled faintly. “Are you suggesting that I don’t look pretty on other days?”

“Of course not. You’re always beautiful.” Desyree’s voice was surprisingly earnest. “I just meant… surely that’s why His Grace pays you so much attention.”

Did he? Perhaps. But not in a way she liked.

She didn’t say that aloud.

“Thank you,” she said instead. “Though I’m not sure about the attention part. Most of the time, I’m alone in this manor.”

Desyree blinked. “Oh, but His Grace does pay you attention,” she said. “He’s usually so busy. But he makes time for you. He buys you things. Dines with you. Wishes you good night every evening. I’ve never seen him so… honest. With his feelings.”

Lumine almost laughed. Honest?

But she didn’t want to ruin Desyree’s impression of him. No point dragging her maid into the murk.

“I’ll see you later,” she said. “Let me know if any more letters come.”

Desyree nodded.

And with that, Lumine stepped into the dining room, bracing herself like she was walking into a den of wolves.

Lyney was already seated at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in hand and the morning paper folded between his fingers. He only ever drank coffee in the mornings—one cube of sugar, no milk.

She didn’t like that she knew that. That she was starting to notice all these little details.

“Oh? You’re here, my sweet.” He set the cup down, closed the newspaper, and smiled as she settled into her seat, already braced for whatever emotional warfare he had planned. “I must say, you’re looking absolutely ravishing today.”

She wasn’t sure how best to respond. In the end, she chose something safe. “Thank you.”

His gaze skimmed over her. Quiet. Assessing. “Desyree told you about my plans this afternoon?”

She nodded as a servant set a plate before her. The warm scent of fresh bread and clotted cream filled the air, softened by the fruit-sweetness of strawberry jam. Another hand poured her tea—Darjeeling. Her favourite.

“Well,” Lyney said, still watching her, “I don’t want to presume. May I ask if you’re free to spend the day with me, mon cœur?”

She reached for the milk pitcher. Poured a dash into her tea. “Why the sudden invitation?”

His smile widened. His eyes gleamed with the kind of interest she’d learnt to distrust. “It’s been over a month, and I’ve yet to take you anywhere. It’s practically neglect. I’d like to make up for it.”

She met his gaze. “What did you have in mind?”

“A stroll by the Fountain of Lucine. A new dessert shop opened nearby—the ladies adore it. We can browse the boutiques afterwards, if you’d like. And tonight, I happen to have tickets to the Opera Epiclese.”

She blinked. She hadn’t expected him to have it all planned out. But then again, this was Lyney Perinheri. He never did anything without a plan.

“Seeing how much thought you’ve put into it… I suppose I can’t refuse,” she said, picking up her cutlery.

It was suspicious. She didn’t believe a word about neglect. Lyney didn’t care about her feelings. It was more likely he’d caught wind of some rumours—that the Duke and Duchess of Perinheri hadn’t been seen together since their wedding—and wanted to put them to rest.

Fine. She could play the part.

“Lovely,” Lyney said, sipping his coffee. “Then we’ll leave right after breakfast.”

She looked up. “So early?”

“Yes, chérie. The early bird catches the worm, and all that. No point wasting the morning sun.”

“But you said this was for the afternoon.”

“You’re already dressed so prettily. I doubt you need more time—unless, of course, there’s something else you need to do?”

He looked at her like he already knew the answer.

What could she say? It wasn’t like she had any appointments. Which was odd, now that she thought about it. Wouldn’t the nobility be more interested in meeting the woman who’d married the elusive Duke?

She hadn’t paid it much attention the past few weeks, too focused on renovation decisions. But now that things had quieted, it struck her as strange. No balls. No tea invitations. Not even a single soirée.

It felt deliberate.

Her gaze drifted to Lyney. He smiled, all innocence. Surely he hadn’t—?

“Is there?” he prompted.

She startled. “Oh. No. Nothing.”

“Perfect,” he said, opening the paper again. The conversation was clearly over.

She didn’t bother saying anything else. Just quietly ate her breakfast.

Sometimes, with Lyney, silence was the wiser choice.

---

Their outing was uneventful—or at least, as uneventful as it could be with Lyney.

They drew attention the moment they stepped out of the carriage at the Fountain of Lucine. Of course they did. Lyney was a magnet for stares, and by extension, so was she.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, trying not to flinch under the weight of it all while Lyney murmured something about the weather being fine, or the pigeons multiplying, or what exactly the town council thought it was doing. She wasn’t really listening. Not with every hair on her skin standing on end from the scrutiny.

Most of the looks came from women. She didn’t like that.

Maybe it was a blessing she hadn’t received any invitations to teas or soirées. If this was what passing glances felt like, she’d drown in a ballroom.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know what Lyney was. Everyone did. Fontaine’s most eligible bachelor, her husband now in name if nothing else. And yes, she was painfully aware she’d married far above her station. But when the third noblewoman in a row cut her down with her eyes, she found herself longing for the quiet of the manor again.

“What’s wrong, ma chérie?” Lyney glanced down, all concern and silk.

She looked at him, at the ruffled blouse, the sleek suit, the effortless way he carried himself, cane in hand, smile never far behind. Too elegant. Too beautiful.

“I didn’t expect to receive so many stares.”

“Oh? But you look stunning. It’s only natural.”

“I think they’re mostly looking at you.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled, eyes warm. “You’re a vision, my sweet. It makes me want to steal you away and keep you all to myself. I’m a selfish man—I don’t like to share.”

Lines like that used to make her heart skip. Now they made her wary. Lyney wielded charm like a blade. He said these things too often for any of them to feel real.

She changed the subject. “Where’s the dessert shop you mentioned?”

“Just around the corner. But I thought we’d stop by the fountain first.”

“The fountain?” She glanced up. It was late morning—nearly noon. Not that she was particularly hungry, but she wasn’t keen on facing even more people. She was already swimming in glares.

“You know the story, don’t you? Toss in a coin, make a wish, and if the archon’s feeling generous, she’ll grant it.”

Everyone in Fontaine knew that story. “Do you believe in it?”

“Not particularly. But I’m in a curious mood today.” His voice softened. “Something about being with you reminds me of my youth.”

He smiled—light, unbothered. But it made her think of what Desyree had said that morning. About his difficult childhood. She found herself wanting to ask.

But before she could, something caught his eye, and he turned towards a vendor on the street. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really,” she said. Still, she couldn’t help peering at what was being sold. Pale pink clouds on sticks. A child accepted one and tore off, squealing.

“Candyfloss,” Lyney said. “New trend. Spun sugar—it melts in the mouth.”

“Do you want one?”

“I’m not much for candy,” he said, smiling at her again. “But it does match your dress. Would you like to try?”

It did look interesting. She had never seen anything like it. Airy and soft, like a sweet little lie. “Just a bit,” she said.

They approached the vendor, who handed her a stick of candyfloss with a nod. Lyney paid without comment.

She took a bite. It dissolved almost instantly, leaving only a trace of sugar on her tongue. “It feels like air.”

“Does it?” Lyney tilted his head, then leant in. “Give me a bite.”

His face was too close. She inhaled sharply, lifted the stick. He bit, slow and deliberate. Licked the sugar from his lips.

“Sweet,” he said. “But insubstantial. I can’t believe I paid five mora for that.”

“It’s the experience.”

“You’re right.” He tugged lightly on her arm, steering her back towards the main street. “Let’s keep going.”

They reached the fountain just as she finished the last of the candyfloss. She tossed the stick into a nearby bin and turned to Lyney, who stood at the water’s edge, staring down into the rippling surface with an unreadable expression.

“Are you going to make a wish?” she asked.

“I’m considering it.” He shrugged. “I’m a little too old to believe in fairy tales. But sometimes it’s nice to pretend.”

There was something wistful in his tone, fragile in a way she wasn’t used to hearing from him. It threw her off. For weeks, she’d been playing games with him. Dancing around flattery that rang hollow, threats couched in silk. But here, bathed in morning sun, his pale hair catching the light—

He looked distant. Untouchable. Like a painting in a museum. Like if she didn’t reach out and anchor him, he might drift out of reach.

She didn’t know how that made her feel. So she said, “Maybe throwing some mora will help ground you.”

He shook his head. “I’ve already wasted five mora on that stick of fluff masquerading as a sweet.”

“Since when do you care about wasting mora?”

“Since now.” He turned to her, his smile crooked. “But I’d like to know what my wife might wish for.”

Before she could respond, he reached for her hand, pressed a coin into her palm and curled her fingers over it.

She blinked at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just curious,” he murmured, leaning in—too close again, too intimate. “Tell me your wish. Indulge me.”

Her heart kicked against her ribs. “You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud. Otherwise, it won’t come true.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t really believe in wishes,” she said quietly.

Not since her father died. Not since her mother fell ill. Wishes didn’t save anyone. They just made hope feel like a cruel joke.

“Then it shouldn’t matter if you tell me.” Lyney’s smile widened, soft as velvet. “Besides, there’s only us here. I’m sure our archon won’t mind if you share one secret with your husband.”

She almost protested again. But it was a pointless argument. Just a story. Just a coin. And it was his coin, anyway.

“I wish our siblings would come back safe from the northern front,” she said, and flicked the coin into the fountain.

It caught the light midair, flashed gold, then fell with a gentle plop. She brought her hands together, bowed her head and whispered the wish again, silently this time.

Lyney didn’t speak. Just stood beside her, steady and warm. For once, he wasn’t trying to get inside her head. For once, he felt… real. Almost palatable.

When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her.

His gaze was unreadable. Then it shifted—too fast—into that easy, familiar smile. The one he wore for the world. Perfect. Painless. Impenetrable.

She wondered if anything could ever crack that mask.

“Let’s get dessert,” he said.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. Let him lead her away from the fountain. Tried to convince herself the thrum in her chest didn’t mean anything. He was handsome. Charming. Of course her body would react.

It didn’t mean he had gotten under her skin. Not yet.

---

They arrived at the shop—a quaint little place with a rustic brown storefront trimmed in pluie lotuses and lumidouce bells. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze.

She glanced at the sign. Le Foyer Sucré. Then peered through the glass. There was no one inside.

“Is it open today?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lyney said without hesitation, not even glancing at the door. He pushed it open, and after a moment’s pause, she followed him in.

A young woman stepped out from the back, apron dusted with flour. “Duke Perinheri?” she said with a smile.

Lyney nodded. The woman ushered them to a table near the window, pulled out the chairs, and offered a quick bow. “I’ll fetch the menus.”

Lumine frowned, looking around. The interior was tasteful—cream walls, blush curtains, finely carved chairs with plush seats. Everything looked new. And expensive.

“I thought you said this place was popular,” she said.

“It is.”

“Then why’s it empty?”

“Oh. I didn’t want to be disturbed, so I reserved the whole café.” He smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She blinked. “You reserved… the whole café?”

“Yes.” He reached out and fingered the curtain fabric. “Oh—this is quite soft.”

That couldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. A small shiver ran down her spine. How long had he been planning this? “I hope it wasn’t too expensive.”

“Not at all. Don’t worry about my wallet, mon cœur.” His smile turned sly. “My fortune was one of the reasons you married me, wasn’t it?”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Still. Doesn’t mean we should throw mora away.”

“It’s not a waste if it pleases you.” He let the curtain fall and leant across the table. “You looked uncomfortable with the crowd. I thought it best to ensure our peace. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous.”

She hesitated. It was thoughtful. But also a little… too much. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than simple consideration. She just couldn’t tell what.

“You don’t need to overthink it, my sweet,” Lyney said, clearly amused. “A good husband should anticipate his wife’s needs. That’s all.”

She really needed to work on keeping her thoughts off her face.

The server returned with menus, placing one before each of them. “If it’s your first time, I’d recommend the Fontinalia Mousse—it’s our speciality. But if you’re in the mood for something more classic, the Lettre à Focalors is also very popular.”

“Thank you. We’ll take a look,” Lyney said, then added, “A black coffee, one cube of sugar. And for my wife—”

He turned to her, smiling faintly. “A pot of Darjeeling, milk on the side.”

The server nodded and retreated.

She bit her lip. “You remembered.”

“Of course. You’re my wife. I’ve watched you drink your way through half the manor’s tea supply.”

His tone was indulgent. A strange tension curled along her back, not entirely unpleasant.

Avoiding the implication, she focused on the menu. The paper was thick, the calligraphy elegant, each dessert accompanied by a delicate illustration.

“How’d you even hear about this place?”

He hummed. “The manor staff gossip more than you’d expect.”

“In front of you?”

“They don’t always realise I’m there. I walk quietly.”

That was fair. She recalled more than once being deep in conversation with Desyree, only to have Lyney interject from nowhere, revealing he’d been listening all along.

“You know it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“It’s not eavesdropping if I’m not hiding.” He tilted his head. “Hardly my fault they didn’t notice me.”

“You could at least cough. Let people know you’re there.”

“And interrupt a perfectly good conversation? I think not.”

His expression was pleasant—too pleasant. She wanted to glare at him, but the café’s atmosphere was too calm, too idyllic. The faint perfume of flowers drifted through the air. Sunlight streamed through the windows and caught on Lyney’s pale blond hair, turning him ethereal.

Like something out of a storybook. Too beautiful to exist.

She sighed and returned her gaze to the menu. “If I eat dessert now,” she murmured, “I don’t think I’ll have room for lunch.”

“I thought you didn’t eat lunch.”

He wasn’t wrong. But she didn’t want to acknowledge it. Didn’t want to recognise the fact that—for someone who often vanished from the manor for hours at a time—Lyney seemed to know her habits far too well.

Unsettling. But not unexpected. She was living in his house, after all.

“We’re already out. And it’s such a pleasant day. Might as well try something new.”

“Well then.” Lyney looked at the menu. “Shall we share? We can walk a little and have a later meal.”

“So we swap lunch for tea.”

His mouth tilted. “That’s one way to put it.”

She didn’t know why, but it felt… nice. Natural. For all her wariness, his ease threw her off. She had come braced for barbs, for backhanded compliments, for velvet-tipped threats. Instead, he was just talking to her.

It reminded her of the early days. Before the blackmail. When he looked at her with curiosity, not calculation. Like he hadn’t quite decided who she was yet.

Still—she wasn’t foolish. She knew better than to take anything he did at face value.

“Why’d you even suggest dessert?” she asked. “Didn’t you say earlier you don’t have much of a sweet tooth?”

“You do.” He leant back in his chair, eyes fixed on her. “I thought it might cheer you up.”

“You thought I wasn’t happy?”

“I didn’t think that. It’s written all over your face.”

She glanced down, flipping the menu over. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Come now.” His laugh was low, almost fond. “That’s a terrible lie, even by your standards.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the page. “Let’s say you’re right and I am upset. What could possibly be bothering me?”

“Oh, so many things,” he said lightly. “Your family, for one. You’re always fretting over your mother. Over your brother. And now that craftsman too—what was his name? Changfeng? You poor, bleeding little heart.”

She looked up, frowning. Lyney was smiling, but beneath the sweetness was something sharper. A hairline fracture of irritation, maybe. “You might as well take on the woes of the world, the way you worry over every poor fool who stumbles into your path.”

Something in the way he said that caught. “Are you suggesting I ignore the people who work with me?” she asked. “You don’t mistreat your staff.”

“There’s a difference,” he said, laying his menu down. “Between those who serve in my household and those contracted to complete a task.”

“But they all work for you. Why shouldn’t I care?”

“Because emotional resources are finite.” His smile thinned, polite to the point of cruelty. “And I’d hate to see you carve yourself hollow trying to patch up everyone else. It’s not very sustainable.”

Her pulse spiked. She stared at him. Then, quietly, “What does it matter to you?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her, violet eyes unreadable.

Thankfully, the server returned. “One coffee, one Darjeeling,” she said, setting the cups down. “Have you decided?”

“Yes,” Lyney said, the charm slipping back into place. “We’ll have your speciality—the Fontinalia Mousse.”

“Just one?”

“Just that.”

The server bowed and left.

Lyney turned away, gaze sliding to the window. He didn’t speak again.

She looked down at her tea, watching the steam curl faintly into the air.

It meant nothing, she reminded herself. This was theatre. He was humouring her. Playing the doting husband for public perception. She refused to read into it.

---

The rest of the afternoon passed—not too quickly, not too slow.

They finished the mousse. It was, honestly, exquisite. Lumine had always liked dessert—Lyney wasn’t wrong about that—but there was something particularly exceptional about this one. She was tempted to order another to bring back to the manor, but resisted. They had a long day ahead, and she didn’t want to spend it carrying a box of mousse that would likely melt to nothing before nightfall.

After dessert, Lyney went back to his usual self—laughing, trading gossip about Fontaine’s nobility, naming one shop after another like a connoisseur. He knew all the owners personally, of course. Still, he made for charming company, and bit by bit, the earlier tension faded.

They visited several boutiques nearby. He insisted on getting her more clothes and brought her to a clothier he recommended. They spent nearly two hours there.

To her mild bewilderment, Lyney was… very invested. He picked out dresses himself, waited for her to change into every one, and offered pointed, practised opinions.

“Too frilly. The skirt flares too much. Stripes don’t flatter you, darling. Pastels suit you better—this one washes you out.”

He spoke like someone used to giving such commentary, which made her wonder—had he gone dress shopping with other noblewomen before?

In the end, they settled on three dresses. The clothier took her measurements and promised they’d be tailored to perfection within the week.

When they stepped out, she said, “I want to pick outfits for you, too.”

He blinked, momentarily surprised, then gave her a beatific smile. “I know just the place.”

Another two hours passed.

This time, it was more fun. She didn’t have to change, just sit back and watch. And admittedly, it was a feast for the eyes. No matter what she thought of Lyney as a person, he wore everything well. Even the garish yellow suit she made him try on—just to be spiteful—looked good on him.

“You seem disappointed, ma chère.” His lips twitched. “Were you expecting something different?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Change back.”

“As you wish.”

They agreed on four new outfits for him. Then she moved on to accessories—neckties, gloves, a new cane. He indulged her whims, even added a few ribbons for her that, apparently, complemented his new wardrobe.

She was beginning to understand why he so often bought her gifts. There was a quiet satisfaction in choosing things for someone else, knowing they’d wear them. Even if he was the one footing the bill.

By the time they finished shopping, it was nearing evening.

“We could have an early dinner,” Lyney suggested.

He brought her to an understated little restaurant that served the most decadent foie gras she’d ever tasted. She nearly wept at the first bite, then polished off the entire plate in ten minutes.

“Might as well,” he said, visibly entertained. “We’ve not much time before the play begins.”

Now they were at the Opera Epiclese, seated in a private box overlooking the stage. The theatre was dim. Lyney sat too close. She could smell that familiar scent again—the one she’d caught when he rode with her to Changfeng’s workshop. It lingered at the edge of memory, warm and maddening.

Her throat went dry.

He hadn’t told her what they were seeing, and she hadn’t thought to ask. But once the first scene began, she recognised it instantly.

The Bell of Rue Mortelune.

A tragedy. Two lovers, born enemies, doomed by circumstance. They met in secret at a derelict church, neutral ground between their two factions. Every day, the man would ring the church bell to signal his arrival. Until one day, the bell was silent. The woman still came—only to find him in the arms of another. Heartbroken, she betrayed him to her family, led the charge herself. She killed him. Then drank poison over his body.

It wasn’t a particularly novel plot. But it was infamous for how… intimate the staging was.

She turned to Lyney, scandalised. “You didn’t tell me we were watching this.”

“I thought it’d spoil the surprise,” he said.

“You could have warned me!”

“Why? Are you embarrassed?” He leant in, his breath warm against her cheek. “There’s no adult in Fontaine who hasn’t seen it at least once, my sweet.”

“I-I haven’t.”

She could hear the smile in his reply. “Then this will make a wonderful first experience. You’ll be able to see everything from here.”

She tried not to let that get to her. Slouched in her seat, she focused hard on the stage, willing her mind to stay on the plot rather than the increasingly lewd interludes peppered between the acts.

It was making her feel… strange. Watching the way the actress moaned into her lover’s mouth, how she rolled her hips against him—it left something hot and restless churning in her gut. Did it really feel that good? She wouldn’t know. She’d never—

Her eyes flicked to Lyney.

He was watching the stage, unreadable. Calm. Elegant. Maybe bored. Maybe not. She couldn’t tell.

They didn’t speak again until intermission.

Lumine’s skin felt warm. She shrank into her seat as Lyney rose beside her and stretched lazily.

“I’m heading to the restroom,” he said. “Want to come?”

“I’m fine,” she squeaked. Immediately wished she hadn’t.

“All right. Back in a bit.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, she folded her arms tightly over herself.

She didn’t want the play to get to her. But it did. The way the actress gasped under her lover’s touch, the way he pinned her to the wall and kissed her like she was oxygen—gods, to be wanted like that. Claimed like that.

Would she feel that good? Would she make those same sounds if she were touched that way—hungrily, reverently, without restraint?

A flicker of a thought. Would Lyney be like that?

No. She couldn’t imagine it. He was all grace and poise and calculated charm. Nothing like that actor—nothing raw or desperate. And yet… to be held that tightly. Whispered to like she was precious. Praised between kisses. She bit her lip.

There was a low heat curling deep in her belly, pooling between her thighs. It made her head pound. It was unfamiliar. Disorienting. A little embarrassing, actually.

“Are you all right?”

She jolted. Lyney had returned, watching her with a slightly furrowed brow. “You look feverish.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, voice too thin.

He studied her for a beat longer, then extended a hand. “I brought you a drink.”

She blinked down at the flute of champagne. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Of course.” He smiled—sharp, amused. “You looked like you needed it.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting that idea.”

“Maybe I’m imagining things.” He moved in, closer this time, too close. His breath was faintly sweet. “Or maybe my wife wants something she doesn’t dare name. Hm?”

Her throat closed. She swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said—bravely, she thought—and tipped the champagne back in one go.

He laughed. Low. Velvet-smooth. “Obviously not,” he said, retreating at last. “You’re such a good girl, after all. You’d never think of things like that.”

“Certainly not,” she muttered, placing the empty glass by her feet. “And you should stop talking,” she added primly. “Intermission’s almost over.”

“I didn’t know you were so invested in the arts, chérie.”

“You already spent the mora. I’m making sure we get our money’s worth.”

He laughed again. “My practical little wife.”

“Shush,” she hissed as the lights dimmed once more.

To his credit, he obeyed. The theatre hushed. The stage lit up.

And Lumine tried very, very hard to focus on the play.

Not on the champagne fuzzing up her thoughts. Not on the warmth crawling under her skin. Not on the scent of him, or the way his presence filled the small space between them like gravity. Not on the phantom heat of his breath on her cheek.

Just the play. Just the story.

Just the champagne.

---

Frankly, Lumine couldn’t remember much of the second half.

The champagne had gone straight to her head. She wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with, and normally, she’d have been more careful—but she’d been so flustered. So overwhelmed by everything: the play, the heat of Lyney’s gaze, the way he spoke to her like he already knew how she’d unravel.

She shouldn’t have drunk so much. But it was too late now.

Maybe she should count her blessings that her mind had gone hazy. It gave her an excuse not to remember. Because if she’d been completely sober—if she’d truly paid attention to what was happening on that stage—she was sure she’d never be able to look Lyney in the eye again.

“You’re tipsy,” Lyney murmured as they exited the theatre, his arm looping around her waist like it belonged there. His suit was draped around her shoulders, warm from his body heat, soaked in his scent—floral, musky, bittersweet. It curled around her like smoke. Made her want something.

Something she couldn’t name. Something she didn’t want to name.

“Am not,” she insisted, concentrating on each step like it was a math problem. “I’m talking to you just fine. See?”

“You can barely walk in a straight line, my dear.”

“Straight is subjective.”

“No, it is not.” He sighed, indulgent. “Remind me never to let you near alcohol again. You’re horrifying.”

“And you’re being very rude.”

“I’m being concerned, darling. You’re lucky I’m your husband. And that I’m a gentleman. You’d be singing a very different tune if I were more in touch with my baser instincts.”

Her stomach flipped. She didn’t fully register the implication, not through the champagne haze, but the dip in his voice, soft and sweet, made her cheeks burn.

“You’re trying to seduce me!”

He laughed. It came out like a purr, low and pleased. “I don’t want to hear that from you. You don’t even realise how tempting you look, draped in my suit like a pretty little present.” He tugged her closer. Her breath caught. He was so warm. His body heat bled into her like sunlight through silk. “One that I’d very much like to unwrap. But that’s not what my wife wants, is it?”

She tipped her face up to him. Moonlight brushed over his features, catching on the sweep of his lashes, the curve of his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded. Too dark to read.

“Lyney,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

She swallowed, but the words slipped from her again. All of it—the alcohol, the softness in his voice, the pull of him at her side—made the world feel slow and dreamlike. She felt like she could lean into him, just a little, and he would catch her.

She’d never been this close to anyone before. Not like this. Not in a way that felt so… safe.

No, not safe. That wasn’t the word. But warm. Wrapped. As if he could say anything, and she might believe it. As if he could ask anything, and she might say yes.

She was married. An adult. It wouldn’t be wrong, not really, if she—

Lyney tensed.

She felt it immediately. The shift. He went still all over, like a thread pulled taut. She frowned. “Lyney?”

“Shh,” he said, his voice a murmur. His grip around her waist tightened as he steered her towards the glow of a streetlamp, then drew his jacket around her shoulders.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“What—” she began, but the words caught in her throat. Her tongue was heavy. Her limbs too soft. And he was already turning away, disappearing into the dark without looking back.

Her breath caught. He left.

He left?

She clutched the cold iron of the lamp post behind her, trying to steady herself. Her thoughts were sluggish, syrup-slow, but her stomach was twisting, trying to make sense of what just happened. Lyney had been warm. Teasing. And then suddenly—gone. No explanation. Just that soft warning in his voice. Just the way he looked off, and then left.

Was he… abandoning her?

Her mind leapt to the worst possible place. She was still new to this family. To this marriage. It’d been barely over a month, nowhere near long enough to guarantee her mother’s medication. Not without some kind of settlement.

Was this it? Was he ending it now?

She couldn’t allow that. Not yet. She hadn’t done enough. Hadn’t earned enough. If he divorced her now—

Heart racing, Lumine pushed herself off the lamp post and stumbled after him. He had turned down the side of the building. Probably an alley. It didn’t matter. If she was wrong, she’d just go back. The manor wasn’t too far. She could find her way eventually.

The alley loomed ahead, shadowed and narrow. She hesitated. Then stepped forward.

There was no one there.

She blinked, disappointed. Turned, then bumped right into someone.

She stumbled back. Blinked up at a tall man wearing a dark cloak.

“Huh?” she said, frowning. “Excuse me.”

The man didn’t respond. His face was half in shadow. He didn’t move. Her nerves prickled.

“Please step aside,” she said, louder now. “I’m looking for someone.”

Still nothing. Then, in a voice like rocks grinding together: “You are the mistress of the Perinheri household.”

She stared. “What?”

“You. You are the duchess.”

It wasn’t a question.

Lumine took a step back. Something cold began to crawl up her spine. “What… what are you trying to say?”

The man shifted forward. Loomed.

Her gut turned. Her feet inched back. Something was wrong. Her body knew it, even if her mind hadn’t caught up yet.

“If I hurt you,” the man rumbled, “will it hurt him?”

Her blood froze. And then she ran.

But she didn’t get far. A few steps out of the alley before a hand clamped down on her shoulder. Another snapped over her mouth. She was yanked back into something solid, her scream cut off before it left her throat.

“You’re a lot of trouble,” the man grunted, “for someone who doesn’t matter.”

The words struck her harder than she expected. She did matter. Didn’t she? She thrashed in his grip, Lyney’s suit slipping off her shoulders, fabric fluttering to the ground.

“Stop struggling.”

She screamed anyway—or tried to. It came out muffled, trapped behind his palm. Her legs kicked wildly, more instinct than strategy. Useless.

“Fontainian noblewomen,” the man muttered. “So annoying.”

His hand slid from her mouth to her throat. She stilled.

Pressure built where his fingers pressed into her windpipe, an unmistakable threat. Her lungs strained. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t—

“Be good,” he said. “Or I’ll choke you to death. I have other ways of getting to your husband.”

Terror slammed into her. She couldn’t move. Her limbs felt weak.

He grunted, satisfied, then began to drag her backwards, down the street and towards the alley.

Her thoughts spiralled. What was he going to do? Use her as bait? Ransom? Her mind scrambled for something, anything that made sense. Desyree had warned her—the Perinheri family had enemies. He must be one of them.

But he was wasting his time.

Lyney wouldn’t come for her. Not really. Not if there wasn’t something in it for him.

Tears welled in her eyes—hot, stupid tears of frustration. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not here in the dark, in a stranger’s grip.

What would he do when he realised she wasn’t worth anything? What would he do when she stopped being useful?

She was still suspended in the air, feet barely brushing the ground, when the man staggered. A sharp sound cut through the night—a hiss of pain.

Lumine twisted her head. Someone was behind them. She couldn’t make out the figure, not in the dark, but they moved fast. Darted to the front. Steel gleamed in their hand—a long, narrow blade. A rapier.

The sword sliced through the air. Bit clean into the man’s side.

He growled, but didn’t let go.

“The duke,” the man rasped. “You finally showed your face.”

The duke?

“Put my wife down,” Lyney said. His voice was like ice. Cold. Clear. Lethal. Lumine barely recognised it. “And I might still let you walk away.”

The man laughed. “Was never my intention to walk away.”

His hand snapped back to her throat. Squeezed.

She choked, legs jerking in panic. Her hands clawed at his, trying to pry him off. Her lungs screamed. Her vision blurred. The world tilted. And then—

The grip vanished. She dropped.

But she didn’t hit the ground. Arms caught her, lowered her gently, set her back against the alley wall.

Her heart was still slamming in her chest. Her throat burnt. She trembled, preparing for another blow, but instead, fingers brushed lightly over her face. Swept her hair from her eyes.

“There’s blood on your dress,” Lyney said, voice soft again.

She blinked up at him. His features were in shadow. But his scent wrapped around her, familiar now. Grounding.

She looked down. Flinched. Tiny splatters stained her bodice, dark and wet. She didn’t know whose they were.

“I asked you to stay in the light,” he murmured, tone faintly scolding. “Why didn’t you listen?”

She opened her mouth. No words came.

Her gaze flicked past him. To the figure on the ground. The body. Not moving.

She swallowed and looked back at him. She couldn’t quite see his face, but she reached for it anyway. Let her fingers trail through the dark, searching, until they brushed something warm. Soft.

His mouth.

“I thought you abandoned me,” she whispered.

He sighed against her fingers. “We’re married, mon cœur. I couldn’t get rid of you that easily.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Clearly.”

He took her hand in his, gently but firmly, and helped her to her feet. Led her out of the alley without another word.

The smell of blood was thick behind them. It settled like iron on her tongue. Heavy, cloying. It made her nose wrinkle. Made her feel a little sick.

Under the streetlights, she could see him better. His jaw was tense, his eyes cold. His rapier was still in hand. She realised belatedly that it was part of his cane.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “if I tell you to stay put, stay put.”

She nodded. Stole a glance at the alley. Shivered and looked away.

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” Lyney added. The coolness in his voice hadn’t faded.

“Does this… happen to you often?” she asked.

“Often enough.”

He unhooked the cane from his belt and slid the blade back into its sheath. She tried not to look at the smear of blood along the edge as it clicked back into place.

“You’ll need to get used to this,” he said. “As my duchess.” His smile was slight. Polite. Hollow. “Which means you’ll need to listen.”

He seemed… upset. But not in a loud, emotional sort of way. Just calm. A sense of calm so detached, it was almost eerie.

She chewed her lip. Something in her tightened—something small and scared, an instinct that told her to run far away.

But as if sensing her fear, he gentled. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I told you to stay under the light because I knew we were being followed. I didn’t expect you to chase after me.”

“You didn’t say it was dangerous.”

“I didn’t think it would take that long.” He cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked lightly over her skin. “Let’s go home.”

She hesitated. Looked once more at the alley, then back at him. His eyes were shadowed, his expression unreadable. Distant.

But she reached for his hand anyway. He laced their fingers together and squeezed once before leading her to one of the waiting carriages on the main road.

They didn’t speak on the ride back. Lyney stared out of the window, and she stared at him. Noticed the bloodstains on his shirt. Tried not to let them hold her attention.

Back at the manor, they climbed the stairs. She paused at the top. Turned to face him. “I’m sorry I lost your suit,” she said.

“It’s fine.” His voice was quiet. Distracted. “Get some rest, chérie. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and continued walking up the stairs, leaving her alone in the dark.

Chapter 4

Lyney left the manor early the next morning.

She only found out when Desyree brought her tea. Ceylon today, fragrant and brisk.

“He sends his regards,” Desyree said as she poured. “Said he had a few loose ends to tie up. He won’t be back until evening.”

That was fine. She hadn’t expected to see him anyway.

Still, she picked at her toast. The buttery aroma clung to the air, warm and inviting, but her stomach roiled. She couldn’t stop picturing the blood on his shirt. On her own bodice. How it had dripped, slow and damning, from the tip of his sword.

“Did he say… what exactly he was doing?”

Desyree shook her head. “We don’t question His Grace’s movements. Though if I had to guess, I’d say a trip to the palace. He visits often.”

Right. The Perinheris were of royal blood. She would never forget that.

“Is there something you wanted to tell him?”

Lumine blinked. Desyree was watching her—calm, but with a faint thread of concern in her eyes.

“No,” Lumine said slowly. “Nothing.”

A pause. Then, more gently than usual: “You returned very late last night, my lady. Did something happen with His Grace?”

Lumine hesitated.

She did want to tell her. To confide in someone. She couldn’t untangle how she felt about what happened. Was she overthinking it? Or was it crazy that anyone would treat something like this as normal?

Then again—hadn’t Lyney said it was normal?

She set her toast down. “We were attacked,” she said.

Desyree’s expression didn’t shift, but her attention sharpened.

“I don’t know who,” Lumine continued. “Just that he wanted to hurt Lyney. And thought going through me would do it.”

Desyree reached for the milk pitcher and added a splash to Lumine’s tea, just the way she liked it. “Then the assailant was a fool,” she said mildly. “His Grace doesn’t allow anyone to harm what’s his.”

Lumine flinched. The quiet certainty in her voice was… unnerving.

“Lyney said this sort of thing happens often.”

Desyree nodded. “Occasionally, they even target the manor directly.”

A chill settled over her. “The manor?”

“You needn’t worry, my lady. We’re well-trained in self-defence. And there are secret passageways to escape if needed. You’re safe, as long as you follow instructions.”

She knew Desyree meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t help. “I didn’t realise the Perinheris were so…”

“Violent?” Desyree offered. “It’s not that His Grace seeks it out. It’s simply the burden he bears as head of the house.”

Lumine looked down at her teacup, fingers tightening around the porcelain.

She couldn’t reconcile it. The charming, velvet-voiced man she’d married, and the one who killed without blinking.

It wasn’t that she feared him. He’d saved her. She was grateful.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid. Not of him—of everything. Of the world he lived in. Of what it would take to survive in it. Of what parts of herself she might have to sever just to fit.

She’d seen it in pieces—his easy detachment when she blackmailed him, the casual ruthlessness with which he dispatched the treasure hoarders. But this was different. Real. Bloody.

“Why would he need to see the royal family?” she asked, trying to push the images away.

“The Perinheris are the nation’s sword and shield,” Desyree said. “His Grace ensures the stability of the borders, weeds out dissidents, interrogates spies. When it’s inconvenient for the royal family to move openly, he moves for them. He reports directly to the king and the crown prince on matters of national security.”

She blinked. She hadn’t expected Desyree to volunteer so much.

“Is it all right for you to tell me that?” she asked.

It hadn’t been that long ago that her maid had been tight-lipped about anything concerning the family. But now, Desyree only smiled and gently nudged the teacup towards her.

“I don’t believe you mean our house any harm,” she said. “And personally, I’m grateful you took my suggestion into account. It’s only fair I return the favour.”

“Your suggestion?” Lumine echoed. “Ah—the new uniforms.”

Desyree nodded, her smile widening slightly. It was small, but earnest. The most open she’d ever seen her.

“They’re very light,” Desyree said, smoothing a hand over the fabric of her skirt. “The summer ones. We’re all very happy. Thank you, my lady.”

Lumine smiled, unable to help it. Desyree’s quiet joy had a strange, contagious warmth.

“I’m glad,” she said. “I’m happy you like them.”

“We all do. And the new flowers—lovely additions. They’ve really helped. The garden had been so dreary lately.”

Lumine laughed. “You thought the garden was dreary?”

“It truly was. His Grace had been rather neglectful of it, ever since the young lady went north.”

“Lynette used to look after the garden?”

“She was certainly more invested than His Grace,” Desyree said, picking up a butter knife and spreading jam on another piece of toast as Lumine finally nibbled on the first. “He either shuts himself in his study or disappears entirely, gathering intelligence. There are weeks when he doesn’t return until long past midnight.”

Lumine faltered. She knew Lyney was busy, but not that busy.

“That doesn’t sound like he’s home very often.”

“He’s not,” Desyree confirmed. “Which is why I say, he’s been showing you more attention than you think. I’ve never seen him so present until the wedding.”

There was something gentle in her voice. Wondering. Maybe even affectionate.

Lumine blinked, eyes dropping to her toast again. Her heart lurched, quiet and uncertain.

She didn’t want to read into that. Lyney was a master manipulator—he moved so easily between warmth and distance, wore charm like a second skin. She never knew if she was seeing the truth or just a very convincing mask.

No. She would wait. Watch. Just because he saved her didn’t mean anything. This could still be part of some larger ploy.

She had to stay cautious.

“By the way,” Desyree said, “some of your renovation shipments arrived yesterday. Would you like to take a look? I believe it’s mostly the drapes. And some paintings.”

“Oh!” That, at least, was a welcome distraction. “Yes, I’d like that. If they’re here, we should start putting them up.”

Desyree inclined her head. “I’ll ask the staff to begin unpacking. Once you finish breakfast, we can walk through them together.”

“Thank you, Desyree.”

“You’re most welcome, my lady.” She bowed, then turned to leave.

Lumine waited until the door closed behind her. Then she exhaled and reached for her tea.

The Ceylon was still warm. She took a slow sip, letting the floral notes linger on her tongue before swallowing.

Floral. Like Lyney’s perfume.

The thought slipped in, unbidden. She jolted, blinking hard, and set the cup down a little too quickly.

Focus. She had to focus. Finish her breakfast, see to the renovations, keep herself busy. No time to drift. No time to waste.

Idle hands were the devil’s workshop, after all.

---

She spent the rest of the afternoon consulting with the butler and Desyree on where best to place the new items.

It was oddly satisfying, watching her vision take shape. New curtains. New décor. Paintings from the young artist Lynette apparently liked. Maybe it was just the excitement of unboxing and arranging things. Or maybe it was the feeling that, for the first time, this life was becoming real.

Either way, time passed quickly. She barely noticed. There was a pleasant warmth humming in her chest, one that pushed last night’s unease to the back of her mind.

“I think here,” she said, gesturing to where one of the staff held up a painting. She and the butler were debating whether it would suit the stairwell or the corridor outside Lynette’s bedroom better. “It matches the wallpaper.”

“But the young lady adores this artist. Would it not be better to place it near her room?”

Lumine turned her attention back to the canvas: a scene of a cat pinning down a mouse by its tail. The mouse’s eyes were wide with terror, paws scrabbling against the floor. She glanced at the title in her notes.

Still Life: Daily Games.

“I’m not sure Lynette would want to wake up to this every morning,” she said.

“Oh? And why not?”

She stiffened.

The voice—too smooth, too familiar—came from below. She looked over her shoulder and saw Lyney standing at the base of the stairs, amusement flickering in his gaze.

His coat was damp, umbrella dripping steadily onto the carpet. “Your Grace,” the butler said, hurrying forward.

He wasn’t supposed to return until evening.

“This sounds like an interesting conversation,” Lyney drawled, shrugging off his coat. The butler took it from him along with the umbrella. His hair was damp as well, darkening the blond and drawing a sharp contrast to his violet eyes. “Let me see.”

The butler stepped aside as Lyney ascended the stairs. He brushed past her on the way up, lingering on the same step—close enough for her to catch the familiar trace of perfume, cool and floral. Her pulse jumped.

She remembered the blood on his shirt. The detached calm in his smile. The way he’d bid her good night like nothing happened.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, eyeing the painting. “Lynette does like this artist.”

The butler nodded. “She’s been unusually vocal about supporting him.”

“That’s very Lynette. Always had a liking for the grotesque.”

He said it fondly, without judgement. She glanced again at the image of the terrified mouse. Something about it made her stomach twist.

“I think the duchess is right,” Lyney said. “I don’t imagine Lynette would enjoy seeing this first thing in the morning.”

The butler deflated. “I thought she’d find it rather endearing.”

“She would. But she doesn’t like mice, remember?” Lyney reached out and took the painting himself, handling it with surprising care. “She says they’re unsettling. Little rats, always sneaking around the manor.”

The words were innocuous enough, but something in his tone, still warm and pleasant, sent a chill down her spine.

The butler cleared his throat. “Shall we draw the drapes this evening, Your Grace?”

She blinked, thrown by the shift in topic. Lyney hummed as he held the painting to the wall, as if testing the fit.

“Yes,” he said. “Draw them all. And light the fireplaces.”

She frowned. This no longer felt like a conversation about interior décor.

The butler bowed. “I’ll inform the household, then.”

“Please do.” Lyney set the painting down and gestured to the staff. “Hang it here. My wife has excellent taste.”

He smiled at her. She managed a nod, unsure how else to respond.

“You’re both dismissed,” he added. The butler and staff withdrew, leaving them alone on the staircase.

The silence stretched. He was still watching her. Still wearing that cryptic half-smile. It set her on edge.

Finally, she broke it. “You got caught in the rain?”

A safe opener. Something neutral.

“Just a little,” he said lightly. “I had an umbrella, but the damn thing was useless against the wind.”

“You should take a bath. Before you catch a cold.”

“Maybe later. I’ve work to catch up on.” He exhaled. This time, it didn’t sound like a performance. Just tired. “Those blasted northern tribes. Always stirring up trouble.”

Her wariness eased, if only slightly. “Where did you go?”

He glanced at her. Tilted his head, like he was inspecting something curious. “You want to know, my darling wife?”

She hesitated. Did she? Curiosity itched at her, even if she wasn’t sure she’d like the answer. “... Yes.”

“Why?”

She bit her lip. Lifted her gaze. He was looking directly at her, unreadable. She couldn’t tell if it was a test or if he genuinely wanted an answer.

“Because… it concerns you. And you’re my husband.” She straightened, steadying her voice. “Shouldn’t I be allowed to know? As your wife?”

He blinked—slow, languid, feline. Then smiled. “You do deserve to know, mon cœur. Especially when you ask so earnestly. It’s very adorable of you.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she held her ground. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

He laughed. Low, silken, intimate. The sound ghosted across her skin like touch. “So impatient,” he murmured. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But walk with me first,” he said, extending a hand. “I need to change.”

She hesitated, then placed her palm in his. He curled his fingers around hers, thumb stroking gently as he led her up the stairs.

“I went to the palace,” he said casually. “There are… murmurs. Rumours I thought the royal family should hear.”

“Rumours?”

“Mm. One of our neighbours whispers of war.” He laced their fingers, his thumb brushing her wedding band.

She faltered. “W-War?”

“Yes.” They reached the next landing, where she usually turned off. Her room was here. His was above. She’d never had cause to go further.

She instinctively tried to pull back, but his grip didn’t loosen. So she kept walking, heart hammering against her ribs.

“You’ve already seen traces of it, ma douce,” he said. “The man from last night.”

Her frown deepened. Now that she thought of it, his accent had been strange. And he’d referred to her as a Fontainian noblewoman, as though he weren’t from Fontaine.

“But he was targeting you.”

“Of course he was. Remove me, and it’s practically an invitation to attack. I am rather inconvenient to deal with.”

He said it like he was commenting on the weather.

“That’s…” She swallowed. “That’s frightening. That you might be the only thing standing between—”

“I’m not.” He cut her off gently. “His Majesty has a strong army. I’d never presume I’m that important.”

“But you keep him informed, don’t you?”

“I do.” His voice was light. “And I oversee Fontaine’s elite military unit. They won’t move without my command.”

She stopped. “That’s the first I’ve heard of that.”

“As it should be. Not common knowledge beyond a few circles.”

She turned to face him. “Then why are you telling me now?”

He blinked. “Because you asked. Isn’t that what you wanted, my dear duchess?”

It sounded indulgent, almost sweet. But underneath it was something else. Something calculating.

“This is all classified, isn’t it?” she said. “And suddenly you’re telling me everything?”

“Of course. You’re my wife. You should know these things.”

“Yet you wouldn’t even let me look at the household ledger.”

“Ah, that.” He smiled. “If you’re still curious, tell the butler. I’ll inform him you’re allowed access.”

His smile was flawless. Charming. But her instincts screamed. He was always three steps ahead, offering the illusion of closeness while keeping her unmoored.

“You’re not afraid I’ll… I don’t know. Use this against you?”

“What would you use?” he asked, amused. “The king already knows everything. There’s nothing you could report that he doesn’t.”

She blinked. “Wait. Does that mean… even the dossier I gave—?”

“Oh, naturally. Nothing enters or leaves Fontaine without His Majesty’s awareness. He even has spies on me,” he added with a laugh. “You’re hardly the first.”

It felt like cold water across her skin.

“Then why did you agree to this marriage?” she asked. “You could’ve had me killed.”

“Such refreshing honesty. And self-awareness. That’s what I like about you,” he said, lifting their still-joined hands and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His lips were warm. His gaze, warmer still. “You know your place.”

Her breath hitched. Threaded through his tenderness was something dark. Almost cruel.

“That’s why I’m telling you all this,” he murmured. “Because you should know. You’re the duchess now. I can’t have you wandering around, oblivious to the family you married into.”

Her stomach churned. Her chest tightened. “What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing,” he said breezily. “I’m not playing games, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

They reached the top of the stairs. His bedroom door loomed ahead. Just a door—yet it felt like a wall, an unspoken threshold she had never crossed.

Nearly two months married, and she had never set foot in his room.

He looked back at her. His expression softened. He reached out, cupping her cheek with light, practised ease. She tried not to react. Couldn’t help the way her breath caught anyway.

“Come in, ma chérie,” he said softly. “You’re not afraid of your husband, are you?”

“I’m not afraid,” she lied. Her voice trembled.

He studied her. Then let his hand fall.

“Go on, then,” he said, voice like silk. A lure. A promise. “And make yourself at home.”

---

She didn’t know where to look.

Lyney’s room was the opposite of hers. Where she had tried to make hers bright and open, his was dark. Shrouded in shadow. Lit by candlelight instead of sun. The curtains were drawn, the carpet drank up every sound, and the air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on her just enough to keep her still.

She was perched on the edge of his bed, spine stiff, watching him flick through his wardrobe for a dry shirt.

He was taking far too long. Surely it didn’t take this much effort to pick out a shirt.

“What do you think of this, my dear?” he asked, holding out a plain grey one. Well-made. Expensive.

“It seems fine,” she replied automatically.

“Hm.” He studied it for a moment, head tilted. “Bloodstains might show, though.”

For a beat, she thought she’d misheard. “Bloodstains?”

“Yes.” No elaboration. Just tucked it back in and pulled out a navy one instead, so dark it was nearly black. Midnight silk that caught the candlelight. It would hide anything.

She swallowed and looked away as he began to unbutton his shirt. He didn’t seem to care that she was there. Didn’t seem to care that he was undressing in front of her like this.

She wasn’t sure why it bothered her. They were married. There was no rule that said he couldn’t change in front of her. But the air felt charged. Intimate in a way it shouldn’t have been. It unsettled her.

She blamed the play. Blamed him for bringing her to watch it in the first place.

“You can look now,” he said, his voice sliding through the dark like warm honey, poured slow and deliberate.

She glanced up and froze. He was already dressed, standing in front of her.

“You’re adorably shy, my sweet,” he said, eyes bright. “Have you never seen a man changing before? You do have a brother.”

“That’s different,” she said, twisting her fingers in her skirt. “He’s my brother. You’re my husband.”

“And how does that make it different?” His tone dipped, lower now, amused. Almost fond.

Her throat tightened.

The realisation hit her suddenly: they were too close. She was still on the bed, and he was standing directly in front of her, leaving no easy way out. If she moved, she’d either run straight into him—or fall backwards onto the mattress.

She didn’t know which would be worse.

He watched her carefully, like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“We’re both men, after all,” he said softly. “Surely you’ve seen a bare chest. You even saw one last night, didn’t you? On stage, at the Opera Epiclese.”

The memory burnt back into her. The play. The performer’s half-open shirt. Lyney’s hand around her waist.

“That was different,” she mumbled. “It was… from a distance.”

“And I’m too close?” he teased. “But I’m fully dressed. Perfectly decent. Yet my poor wife won’t even meet my eyes. Have I done something wrong?”

She wished she could disappear. Just fold into the sheets and vanish from sight.

“You are so innocent,” he cooed. His fingers brushed her chin, featherlight, and then caught. Tipped her face up to look at him.

Her breath hitched.

She couldn’t look away. He was smiling at her like she was something precious, something fragile—and that felt more dangerous than any threat.

“I wondered, at first, if it was an act,” he said. “You blackmailed me with such nerve, after all. It didn’t seem like innocence. Not at all.”

She swallowed, heart thudding. She couldn’t move.

“But then I saw you little you understood,” he continued. “How stubborn you were about such things. You insisted we shouldn’t fake our love, chérie, though honestly—if you’d kept up the act and I’d fallen for it, wouldn’t that have been so much easier? For both you and your mother?”

She stiffened. Was that a threat, or was he being flippant? She couldn’t tell. He said it so lightly, so lazily, but the implication pressed sharp.

“Then do you want me to pretend?” she asked.

He smiled. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?” His fingers pressed in—not painfully, but enough that she felt it. “This marriage is yours, too. You get to choose what to do with it.”

Then he let go.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and shifted back, scooting across the bed to gain a sliver of space.

“I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not,” she said.

“And I’ll respect that,” he replied, all ease and charm again. “Whatever my wife wants, I’ll respect it.”

Her hands curled into the duvet beneath her. Something about all this felt wrong. Like she’d just lost a game she hadn’t realised she was playing. Like she was being cornered, and she didn’t even know when it started.

So she did what she always did when she was uncomfortable. She changed the subject.

“What are you doing next?” she asked. “You said you had work. Are you going to your study?”

“Mm, perhaps.” His gaze drifted from her to the door. “Or I might have dinner early. We won’t have time later.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” That lazy, brilliant smile again. “You don’t have any plans tonight, do you?”

She shook her head slowly. “I never have any plans. You know that.”

“Now, now. What a thing to say.” His smile turned sly. “Why ever not?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” she said. “I never get invited anywhere. I don’t even get letters.”

“Ah. Were you hoping to be popular, duchess? Now that you’ve married into a title?”

“It’s not about popularity.” She shifted back instinctively, inching further across the bed. He tracked the motion, gaze dipping low before rising back to her face. Watching her. Measuring.

“It’s just… strange,” she finished. “I haven’t received anything.”

“You sound almost accusatory, my dear.” His smile was sharp. Ivory glinting in the candlelight. “Surely you don’t suspect me of filtering through your letters.”

“I won’t say what I suspect and what I don’t.”

“Do you want me to admit it, then?” he said, eyes gleaming. “That I’ve been parsing through your mail? Tossing out invitations to polite company?”

He placed a knee on the mattress between her legs. Her breath stilled.

“Would that vindicate you, duchess?” he asked. “Would it make you feel better about living under my thumb?”

His voice was mild. But his manner wasn’t. There was something wolfish in the set of his frame, in the slow press of proximity, the way his smile curled without warmth.

Her heart drummed against her ribs. Her instincts screamed that she should get away. That if she stayed here any longer, she’d get eaten.

And yet, some part of her—sick, traitorous, born of whatever broke loose inside her after the play last night—wondered. Wondered what he would do if she stayed. Wondered if he would keep going. Wondered if—

“Just tell me,” she snapped. “Am I allowed to go out or not?”

“Of course you’re allowed to go out. You’re not a prisoner.” He raised an eyebrow, then leant in, bracketing her body with his hands on either side of her. She felt caught. Caged.

“But I’ll admit,” he went on, “that the staff haven’t been sharing the invitations you’ve received.”

She blinked. She hadn’t expected him to say it. The relief that coursed through her came too quickly. Almost shamefully.

So she hadn’t imagined it. Her suspicions had been real. “Why not?”

“Because quite a few were from houses with… lingering hostilities towards mine,” he said. “If they were neutral, I wouldn’t have objected. But now that you know about the duchy’s position, you understand. We have to be cautious. Even in how we socialise.”

“Oh. But…” She faltered. “You always go to balls. I’ve seen you. You don’t seem particularly cautious.”

He made a small sound of amusement. “Do you know how to wield a sword?”

She shook her head.

“There we go.”

That indulgent tone again. The one that grated. Like she was a child, and he was merely humouring her.

“I still don’t like that you vetted my invitations,” she said, frowning. “I think I should be allowed to see what I’m missing.”

“Fair.” He tilted his head. “I apologise for overstepping.”

Then he drew closer. Close enough that she could count the sweep of his lashes, smell the soft, floral perfume clinging to him, muted now by rain. Something about him in that moment felt almost painfully beautiful. Her pulse jumped.

His mouth looked soft. Too soft. She could kiss him now, if she just tilted up her chin—

She froze. What was she thinking?

They’d only ever kissed once, at the wedding. This wasn’t real. This was a farce. A loveless marriage. He was playing her, and she knew it. He was doing all this just to see her squirm. Watch her unravel.

“I want to eat,” she said, carefully placing her palms against his chest. Just enough pressure to keep him away.

But he stilled. Looked down at her sharply, like her touch had caught him off guard.

Then, instead of backing off, he moved in. Forehead brushing hers. Voice soft, lilting. “What would you like to eat, hm?”

Her breath tangled in her throat. His gaze had shifted, turned unreadable, searching. It twisted something inside her. A small, strange ache blooming low.

“I… whatever the chef wants to make,” she mumbled, distracted. “I just. Need food.”

“Do you, now.”

His hand slid up her arm—slow, unhurried—before curling around her wrist. Not forceful, but enough to feel.

“I just received a new shipment of wine,” he said. “Straight from one of Fontaine’s oldest wineries. Fruity. Light. Sweet. I think you’ll like it. I’ll have the staff open a bottle.”

She blinked, dazed. “I thought you said I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near alcohol.”

He smiled. “Oh, but you’ll need it.”

Something in his tone made her skin prickle.

Before she could speak, he shifted his weight and rose, stepping back like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t been one breath apart. His expression clicked back into something easy. Polished.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said pleasantly.

Then he was gone, and she was left alone in his room, his warmth still lingering on her wrist.

---

Something about Lyney made her drink.

She couldn’t explain it. Liquid courage, maybe. Everything about him threw her off-balance. It was easier to sit across from him when her head was fuzzy and warm, when the alcohol softened her instincts and made her bold.

She thought, mournfully, that she might not be in this situation if she hadn’t drunk during their first encounter. It had been her big mouth that landed her here. Without that, he probably wouldn’t have noticed her at all.

He was right, though. She did like the wine.

“Go easy on that, ma chère,” Lyney said as she emptied her third glass. The edges of the room were beginning to blur. “You’re charming when tipsy, but I’d rather not have to peel you off the floor.”

“Hm? What’s wrong?” she asked—or slurred. There were two sets of lamb racks now. Two sets of cutlery. Two copies of Lyney’s unfairly beautiful face.

He sighed, stood, and crossed the room to her. “Come here,” he said gently.

She didn’t resist. Let him slip an arm behind her back, another beneath her thighs, and lift her as though she weighed nothing. She clung to him out of instinct, arms around his neck. He was so warm. He smelled good. Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she resisted the hazy urge to bury her face in his shirt and breathe him in.

“You’re sweet like this,” he said, his voice a murmur. “Soft. Obedient. And you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she mumbled.

“Like you want something,” he said. “And you’re too inebriated to hide it.”

“I don’t… want anything from you,” she said, frowning. “Just your money.”

“Ah. My money.” He laughed, low and amused. “See? Charming.”

He walked them out of the dining room. Over his shoulder, he added, “Clean that up. And keep the south wing open.”

She heard murmurs of assent behind them but didn’t turn. Didn’t process what it meant. It probably wasn’t important anyway.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Where do you think?”

She glanced blearily at the stairs. “My room?”

“Hm. Not tonight.”

“Then where? The library?”

He laughed again. “Your mind goes to strange places, darling. It makes me want to crack your head open and see what’s spinning inside.”

She winced. “Please don’t crack my head open.”

“It’s a metaphor, my dear. Only a metaphor.”

She didn’t feel drunk enough to appreciate metaphors. So she tucked her face against his shoulder and hoped he’d take the hint.

The motion of his walking was soothing. Rhythmic. Her eyelids fluttered. Her breathing slowed. She was trying to stay awake, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

“You still haven’t said,” she mumbled. “Where we’re going.”

“My room, of course. I can’t leave you alone in this state. Especially not tonight.”

Her breath hitched. “Your room?”

“Mm. Yes. Why? Is my wife concerned?”

Her mind betrayed her. Flashes from the play—moaning, hands fumbling in the dark, a woman pressed against the wall—rose unbidden. Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily. Her neck felt too warm.

Lyney slowed. Adjusted his hold. “Darling?”

There was tension in his voice now. She tilted her head, blinking up at him. His gaze was fixed on her. Sharp. Hooded.

“Lyney?” she asked, hesitant.

He exhaled, long and slow. “You are,” he said, “a delightful little test of my patience.”

She stared. She didn’t know what that meant. Had she done something wrong? Was she too heavy? Was it the dress? Should she have worn something simpler?

But before she could untangle her thoughts, they reached his door. He opened it one-handed—impressive, really—and carried her inside.

His room was dim. Quiet. Like stepping into still water. She wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the press of his body, but it didn’t feel stifling like it had earlier. It felt… hushed. Safe. Like walking under the night sky, except there was no moon here.

He laid her gently on the bed.

She moaned, instinctively curling into the mattress. Searching for softness. The sheets were cool against her skin, delicately scented, smooth like silk. More comfortable than she remembered—or maybe anything felt luxurious when drunk. She didn’t have enough experience with drinking to be sure.

Something touched her arm. She turned her head. Lyney was leaning over her, his hand warm against her through the fabric. She couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but the heat of his palm felt like an anchor.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he said.

She pouted. “Why? I want to go back to my room,” she said. “Desyree… Desyree will worry. If I’m not there in the morning.”

“Desyree won’t worry,” he said. “She knows where you are.”

“What? How?”

He laughed. “Because I told her, of course.”

“You’re going behind my back,” she accused. “Telling my maid things!”

“Indeed. I’m a terrible master,” he said, drawing the backs of his knuckles across her cheek. “Trying to influence your help. Whispering secrets I don’t share with you. How dreadful of me.”

“Dreadful,” she agreed, trying to sit up. But he pressed her back down with one hand on her shoulder.

“Shh,” he said. “Don’t move. You’re barely upright as it is. And I’ve matters to attend to tonight. I can’t have you wandering the halls and falling on your face while I’m gone.”

She paused. Something in his tone—not cold, but final—left her unsettled. “You’re not staying?”

He shook his head. “Duty calls.”

“You could’ve left me in my room,” she muttered. “If you weren’t going to stay.”

“Oh?” His voice lifted with amusement. “Does my wife want me to stay the night?” He was teasing her, even through the haze. It made her want to bite him.

“I—well—it’s not like that,” she said quickly. “It just doesn’t make sense. Why bring me here if you’re not going to be here? Then it’s just… a room.”

“You’re right,” he said, maddeningly agreeable. “It is just a room.”

“So—?”

“But I want you to stay here, ma douce,” he said.

His hand found her cheek again, cupping it gently. His thumb drew slow, idle circles against her skin. She leant into it without thinking. It felt familiar. Steadying. A small patch of comfort in the dark.

“And don’t ask too many questions,” he added softly.

He stepped back. She moved before she could stop herself—reached out and caught the edge of his shirt between her fingers. He stilled.

“Lyney?” she asked, voice small.

He didn’t answer. But then, a long sigh. He returned to the bed and sat beside her.

“Why?” he asked. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

She shook her head. “I just… don’t want to be alone.”

This wasn’t her room. This wasn’t her house. She didn’t feel safe. She hadn’t felt safe since the alley—since she’d been held and choked and used as bait. She knew it was irrational, knew she wasn’t in danger now, but the fear still sat low and bitter in her throat.

She wished she could go home. Not this marble mausoleum, but her real home. Where her mother would be in the next room. Where she could busy herself in her brother’s quarters, dusting his shelves or checking his books, keeping herself distracted until the worry ebbed.

But here, in this house, with every need met by someone else and no purpose except to exist at Lyney’s side, she felt lost. Especially at night, when the sun was gone and she no longer had her renovations to cling to.

Lyney didn’t speak at first. Then his hand came to her hair, sweeping gently through it, tucking stray strands behind her ear.

“Would you like me to distract you, chérie?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She reached for him again, fingers curling loosely into the front of his shirt. “How?”

“I can make you forget,” he said.

His voice had changed. Lower. Rougher. It held a weight she wasn’t used to hearing. Like he wanted something. But he never wanted anything from her.

“But it’s not the kind of forgetting you can sweep away the next day, darling.”

Her mind flashed—traitorously—back to the play. Then to after. Before the assault. The heat of his breath by her ear, his arm tight around her waist, fingers grazing her skin. His touch bleeding through her bodice.

“Are you—” Her voice faltered. She caught herself. Still tipsy, but lucid enough now to register the velvet in his tone. The way his hands found her waist, then her hip, then lower still, smoothing down the fabric of her skirt.

It was a thin dress. Not improper, but meant for summer, not for armour. Not enough to shield her skin. Not enough to let her pretend she didn’t understand the line he was suggesting they cross.

Her heart thundered. Did she want this? She wanted a distraction. She liked the way he touched her. The way he spoke. But—

This wasn’t real. Their marriage wasn’t real. And if it wasn’t real, she shouldn’t give in to the illusion. Shouldn’t pretend they’d ever be anything more.

Bearing an heir notwithstanding.

The king’s words resurfaced. A reminder. One of her duties as duchess: to provide an heir. And to do that, they would have to—

A sudden crack split the air. Like glass shattering.

She gasped. Lyney’s grip tightened, then released.

He stepped away. One pace. Two. His expression unreadable in the dark. “I’m needed, mon cœur,” he said, voice laced with something unfamiliar. Not his usual charm. Something colder. Sharper. “Now. Be a good girl and don’t open this door. Not even for me.”

She sat up, instinctively reaching for him. “But—”

“You remember what happened last night?” he cut in.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

“You know you have to listen to me?”

Another pause. Then quiet, reluctant assent.

“Good.” He came back. Lifted her chin. Pressed a kiss to her cheek, featherlight. Her breath hitched.

“In fact,” he murmured, withdrawing, “it’d be best if you fell asleep. You’ve had enough wine.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to. Something about… peeling me off the floor.”

“That would be inconvenient. But you’ll manage.” He smiled. Then another crack rang out, closer now. From the floor below.

Lyney exhaled. “Duty calls,” he said, already turning. “Like I said, don’t open the door. But if anyone tries to force their way in—and rest assured, it won’t be me—I want you to go to the bookshelf.”

He pointed. “See the candle on the bottom shelf? Pull it towards you. There’s a passage. Go through until you find a room. Wait there until I come for you.”

Her stomach turned. The last of her drunken haze burnt away. “Lyney, what’s going on?”

“Nothing for my darling duchess to worry about.” His voice was almost teasing. “Just a precaution. Better overprepared than under, yes?”

He reached for her hand, kissed her knuckles with the same infuriating calm. “Sleep well, ma douce. Don’t let the nightmares in.”

“Lyney—” she tried again. But he was already gone. The door clicked shut behind him. Locked.

And she sat there in his bed, hands twisted in the duvet, heart pounding, wide awake.

---

It was eerily silent.

Not the quiet of sleep or solitude. This was different. Loaded. Like the air was holding its breath.

She sat up, listening. Hoping to hear something. Anything. But the silence held. No footsteps in the hall. No clatter from the kitchens. Not even the creak of settling wood.

Desyree’s voice floated up from memory: “Occasionally, they even target the manor directly.”

At that point, it had sounded absurd. Exaggerated. Even after what happened yesterday, she hadn’t truly believed it. Not deep in her bones.

But now? Now, she was certain.

She rose, crossing to the window. Hovered by the curtain. Her fingers brushed the thick velvet drape.

She could look. Just a sliver. Just enough to peek through, to see what was happening. But her hand stopped short.

What if someone was watching? What if there was an eye trained on the very flicker of this window? What if she looked—and something looked back?

She let her hand fall. Withdrew. Better not to touch anything.

But she couldn’t sit still. Pacing didn’t help. Neither did wringing her hands. There was no way to know what was happening outside—if the danger had passed, if the others were safe, or if—

She bit down on the thought before it could spiral. It coiled anyway. Cold and tight in the pit of her belly.

She thought of Desyree. The butler. The maids. The gardener. She hoped they were all safe.

Lyney, too. But he had to be fine. He moved through danger like it was a ballroom waltz. And he was… skilled with a blade. She’d seen it. Up close.

He’d be fine.

She returned to the bed. Lay down, curling into his mattress. The pillow still smelled faintly of him—floral, musky, something bittersweet. A trace of warmth in the still air. She let it anchor her.

He’d told her to sleep.

She closed her eyes and tried. Let herself sink into the hush, even though every breath felt too loud. The tension in her body refused to unknot. Still, eventually, drowsiness crept in—soft, slow, inevitable.

And then—

Knock.

The sound split the silence. She bolted upright. Her heart kicked against her ribs.

Had she imagined it?

Knock.

No. Not imagined. Real. Two short raps. Clear enough to strip the breath from her lungs.

“Darling?”

She went still. That voice.

“Darling, it’s safe now,” the voice said. Smooth. Light. Amused. “Help me open the door? It’s locked from the inside.”

Her gaze snapped to the door. She didn’t move.

He’d told her not to open the door. But it sounded like him.

“What are you waiting for?” the voice coaxed. Sweet. Familiar. Slipping through the room like silk over skin. She took a step forward before she realised.

She wanted it to be him. Wanted it more than she wanted to be right. Because she was tired. Because she was afraid. Because even if he vexed her, even if she didn’t trust him, he was familiar. Hers in a way she couldn’t untangle, even now.

“Are you all right, Lumine?”

She froze. Her name.

Lyney never called her that. Not once since they married.

The fear came fast this time. Sharp. Primal. It stabbed through her like lightning. Not him. That’s not him.

Another knock. Louder. Urgent now.

“Lumine? Lumine, answer me.”

She spun on her heel and ran to the candle. Pulled it. The bookshelf groaned open. She didn’t hesitate. Slipped through the gap and onto the staircase beyond.

The shelf slammed shut behind her. Darkness swallowed her whole.

No torch. No moonlight. No space. The walls felt too close. The air too thin. The steps dipped downwards into black, and each one made her feel more like she was falling.

What if this was it? What if she never found her way out?

But then, a flicker of light. Far ahead. Soft, orange. Torchlight.

She didn’t know how long she’d been walking, but she began to move faster.

The passage ended at a small room. Spare and windowless. A bed. A desk. A shelf with a few books. Dry rations stacked to the side.

A hiding place. Not a comfortable one, but safe. Temporary. Designed for moments like this. She stepped inside.

On the desk, an inkwell. A quill. A piece of parchment, its surface inked with strange symbols she didn’t recognise. She ran her thumb just above the script, not quite touching it.

This was Lyney’s space. She wondered what he used it for.

She sat on the bed, hands still shaking. To steady herself, she reached for the shelf and picked a book at random. It turned out to be on military strategy—dry, methodical, definitely not her usual fare—but she cracked it open anyway. Anything to keep her mind busy. Anything to pretend this was normal.

She got absorbed despite herself, scanning diagrams of troop formations and siege tactics. But then—

A low rumble. The sound of the bookshelf opening. Her breath caught.

He must be back. Lyney. Of course he’d check here if she wasn’t in his room.

She closed the book and returned it to the shelf, then sat back down, spine taut, fingers clasped. She counted the seconds. Listened to the slow, deliberate approach of footsteps down the hidden stairs. Her heart picked up speed with every one.

A shoe came into view.

She stood, relief and nerves crashing together in her chest. She opened her mouth to speak—then froze.

It was Lyney. Same blond hair, same lilting smile. But something… something was off. She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t name it. Only felt it.

Maybe it was the way he smiled. Too warm, too sincere. Lyney never smiled like that unless he was about to make you regret trusting him.

“Darling,” he said. His voice was soft. Sweet. His violet eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Are you all right? You must’ve been afraid.”

He stepped closer. She backed away instinctively, bumping into the edge of the bed. His smile only widened.

“But don’t worry,” he continued. “Everything’s fine. We’ve driven off the intruders. The manor is safe again.”

Safe.

“Safe,” she repeated faintly. Her fingers reached behind her, feeling for the desk—specifically, the note she’d noticed earlier. And tucked just beneath it, a letter opener. Cold steel. A little assurance. She wrapped her fingers around it.

“Who were they?” she asked. “Why attack us?”

“Oh, no one important,” he said. A flicker passed through his gaze. Brief, but unmistakably cruel. “Foreign scum. Cowards. We dispatched them, of course. They won’t return.”

She swallowed. “Was it the same nation as the one who attacked us last night?”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “No. Different this time. We have many enemies, unfortunately. But you shouldn’t worry. I’ll make sure this never happens again.”

That was the first thing that truly rattled her.

He was speaking too plainly. No teasing. No sidelong glances. No games.

It felt wrong.

Lyney never laid things out. He spun webs, not threads. He made you dance through smoke and mirrors to get even half a truth.

This man was giving answers like a husband trying to reassure his frightened wife. And that—that was the biggest lie of all.

“I’m all right,” she said slowly. “Just… hope the chinaware’s intact. It took so long to get the full set delivered.”

He chuckled. “I’d rather not go through the workshop again either. Liyue’s customs are dreadful.”

Her blood turned to ice.

He smiled at her. Tilted his head. “But of course,” he said, “if you want another set, it’s no trouble at all. Why don’t we go and take stock of the inventory together?”

He extended a hand. She didn’t move. He paused. “Lumine?”

Her breath hitched. Still, she didn’t move. He reached for her—

And she slashed the letter opener through the air between them.

He yelped and jumped back just in time, the blade grazing close but not touching.

“Don’t,” she snapped. Her hands trembled, but she held the blade steady. “Don’t touch me. You’re not Lyney.”

The man’s eyes widened. Hurt flickered across his face. It was such a perfect expression—confused, wounded, bewildered—that for a heartbeat, she almost doubted herself.

“Lumine,” he said gently. “What are you saying? I’m your husband. Don’t you trust me?”

“You’re not him!” she shouted. “Stop pretending!”

He blinked at her. His expression didn’t change. Still sad. Still soft. “Mon cœur,” he murmured. “You’re frightened. I understand. But please—”

“Lyney never calls me by my name.”

That did it.

Everything stilled. His smile dropped like a stone. His face sharpened into something cold and hollow. “I see,” he said flatly. “That makes things easier.”

She lunged, but he was faster. He sidestepped and grabbed her wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped the blade.

“I wanted to be gentle,” he said. “Truly. But you’ve made that difficult.”

She struggled, heart hammering. “How did you get in here? This was supposed to be—”

“Secret?” He snorted. “Please. Do you think the duke’s little tricks work on everyone?”

He yanked her towards him. “You’re even prettier up close,” he said, voice lowering. “No wonder he married you. Must be a treat in bed, huh?”

Her stomach churned. She wanted to scream. Instead, she drove her elbow back into his ribs. He grunted. Let go.

She ran. Raced towards the passage, towards anywhere that wasn’t here. But he caught her again after only a few steps, arms looped tight around her waist, dragging her back. She kicked, flailed, tried to bite.

But it didn’t matter. He held her tight. Pressed his face against her neck. His scent hit her—familiar. Too familiar. Lyney’s own, bittersweet and floral.

It made her hesitate.

“You’re trouble,” the impostor said, amused. “But I like a woman with fire.”

She didn’t answer. Just kept struggling.

He hefted her up and slung her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. “You didn’t need to run,” he said, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. “I was going to take you with me anyway. You’re far more useful than the duke right now.”

He started walking.

“The duke,” he added, “is unfortunately… compromised. But you? You’ll do nicely.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. Not one bit.

“He went to quite some lengths to conceal you, didn’t he?” the man went on cheerfully. “I wouldn’t have found this place if I hadn’t come prepared. Warding spells all over the entrance. Bit much, if you ask me.”

She clenched her fists against his back. “What do you want from me?” she demanded, slamming a fist against his shoulder.

He didn’t so much as flinch. “Nothing much,” he said breezily. “Maybe torture you a bit. Not your face, though. I like your face. But the rest—we’ll see. I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of juicy secrets buried in that pretty little mind.”

Torture. The word sank like ice in her gut.

“I don’t know anything,” she said quickly, panic threading her voice. They were halfway up the stairs now. The glow of the hidden chamber had faded behind them, leaving only darkness—thick, absolute. “You’ve made a mistake.”

He laughed. “You’re the duchess, aren’t you?”

In name only. A puppet, a placeholder. She knew nothing truly important, played no role in politics. But none of that mattered now.

She hated this. Hated being helpless. Hated how easily she’d been taken. If she knew how to fight—if she could wield a sword, cast a spell, do something—

They reached the top. She gritted her teeth as the low rumble of the bookshelf announced their arrival into Lyney’s bedroom.

“You’re better when you’re quiet, you know,” the man said. “I like it. Tell you what—be good, and maybe I’ll marry you instead. I’ve been in the market for a wife.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Her eyes darted across the room. Shelves. Books. Heavy ones.

As the secret door sealed behind them, she shifted her weight, just slightly. Enough to reach the nearest shelf. Her fingers brushed the spine of a thick tome. She grabbed it.

He felt it. “What do you think you’re—”

She brought the book down on the back of his head.

He staggered with a yelp, releasing her. She hit the floor hard, heart hammering, and raised the book again, ready to strike.

He turned slowly, hand cradling his skull. His face—Lyney’s face—twisted into a scowl. “Oh, you’re daring,” he said, voice dropping. “I should break you for that. Piece by piece. Let’s see how long that fire lasts when you realise no one’s coming to save you.”

She didn’t flinch. Tightened her grip on the book. “I won’t make it easy,” she whispered.

He took a step forward—

Then stopped.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then she saw it. A blade. Piercing clean through his abdomen.

Her breath caught. The man looked at her, eyes wide. Violet eyes—his eyes—flickering with disbelief. Then he collapsed, sliding off the blade, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

She stared.

Lyney stood behind him, sword still raised, blood dripping onto the floor. He looked… entirely unbothered.

“I got blood on the carpet again,” he said mildly. “The butler’s going to have my head for it.”

She blinked. “Lyney?” Her voice shook. Maybe this was a dream. A very strange, very vivid dream. Because none of this—any of this—felt real.

“Yes, chérie,” he said, voice still faintly distracted. “You did well. You listened. Stayed where I told you. If you’d done anything else, you might be dead.”

Her legs gave out. She sank to her knees, unable to stop herself.

The impostor’s body lay crumpled beside her. His features had shifted, no longer wearing Lyney’s face. Blank eyes stared off at nothing. A spreading pool of blood soaked into the carpet, inching towards the hem of her dress.

“You’ll get used to it,” Lyney said. “People dying, I mean.”

“I don’t… think I want to,” she whispered.

He stepped over the body and knelt beside her, drawing her hands gently to his chest. Up close, he didn’t smell like himself. Not the usual bittersweet floral—this was smoke, rust, something burnt and raw. His hair was tousled, his face freckled with drying blood.

He was cold. His hands, his skin—everything about him was cold.

“Then don’t,” he murmured. “Don’t get used to it.”

His lips tilted. He lifted one of her hands and nuzzled into her palm, brushing against her skin like a cat. “I like that you’re soft,” he said quietly. “It’s comforting. Knowing someone still bleeds for others. Maybe even for me.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Didn’t know if she wanted to be this close, or if she could bear to pull away.

So she stayed. Kneeling on the bloodstained floor. Her hand cupped against his cheek. His fingers twined gently with hers.

And all she could do was listen to the echo of her heartbeat in her ears, wondering how much more of herself she’d lose just to stay by his side.

Chapter 5

Late that night, she returned to her room.

It felt strangely anticlimactic. Lyney had held her for one moment longer, then let her go like nothing had happened. Brisk. Crisp. Back in command, as though blood on his hands was just another part of his evening routine.

“You should take a bath,” he’d said. “It’ll clear your head.”

So she bathed. Not with Desyree’s help—someone else came, a soft-spoken maid with gentle hands and unreadable eyes. When Lumine asked where Desyree was, the maid only said, “She’s elsewhere,” in a tone that suggested, Don’t ask.

It didn’t help her nerves.

After the bath, she climbed into bed. Tried to sleep. Failed. Her body felt leaden, but her mind refused to quiet. Every time she drifted off, she dreamt: of candlelight and violet eyes, of blood dripping on polished stone. The stench of iron curling in her nose and tongue. She woke often, limbs trembling. Her hands were cold. Her feet couldn’t warm.

The new maid stayed in the room with her that night. “Protection,” she said simply. One of Lyney’s rare, few mercies.

Still, Lumine worried. About Desyree. About the other staff she’d spoken to, even in passing. Were they safe? Were they still here? She’d asked the maid again, and again was met with that same mild smile. “You should rest, my lady.”

She tried. She really did. She buried her head beneath the pillow, let it muffle the sounds of her heartbeat. Willed the world to still. Willed herself into nothingness.

She wondered if Lyney ever had trouble sleeping.

Probably not.

---

When she woke, she didn’t open her eyes immediately.

Someone was moving about the room. Lightfooted. Careful. As though trying not to wake her.

She lay still, wary—but curiosity won out. She cracked one eye open.

Desyree stood by the window, drawing the curtains just enough for sunlight to spill through.

She sat up at once, the duvet falling away. “Desyree?”

Her maid turned, blinking. “My lady,” she said with a smile. “Did I wake you? I apologise. I was trying to let you rest—”

“You’re all right!” Lumine scrambled out of bed, still in her nightdress, and threw her arms around her. Desyree froze. But Lumine couldn’t bring herself to let go. “I was so worried,” she mumbled. “You weren’t here last night.”

There was a pause. Then Desyree’s body softened, and she gently patted Lumine’s back. “I’m fine, my lady. Everything is fine.”

Lumine pressed her face to her shoulder, a small sob catching in her throat. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “I thought something happened to you.”

“Nothing happened,” Desyree soothed. “I was deployed elsewhere. I couldn’t return in time to serve you last night. That’s all.”

“What were you doing?” she asked, voice muffled against the fabric of Desyree’s dress.

“Delivering a message to the palace,” came the answer. “His Grace’s instructions. Regarding the attack.”

Lumine’s breath caught. “He knew it was coming?”

“Yes, he knew. Since the afternoon. He had us all on standby.”

Her mind flicked back to Lyney’s conversation with the butler on the stairwell. The drawn drapes. The lit fireplaces. The quiet undercurrent of preparation.

“He didn’t seem very concerned,” she said.

“He rarely is. He’s used to it,” Desyree replied. “Attempts on his life—on the manor—are routine for him.”

She thought of the blade through the man’s stomach. Lyney’s casual complaint about bloodstains. His soft voice, soft hands, as he told her not to get used to death. She shivered, arms tightening around Desyree.

“He got blood on the carpet,” she murmured.

“So I heard. The head maid is displeased. That rug is a nightmare to clean.” Desyree sounded more amused than alarmed.

Lumine blinked, disoriented by the normalcy of it all. She remembered him saying that, too. Why was she even registering such a detail after everything? Maybe she was going mad. Twisted, from staying here too long. From staying near him too long.

“Do we know who the intruders were?” she asked, finally pulling back.

Desyree nodded. “An exiled noble house. One of the old families, driven out long ago. Still bitter over the loss of status.”

“They weren’t foreigners?” That was surprising. She’d assumed they were the same group who attacked her and Lyney at the Opera Epiclese.

“Not exactly. Their house now exists beyond Fontaine’s borders, but they were once native.”

Desyree stepped back, peering at her. Then gently brushed her cheek. “You’re crying, my lady.”

Was she? She touched her face. Her fingertips came away damp. “Oh,” she said, hiccupping. “I’m sorry.”

“Why apologise?” Desyree’s voice was gentle. “It’s your first time facing something like this. Fear is natural.”

“You weren’t afraid.”

“I was raised in this manor. You learn to adapt. But you—” Desyree tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You haven’t lost that softness yet. That’s not a flaw.”

“Isn’t it?” Lumine looked down at her hands. Pale, damp. Shaking. “I feel so useless. Always being saved. Always helpless. I wish I could protect myself. Just… in some way.”

Desyree hesitated. Then, firmly: “You are the duchess. You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I want to. I hate this feeling.”

“You’re not useless,” Desyree said, more fiercely than before. “You’ve done more than you think. You’ve changed this place, and for the better. I hope you see it someday.”

The words struck a chord. Lumine smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Desyree inclined her head. “Shall we walk in the garden? A little air might help.”

Lumine hesitated. The room felt stifling. Too still. Too quiet. She thought of the secret passage. The scent of blood. The dead man’s eyes.

She turned to the window. Through the slit in the curtains, she saw sunlight glinting on green. The garden was in bloom—flowers newly planted at her request. Bright petals. Clear skies.

It looked so far removed from everything that happened.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll change first.”

“As you wish, my lady. Let’s have breakfast too. You need to eat.”

She wasn’t sure she could. Her stomach felt tight, full of cotton and knots. But she nodded anyway.

Desyree guided her gently back to the bed. Lumine settled against the headboard, and Desyree wheeled in a cart. The scent of tea and warm bread filled the air.

Normal things. Familiar things. No blood, no weapons, no hidden corridors or threats in the dark.

Just tea. Just morning. Everything was perfectly fine.

Or so she told herself.

---

The household, oddly enough, seemed… normal.

The butler was still present. So was the head maid. No staff appeared to be missing. If anything, the most conspicuous absence was Lyney’s.

“Where is he, anyway?” she asked.

“He said he had a few errands to run,” Desyree replied.

“Lyney? Running errands?” She raised a brow. The idea of a duke handling errands like a merchant’s apprentice was almost laughable.

Desyree’s tone remained mild. “He does take certain matters into his own hands. Though none of us know where he goes. He could be anywhere.”

Right. Given his title and position, secrecy was probably baked into the job. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. Was he at the palace, perhaps? Reporting the aftermath of the attack?

She shivered and quickly pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to get pulled any deeper into that world than she already was.

Instead, she shifted the conversation. “I think we’re almost done with the renovations,” she said. “Just a few missing pieces—some art, some furnishings, the remaining china sets. Then it’ll be complete.”

Changfeng had sent over another batch of porcelain this morning. After Lyney relocated him to a new workshop and covered his costs, the craftsman had been working faster than ever. Support was a powerful motivator.

Still, her feelings about it were… complicated. Lyney had swept in like a saviour, securing Changfeng’s livelihood with one grand gesture. She hadn’t done much at all, aside from offering moral support.

“It’s coming together very nicely, my lady,” Desyree said. “I’m sure the young lady will be quite surprised when she returns.”

“Lynette? Do you think she’ll come back soon?”

Desyree didn’t answer right away, and Lumine understood why. News from the northern front was sparse and often outdated. Even reports of Aether’s victories—though frequent—came weeks late.

Her brother’s success on the battlefield made her proud, of course. But she missed him. Desperately at first, so much that it hurt to breathe. Over time, as his string of victories grew, that fear dulled. Not gone, just tempered. She had faith in his strength. Still, faith wasn’t the same as certainty. She would never stop wanting him home.

Lyney must feel the same about his sister. For all his polished charm, his affection for Lynette was genuine. But unlike Aether, Lynette hadn’t been drafted. If she wanted to return, surely she could.

Desyree finally shook her head. “She hasn’t returned in two years. Not since the war began. I suspect she’ll stay until it ends.”

“I hope the campaign finishes soon,” Lumine murmured. “And that my brother comes back safe.”

Desyree offered a nod. “His Grace did mention your brother was posted at the front as well. You must miss him.”

“Every day,” she said softly. “We’re twins. We’ve always been together. It’s still strange, not having him near.”

Her voice faltered.

“It feels like…” She paused, searching. “Like losing a limb you didn’t know you had until it’s gone.”

Aether had always been her opposite.

Where she struggled with hand-to-hand defence, he had been gifted with both sword and spell. One of Fontaine’s most promising swordsmen of the decade, his military instructors once said. So it was no surprise when he was called to the front lines.

She sometimes wished she’d asked him to teach her. But her mother had never approved of her “roughhousing” with Aether, so she’d stayed behind. Studied books, learnt embroidery. All the usual pursuits for a young noblewoman.

Useless. What good was embroidery when someone broke into your bedroom? She couldn’t exactly fend off an intruder with a needle.

Desyree’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “How did he react when he learnt you were getting married?” A pause, then a slightly sheepish add-on: “Forgive me, my lady—too personal?”

“No, it’s fine.” She let out a breath. “Aether… was surprised.”

That was putting it mildly. His letter, while technically congratulatory, had been brimming with veiled threats. Promises to investigate Lyney thoroughly. Promises to correct him if he ever caused her grief. And of course, an apology for missing the wedding, followed by another vague threat about putting Lyney “in his proper place”, whatever that meant.

Brothers. So dramatic. He was only five minutes older than her, but he acted like it was five years.

“Was he happy?” Desyree pressed gently. “He wasn’t here, after all. When His Grace proposed. It all happened very quickly. We were quite surprised.”

She was, too. But all she said was, “Lyney is efficient.”

Desyree nodded with faint admiration. “He is. Terrifyingly so, in fact. He’s carried such a heavy burden for so long… and somehow, I think he thrives on it. The weight. The responsibility.”

Lumine’s mouth twisted. “I think he gets a perverse joy out of danger,” she muttered. “He disposes of threats too easily. Too cleanly.”

They stepped out into the garden. The sunlight made her squint—bright after the manor’s heavy shadows—but the warmth was welcome. The air was fragrant, heavy with rose and loam.

She caught sight of the rainbow roses blooming along the path. Pale blush-pink, petals curling like bashful sighs. Fragrant and fragile. She could see why they were Lyney’s favourite.

Desyree spoke again. “He is responsible for Fontaine’s safety. It would be more troubling if he didn’t handle danger so capably.”

Lumine thought of his eyes. Their unnatural stillness. That cool, glassy detachment, polished to brilliance like a blade. “Sometimes,” she said, “he seems almost… inhuman.”

Desyree didn’t reply immediately. When she did, her voice was low. “Perhaps he has no choice but to be. That’s what’s expected of House Perinheri, my lady.”

Lumine didn’t ask what she meant. Something in Desyree’s tone warned her not to. So she stayed silent and kept walking, trying not to dwell on the strange hollowness she sometimes glimpsed behind Lyney’s beautiful eyes.

---

As they strolled through the garden, she found herself relaxing.

It truly was a pleasant day. The weather was fine, the songbirds were chirping, and a soft breeze lifted the edge of her skirt, bringing with it the sweet scent of flowers.

They came across the gardener and several staff kneeling beside a flowerbed. “This entire section was crushed last night,” the gardener said, voice tinged with regret. “His Grace asked us to replace it today. Luckily, we’d overordered on both seeds and flowers, so we don’t have to wait for a new shipment.”

Lumine glanced at the empty bed, then at the towering stone wall behind it. “They climbed over from here?”

Desyree nodded. “It’s a popular route,” she said. “After scaling the wall, they usually try the south wing.”

“It’s either this, or the secret tunnel leading to the east wing,” one of the staff added offhandedly.

The casual way they spoke of intrusion sent a chill down her spine. “If we know where people are likely to enter,” she said, “then why don’t we do something about it? Why let them come?”

“It’s by His Grace’s design,” Desyree replied. “He prefers to leave calculated weak points. It helps funnel intruders into specific zones. That way, response is faster, and clean-up is easier.”

Lumine frowned. “That’s…” Horrifying. Calculated. Like laying bait in a trap. “It sounds like something he’d say.”

“No defence is perfect, my lady,” Desyree said. “So His Grace decided it was better to control the risk.”

Maybe that made sense. Maybe it didn’t. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

“So what exactly happened last night?” she asked, voice quieter now.

“We were expecting a small group,” Desyree said. “There wasn’t a need to mobilise the entire household. His Grace received word that one of the faction’s top spies was coming, and he wanted to use the opportunity to flush him out.”

She shivered. “I think I saw him.”

Desyree turned towards her, eyes sharp. “Oh?”

“He took Lyney’s form. His voice, his scent—down to the perfume. He knew I was his wife. He knew so many things.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It wasn’t perfect. But it was close.”

“That would be him,” said a nearby staff member as he lowered a flower from a wheelbarrow into the newly tilled soil. “His Grace warned us the spy might take his appearance. We were told to strike on sight if he was spotted outside the usual parameters.”

So Lyney had known. He’d known ahead of time. That explained the warning not to open the door. The insistence on hiding in the secret passage.

But still. Had he planned it all? Left her alone in his room, told her about a hiding place that was essentially a dead end, knowing the spy might follow? So he could return and strike at the right time?

She didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to be angry, or betrayed, or worse—used. So she shut the thought down.

Desyree seemed to sense her spiralling, because she stepped a little closer and gently steered her away from the flowerbed. “Would you like to see the new blooms, my lady?” she said. “The ones we planted a week ago. They’ve done quite well, haven’t they, Daniaud?”

The gardener straightened with a grin. “Flourishing. I was surprised how quickly they took to the soil. I’d never grown Sumeru roses before. But they’re hardy, and they pair beautifully with the rainbow roses.”

Lumine nodded. “I thought they might. The colours go well together. And they’re sweet-smelling.”

“How did you come to know about them, my lady?” Daniaud asked. “I’ve never even been to Sumeru. Wouldn’t have thought to look there for inspiration.”

“I’ve never been to Sumeru either,” Lumine said. “But my mother had. She told me it was full of beautiful plants, though the Sumeru roses were the most common. They grew everywhere, especially near places with high ley line activity.” She smiled faintly. “My mother kept a dried one as a bookmark. That’s how I knew what they looked like. I’ve never seen a live one up close.”

“Oh, then why don’t we take a look?” Desyree suggested. “They’re still in the greenhouse for now, but we should be able to move them into the garden soon.”

Daniaud nodded. “We can head there now if you’d like, my lady.”

“All right.” She turned to glance again at the empty flowerbed, where three staff members were transplanting rainbow roses into the dark, fresh soil.

“Would you need any help?” she offered.

“Oh, no, my lady,” one of them said, startled. “Please leave it to us.”

She lingered for a while, chatting with them as they worked, before finally moving on with Desyree and Daniaud towards the greenhouse.

The moment she stepped inside, she blinked. The air was thick with warmth and fragrance. Colour exploded around her—reds, blues, whites, violets—all bursting from their potted beds in an unruly, perfumed symphony.

It was like stepping into another world. Small, enclosed, but vibrant and alive. The scent was overwhelming—sweet, earthy, almost dizzying.

Desyree, as always, noticed. “Are you all right, my lady?”

She nodded, inhaling slowly. “I’m fine. I just… wasn’t prepared. This is my first time coming here.”

The space wasn’t very large, but it was lush. Pots lined the winding paths. Some blooms she recognised—others, she’d never seen before. White and blue flowers climbed a trellis overhead, while delicate lotuses floated in a shallow pond at the corner. Near the glass windows stood thorned, alien-looking stems crowned with bright red blossoms.

“It can be a lot,” Daniaud said. “Especially if you’re used to Fontaine’s climate. But the flowers do well here.”

She took another breath. “It’s beautiful. I didn’t expect so many varieties in one place. Do you have trouble keeping them alive? I imagine they all need different temperatures.”

“We have two greenhouses, actually,” Daniaud said. “This one is for warm-weather flora—plants that thrive with humidity and sun. The temperate one’s for Fontaine natives, and for seedlings that need a gentler start before they go into the main garden.”

He led them further in. “And here are the Sumeru roses, my lady.”

She crouched by the patch. Violet blooms opened towards the light, their slender petals unfurling with quiet grace. A fresh, slightly spicy sweetness hung in the air.

“They’re lovely,” she murmured.

Just like the one pressed in her mother’s old book. But alive, now. And fragrant. After so many years, she finally knew how they were supposed to smell.

“Will you move them outside?”

“I think we can,” Daniaud said. “I spoke with a few of my fellow gardeners—drinking buddies, really. They say Sumeru roses are resilient. Not too fussy once they take root. But I’d like them to grow a little more before we move them. They’ll take the transplant better that way.”

Desyree crouched beside her. “They’re a beautiful shade,” she said softly. “Like the young lady’s eyes.”

Her breath caught.

Unbidden, Lyney’s face surfaced in her mind—his eyes lit with mischief, ringed with long lashes. Then: his expression twisted in pain, those same eyes wide and disbelieving as the spy wearing his face collapsed in a pool of blood.

He had beautiful eyes. And now they were etched into her memory, stained with too many things she couldn’t name.

“Right,” she said, voice thin.

She rose quickly, chest tightening. Desyree followed with a worried glance.

“We’ll move them whenever you’re ready,” her maid said gently. “It would be nice to see them while strolling.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Daniaud said. “Would you like to see anything else?”

“Not for now.” She tried to smile. Desyree was watching.

To distract herself, she turned to her. “The weather seems nice for a picnic,” she said. She wasn’t thinking—just talking to fill the space in her head. “Maybe something light at the pavilion.”

“That sounds lovely. I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a meal,” Desyree replied. “Shall we step out of the greenhouse?”

She nodded. As they walked towards the door, Lumine glanced back one last time. Her gaze caught on the violet roses again. She swallowed hard and looked away.

---

She felt a little better at the pavilion.

They were seated beneath the shade of a linden tree, some distance from the main manor. The lawn sprawled out before her, soft and green, and in the distance shimmered the surface of a small pond.

The grounds were ludicrously large. Sometimes she wondered if it might be possible to get lost in them—to wander too far and forget the way back.

Then again, that seemed unlikely. The manor itself was far too obvious a landmark.

“How do you like the food, my lady?” Desyree asked.

“It’s delicious,” she said, nibbling on a tea sandwich. “Give the chef my regards. I feel a little bad, asking him to pull this together just because I felt like it.”

“Don’t feel bad, my lady. It’s our job to serve the duchess.”

“The staff wouldn’t have to serve me so much if I were actually doing my job,” she said. “Going out. Attending events. Fulfilling my social obligations.”

“His Grace doesn’t expect that of you. Even the young lady never did anything of the sort.”

“Isn’t that odd, though? Then what am I supposed to do here?” Lumine sighed and set her sandwich down. “I can’t just loaf around all day. But that’s what it feels like I’m doing.”

She turned to Desyree. “Also, why don’t you sit with me? You don’t have to keep standing.”

Desyree shook her head. “It’s not proper for me to share a table with you, my lady.”

“But there’s no one else around.”

“It’s still not right,” Desyree said gently. “A servant shouldn’t sit beside their master.”

Lumine exhaled. Desyree was such a stickler for the rules. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Not at all. We endure worse during training to serve House Perinheri. This is nothing.”

She reached for an éclair. “What does the training involve?”

Desyree didn’t answer immediately. The silence lingered long enough that Lumine glanced up.

The maid was watching her—quiet, composed, unreadable. “Do you truly wish to know?”

Something in her chest went tight. The éclair turned to ash in her mouth. Still, she swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

“Beyond the usual etiquette expected of a noble house… we’re also trained to fight. All of us,” she said, gesturing to her uniform. “His Grace sends us on missions—espionage, infiltration. Sometimes we get our hands dirty.”

It felt surreal, hearing it in Desyree’s soft voice. “You mean… you’ve had to…”

Desyree nodded. “It is part and parcel of life here, my lady.” She stepped closer, lifting the teapot to refill Lumine’s cup. The scent of Darjeeling curled between them. “Not that I enjoy it. I much prefer being your maid.”

Her tone was sincere. Lumine reached for the teacup. Her hand trembled slightly.

“Do you think I’m a coward?”

“No! Not at all.” Desyree shook her head. “You remind me of the moon, my lady,” she added, lowering her eyes. “Gentle. Kind. And you care for us.”

Her stomach twisted.

She wasn’t kind. Not the way Desyree believed. She’d made compromises. Calculated risks. Dug up secrets she shouldn’t have known and used them as leverage—told herself it was the only way to save her mother. And maybe it had been. But that didn’t make her clean. It didn’t make her good.

She’d always known there would be a price for what she took. She just hadn’t expected the cost to be this high.

“You are kind,” Desyree said again. “And if I had one wish, it would be for you to see it. How much you’ve changed this place. The manor is brighter now. It’s not so…” She hesitated, then finished: “Not so suffocated by death and secrecy.”

Lumine took a sip from her cup. The scent of Darjeeling filled her senses—warm, rich, distracting. It settled in the back of her mind like fog, dulling the edges of her thoughts. It didn’t fix anything. But it calmed her. A little.

“Why do you stay?” she asked quietly.

“Because this is all I’ve ever known,” Desyree said. “I was born here. My parents served the former Duchess. I grew up beside His Grace and the young lady. I saw what they endured to lead this house the way they must.”

She paused, then added, “Whatever I go through, they went through worse. I care for them. So I stay.”

Lumine lowered her cup. “Do you think they’re happy? Lyney and Lynette.”

“The young lady… it’s hard to say,” Desyree said. “She doesn’t wear her heart where others can see. But she seems comfortable. She doesn’t resent what her station requires.”

“And Lyney?”

Desyree studied her. Her gaze was impossible to read. “His Grace would say happiness is a distraction,” she said at last. “A tool. Worthwhile only when it furthers the outcome we’re working towards.”

The words were calm, polished—rehearsed. Like a creed. The chill of it crept down Lumine’s spine.

“Do you believe that?”

Desyree hesitated. “It’s hard not to, when you see how His Grace lives. We didn’t know another way. Not until you came, my lady.”

“I didn’t do anything special,” she murmured. “I just… redecorated.”

“But you did it with such heart,” Desyree said. “I’ve never seen anyone throw themselves into their work like that. Not here. Not with such enthusiasm.”

She smiled, soft and fond.

“His Grace isn’t like that, you see. To him, work is work. It must be done, and that’s all. But you—you wanted to change things. You wanted to make things better. And I think that’s why we all rallied behind you, my lady. Because your vision gave us something to believe in.”

“You make it sound like I did something extraordinary.”

“To us, you did,” Desyree said simply. “We’re just staff. Most don’t see us. But you listened. That matters more than you think.”

Lumine didn’t know what to say. Sincerity like this was rare in the manor. Lyney was never this open. Never this unguarded.

She was starting to forget what normal conversations felt like—ones where she didn’t have to second-guess every word, every glance. Where she didn’t have to brace herself for misdirection, or check her tone like it was a loaded weapon.

She’d spent so long navigating Lyney’s world, his games, that her sense of self had begun to warp. She was forgetting how to be Lumine Viatrix, not Lumine Perinheri.

But Desyree’s gaze brought something back. A flicker of the warmth she used to carry without effort. The easy affection of her mother patting her head after a clumsy chore. Aether swatting her arm and calling her the best little sister in the world, no matter how often she reminded him they were twins.

Small memories. Soft ones. But they helped.

“Thank you, Desyree,” she said. Her smile felt real this time. “That means a lot.”

“Anytime, my lady.” Desyree inclined her head. “You deserve far more credit than you give yourself. My most sincere wish is that one day, you’ll see yourself the way we see you.”

Lumine laughed, quiet but genuine. “Don’t say things like that. You’ll give me a big head.”

“I know you won’t let it go to your head, my lady. You’re far too humble.”

She was about to reply when a young boy sprinted up to the pavilion—one of the stablehands, likely no older than twelve. He bent over, gasping for breath.

“Desyree,” he panted. “The… head maid is looking for you.”

Desyree blinked. Then something shifted in her gaze—seriousness settling into her features, like something had just clicked. “I see. Where is she?”

“South wing,” the boy said. “She said to come at your earliest convenience.”

Desyree glanced at Lumine. She nodded. “It sounds urgent. You should go.”

“But what of you, my lady?”

“I’ll be fine.” Lumine gestured to the table, still stacked high with pastries and finger sandwiches. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll still be eating when you come back. No need to worry.”

Desyree hesitated. Her brow furrowed. Then she turned to the boy. “Stay here,” she said. “Until I return.”

“Oh—there’s no need!” Lumine interjected quickly. The boy looked caught off guard, even nervous. “I’m sure you have other duties.”

The boy shuffled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um… not really. I mean. I can stay. If you want.”

“This one has a crush on you, my lady,” Desyree said dryly. “Adorable. But best not to show it in front of His Grace.”

“Desyree!” the boy squawked, horrified.

Lumine laughed. “I’m far too old for you, sweetheart. But here—” She plucked a madeleine from the tower and held it out. “Take this and go. I promise I’ll be fine.”

The boy took it with both hands like she’d handed him a sacred artefact. “T-Thank you so much, m-my lady!”

Desyree sighed. “You’ll spoil him.”

“He’s a child,” Lumine said. “He deserves a little kindness. Especially since he had the courage to run up to us like that.”

She smiled at the boy, who turned beet red. “When I was your age, I wouldn’t have dared.”

“T-Thank you!” he shouted, then bowed so fast he nearly toppled over. He spun on his heel and ran off, madeleine already half in his mouth.

“I’ll take my leave too, my lady,” Desyree said, offering a deep curtsey. “Please remain here while I’m gone. Don’t go wandering.”

“I won’t,” Lumine said with a sigh. “Now go, before the head maid finds you herself.”

Desyree nodded and disappeared down the garden path.

Silence settled over the pavilion.

Lumine leant back in her chair, her posture slackening now that she was alone. She had wanted a moment to herself—to think. To breathe.

But thinking came with its own weight.

What Desyree had said still echoed in her mind. Not just the words, but the ease of them. The way she’d spoken of fighting and killing like it was just another chore, no different from pouring tea or laying linens.

Lumine had always known the Perinheri estate was more than it seemed. Its staff moved too precisely, too fluidly, like parts of a well-oiled machine. Every action mirrored some unspoken command. But hearing it said outright, that Desyree was trained to kill—

She didn’t know how to feel. Or rather, she didn’t want to feel. But the weight pressed down anyway, heavy and unrelenting.

A dull ache stirred in her chest. Like she was drowning in something thick and unseen. Like the person she used to be—Lumine Viatrix—was slipping further and further away beneath the surface.

Sometimes, when she blinked too quickly, she imagined red on her hands. Blood. Coating her palms. Staining the lines of her lifeline. The stench of rust would curl at the back of her tongue, sharp and metallic, and she’d have to swallow hard just to keep breathing.

She didn’t know if it was guilt or memory. Didn’t know if the blood was metaphor or fact. But she knew it was there. And it wasn’t going away.

She picked up a lemon tart. Bit into it.

Perfect. Sweet, citrusy, the filling rich and silky. She moaned before she could stop herself.

Fine. There were perks to being the duchess of this house. She couldn’t deny that. It would be ungrateful to say that staying here was nothing but suffering. It wasn’t. She had fresh flowers at breakfast. A wardrobe lined with silks. A staff that obeyed her every whim. She was the envy of many women. She knew that.

She bit into the tart again.

Then—softly—a sound. A meow.

She blinked and turned.

There, on the steps leading up to the pavilion, sat a black cat. Perched like royalty. Licking a paw with lazy elegance.

She stared. She hadn’t seen any cats around here before.

It was small and sleek, tongue flicking out over its pink paw pads. Adorable. She felt an almost childish urge to reach out and pet it.

She’d always loved cats. Back home, she and her mother used to feed the strays on their street. There had been a tabby with a crooked tail, and a sleepy orange one with white socks. She wondered how they were now.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she cooed, rising from her chair and stepping lightly across the wood. The cat paused, blinking at her.

Its eyes were—strange. Pale. Was that… pink?

Did cats have pink eyes?

“Here,” she murmured, crouching. The cat lowered its paw. “Come here, sweetheart.”

She held out a hand. It sniffed. Rubbed its head against her fingers. Her breath caught.

There was nothing more rewarding than a cat deciding you were worth the trouble.

She hummed, running her fingers through its coat. The fur was glossy. Warm. Real. “Aren’t you lovely,” she whispered, scratching under its chin. “You’re very friendly. I wonder if you have a name?”

It didn’t wear a collar. Maybe it was a stray. Or maybe it had slipped through the gates one day and decided to stay.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

The cat meowed, as if answering. She smiled.

It stepped around her skirt, brushing against her calves. Then looked up. Blinked its rose-hued eyes once, slow and deliberate.

Then bolted.

Without thinking, Lumine followed. She hiked her skirts and sprinted after it.

The cat darted ahead, quick and fluid, always just out of reach. When she lost sight of it near a cluster of trees, she slowed, catching her breath.

Sunlight spilt across the lawn, green and gold. She shielded her eyes, squinting.

There it was. Rolling in the grass just outside the hedge maze. She made her way towards it, and the cat rose to meet her, purring, circling her ankles.

She bent down, stroking the sleek fur again. “You’re such a pretty kitty,” she murmured. “Someone’s looking after you, aren’t they?”

The cat meowed.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Do you want to come back with me? I can find you some food.”

The cat purred and plopped down, right on her shoe. She giggled. “If you do that, I can’t move.”

In response, it rolled onto its back, sprawling across both her feet. She crouched and gently tapped its nose. “You’re so cute,” she said. “The prettiest, most handsome kitty I’ve ever seen.”

Those eyes again—strange and lovely, the colour of rose quartz. Unnatural. Not quite the way cat eyes should look. But she couldn’t turn away.

It meowed again, louder this time, then got up abruptly.

“Oh, did I touch you wrong?” she asked, wincing. “Sorry.”

But the cat only nudged its head against her leg. She patted its back. It bumped her again, then lifted its gaze, locking eyes with her. Holding it, as if it wanted to say something.

Then it turned and ran straight towards the hedge maze.

“Kitty! Don’t go in there!” she called, scrambling to her feet. “You’ll get lost!”

It didn’t stop. It paused only briefly at the entrance, sniffing the hedges. She rushed forward. “Come now, don’t—get away from there—it’s not safe.”

The cat looked back. Waited.

Then, with a twitch of its sleek body, it sprang into the maze.

She groaned.

The maze loomed before her—green, dense, shadowed. The butler’s warning echoed in her mind: Don’t enter alone. It’s too easy to lose your way.

But she couldn’t just leave the cat.

I’ll only go a little in. Just enough to catch it and come right back out.

Decision made, she stepped past the threshold.

At once, the world changed.

The entrance was still behind her, but it felt… far. Muted. The sound thinned. The walls of green rose high on either side, narrowing the sky. Everything smelled of leaves and damp soil. It was strangely cold.

She looked over her shoulder. Still there. Still open.

But she didn’t move back. She thought of the cat. It couldn’t have gone far.

She followed the path, careful and quiet. The deeper she went, the more muffled the world became. It was like stepping underwater. Even her thoughts rang loud in the hush.

She rounded a corner. There—black tail, twitching.

Relief bloomed in her chest. She hurried forward. “Kitty!” she called.

The cat poked its head out and meowed, utterly unbothered.

“You ran so far,” she scolded gently, scooping it up. “You could’ve gotten hurt, you know.”

It purred in her arms. Warm. Content. She sighed. “Let’s go back.”

She turned. Retraced her steps. But somewhere—somewhere—she hesitated.

Was it left here? Or straight?

She frowned. Spun on her heel. Everything looked the same. The hedges were identical. There were no markers. No light shifts to orient her. Just green, green, green, all around.

She hadn’t thought to track her route. She’d been so sure she’d stayed close to the entrance.

Slowly, dread began to rise. She was lost.

She clutched the cat. It was soft and warm, the only comfort in this endless green maze. “I think we’re lost, kitty,” she whispered. “I don’t know how we’re going to get out.”

The cat purred, rumbling in her arms like a little engine. She smiled despite herself. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”

She tilted her head up. The sky was still clear and cerulean. She had no idea how much time had passed.

“Should we go left or right?” she asked. The cat meowed and began to squirm. She let it go. It landed neatly, tail flicking, then turned left. She hesitated, then followed. She didn’t have any better ideas. Maybe it really could sniff out the exit.

The cat padded forward, slow and patient, always a few steps ahead. But every turn looked the same. Familiar and unfamiliar. Just walls of green that stretched on forever.

She wanted to sit and despair. But she didn’t. She’d chosen this—she’d chased the cat into the maze. And she didn’t regret it. Not really.

So she walked on, brushing her fingers across the leaves, telling herself it would be fine. If she were gone too long, surely someone would come looking. Surely someone would think to check the maze. She just had to wait it out.

She wasn’t even hungry yet—not after all those snacks.

But it was lonely. Isolating. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the beat of her heart. Even the cat kept slipping out of sight, ducking under hedges, darting through gaps she couldn’t fit through.

It was… disorienting. And a little disarming.

She was beginning to understand what the butler meant when he said people changed in here. The maze didn’t frighten. It wore you down. Quietly. Softly. Until you stopped noticing how much of yourself you were leaving behind.

“Kitty?” she called. No response.

That was strange. The cat always meowed back. She frowned and turned a slow circle. The sky was still blue. Still the same. Had any time passed at all?

“Kitty?” she called again. Still nothing.

Panic nipped at her chest. She turned and ran forward. The path opened into a junction. Left? Right? Nothing looked familiar. She was well and truly lost.

She felt the absurd urge to pray.

And then—a laugh. Soft. Unmistakable. It slipped into her bones, coiling tight around her spine.

“L-Lyney?” she gasped. She spun around. No one was there. But she knew she hadn’t imagined it. “Where are you?” she called.

Silence. For a moment, she doubted herself. Maybe she was so desperate her mind had conjured him—because of course Lyney would know the way out.

She turned towards the right path. Took a single step—

“Go that way and you’ll become even more lost, chérie.”

She froze.

“Lyney,” she said. Her voice came out small. Fragile. “Where are you?”

Still no sign of him. Just the soft hush of greenery. She felt ridiculous, talking to the air. But he laughed again. Silken. Knowing. It made her grit her teeth.

“If you know the way out,” she said, “then help me. You know, instead of laughing.”

“But it’s so entertaining,” he said lightly. “Watching you wander. Taking all the wrong turns. Have you ever seen mice in a maze? It’s exactly like that.”

“You’re a sadist,” she muttered, turning towards the direction his voice seemed to be coming from, somewhere beyond the hedge. “How are you even seeing me right now?”

“Now, now. It’s not any fun if I give away my secrets. If you really want to know, ma chère, you’ll have to earn it.”

Frankly, she wasn’t interested in earning anything. She just wanted to get out. Preferably before dinner. Some small part of her wondered what happened to the leftover snacks in the pavilion. What a waste if no one ate them.

“A good husband wouldn’t do this to his wife,” she said.

“A good wife wouldn’t go where she’s not meant to,” came the reply, smooth, unruffled. “I believe the butler told you not to enter alone, did he not? And I did say—if you wanted to wander, I’d bring you.”

“So what is this, then? A punishment?”

“Don’t say that, mon cœur. It breaks my heart. What sort of man do you take me for?”

“One who isn’t being very kind.”

“And you’re not doing much to help yourself,” Lyney said. There was a flintiness beneath the silk now. “Your penchant for self-sacrifice is… troubling. You hear something’s dangerous, and you step right into it. First, that craftsman. Now this cat.”

“You saw the cat?”

“That’s not what this is about, my dear.” His voice lifted, light and airy again. “How can I trust you to care for yourself when you don’t even try?”

She bristled. The way he said it—affectionate, indulgent—like he thought she was a fool who needed protecting. A child who couldn’t be trusted to know better.

“I don’t need you to look after me.”

“No,” he said easily. “Not until you get yourself into another mess. Have you ever once considered how I feel, darling?”

She let out a low breath and turned down the left-hand path, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her sleeves. “Since when did you care about feelings?” she said. “You treat them like… like currency. Something to trade. Something to use.”

“Where did you hear that from? I’m not that cruel.”

“I didn’t need to hear it. It’s obvious.” She didn’t slow her pace. “You always pretend to care. But you don’t. Not really.”

A pause. A flicker of silence so complete it made her ears ring. Then came the laugh—low, curling, warm like smoke.

“How about we play a game, my dear?”

“I don’t want to play any more games, Lyney,” she snapped. “I’m already stuck in one.”

“It’s a simple one. You’ll enjoy it.”

She exhaled hard through her nose. Every interaction with him was a test, a riddle, a performance. And yet—he had what she wanted. Needed.

“Fine,” she said, resigned. “What is it?”

“You’re only three turns from the exit. Three junctions. So three questions. Answer them right, and I’ll tell you which way to go.”

“And if I get one wrong?”

“Then you guess.” His voice turned faintly amused. “No real dangers here. You can wander a little longer. I’ll come find you if you ask nicely.”

Of course. A game with the odds stacked in his favour. Like always.

“Fine,” she said again, more tightly.

“Lovely. Let’s start easy, then. Wouldn’t want you taking a wrong turn immediately.” His tone was lazy, fond. “Who do you think I love most in the world?”

That one was indeed easy. “Lynette.”

“Correct. My duchess is observant,” he said, pleased. “Straight ahead at the next fork.”

She walked. Something rustled in the hedge, and she glanced down to see the cat again, trotting back into view. It blinked at her with its rose-hued eyes.

She crouched and extended a hand. The cat headbutted her fingers and curled around her calves. Her heart softened despite herself.

“Is this your cat?” she asked.

“It’s more that I’m his human,” Lyney said. “Well. Cat is generous. He’s really a familiar. Name’s Rosseland.”

“A familiar?”

“Mm. Decided to wear this form today. Usually, he’s far more fearsome-looking. But I think he likes you.”

“Can he understand me?”

“Perfectly. He’s not actually a cat, remember.” A pause. “Have you ever seen a cat with pink eyes?”

She glanced at Rosseland again. He meowed, sweet and content.

“Did you lead me into the maze on purpose?” she asked.

The cat blinked once. Lazily. Then meowed again, curling his tail.

“He says he didn’t expect you to follow,” Lyney translated. “But he’s touched you did.”

Her throat tightened. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“You wouldn’t. He doesn’t stay at the manor often. Usually, he’s out gathering intelligence for me.”

Of course. Another trick of Lyney’s.

“Do you want me to carry you?” she asked the cat.

Rosseland purred. She bent to pick him up, pressing her cheek to his soft fur. He nestled against her chest like he belonged there.

“I wonder if you can talk.”

“He can,” Lyney said. “Just not in that form.”

“How did you get a familiar, anyway?”

“That’s a secret.” He sounded smug.

Of course it was.

“Now,” he said. “Question two. Why do you think I agreed to marry you?”

She stopped walking.

She wasn’t sure how to answer. It was something she’d wondered herself, in the quiet moments when her thoughts wandered. Why had Lyney—Duke of Perinheri, a man with status, power, and every means of discarding her—agreed to the marriage? Especially once her carefully gathered intelligence turned out to be… useless. The king already knew everything she’d uncovered. She’d had no leverage left. And yet, he said yes.

She looked down at Rosseland. The cat met her eyes, unblinking. Expectant.

“You want me to answer that?”

“Or not,” Lyney said. “You’re nearly at the fork. The choice is yours. We have time.”

She was about to say something when—

He’s toying with you.

The voice was strange and dry, rasping around the edges. It felt like it had slipped straight into her mind. She startled, heart skipping.

You’re not going insane, the voice continued. I just wanted to talk.

She stared at Rosseland. The cat bumped its head softly against her chest.

You interest him, the familiar said. That’s why he didn’t throw you away. He doesn’t let go of things that fascinate him.

Her breath caught. An image rose unbidden: the old woman at the market, weeks ago. Her quiet warning. That Lyney obsessed over things he couldn’t understand.

She wasn’t sure if she could speak back with her thoughts, but she tried. Why me?

Rosseland’s purr rumbled faintly. Because you tried to blackmail him with shaking hands and starlight in your eyes. You were soft. But you still dared. He doesn’t understand that.

Her arms tightened around him. How long have you known him?

Too long. A pause. Long enough to worry he’s begun to lose himself.

She swallowed, then cleared her throat aloud. “Because I… you find me interesting?”

A beat.

Then Lyney laughed, low and rich. “Oh, do elaborate.”

“You think I’m weak,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her fingers clenched against Rosseland’s fur. “And I am. But you’re interested in that. Because people like me aren’t supposed to approach people like you.”

“You were desperate,” he said. “Desperate people do foolish things.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I was desperate. If you think that makes me dull, then… I can’t help that. But you asked for an answer. And that’s the best I can give.”

The silence stretched. She held her breath. Then finally, he sighed. “I’ll accept that. On account of you being my wife.” A pause. “Turn right.”

Her pulse fluttered as she obeyed. Two questions down. One left. She must be close now.

“Last question,” Lyney said. “What do you think I want from you?”

Her steps slowed.

She wasn’t sure why the question made her stomach twist, but it did. Maybe because she’d been asking herself the same thing since the day they wed.

The obvious answer was simple. A duchess. A wife. Someone to occupy the correct social space, to keep up appearances, to provide an heir someday. That was the role.

But something told her it wasn’t enough. Not for him.

She glanced down. Any ideas?

Not really. Rosseland’s mental voice was dry. He doesn’t tell me everything. But if you want my opinion… I don’t think even he knows.

So I’m being set up to fail.

Would you expect anything else from Lyney Perinheri?

That made her snort. Quietly. Touché.

Still, she hesitated. She didn’t want to say something obvious. Not when he was clearly hoping she would surprise him. If this question had no real answer… then what Lyney wanted was likely not the truth.

It was entertainment.

What would intrigue him? What would feel, to him, like something he hadn’t seen coming?

She thought of the manor. The long, winding halls. The watchful servants. The garden maze that bloomed beautifully but led nowhere.

Then she said, “You don’t want the manor to be lonely.”

The quiet that followed felt different from the earlier ones. Longer. Heavier. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “That’s an interesting answer, chérie. Go on.”

“You know the staff love you,” she said carefully. “They admire you. They trust you. But they’re also… afraid.”

“Mm.”

“So you married someone weak. Desperate. Someone who had to stay, no matter what. And maybe you thought—if someone like that stayed, if they softened the edges—it might change how the others looked at you.”

She let the words hang. Because somewhere along the way, she’d begun to feel it.

The staff didn’t pity her. They didn’t whisper behind her back. They helped her. Gently. Without judgement. When she threw herself into something as mundane as managing the manor’s renovations, they responded not with ridicule, but with a quiet kind of protection.

And she’d started to feel—wanted. In the smallest, strangest ways.

Rosseland purred. That’s a good answer, the familiar said. You made him think. That doesn’t happen often.

Really?

My master thinks he’s the cleverest man alive. He’s not entirely wrong. But it’s good for him to be caught off guard. Keeps him honest.

“Is that what you think, love?” Lyney asked. His voice was unreadable. “Well. I can’t say you’re right, so I’m afraid I can’t give you the answer.”

She sighed. Somehow, she’d known he’d say that. “Then I have to guess?”

She stood at the final junction. Two paths: left or right. Both wound out of sight. She couldn’t see the exit yet, but if he’d told the truth about the maze’s structure, she was close enough to try one path, then backtrack if needed.

“Do you want to guess?” he asked.

Something in his voice had shifted. She jumped, startled, and turned—

Lyney stood behind her, watching.

“Oh gods,” she breathed. “You scared me.”

Rosseland meowed and leapt from her arms, winding around Lyney’s ankles. He sighed. “Don’t act cute. You’re not getting any more food tonight.”

The cat hissed and vanished into the hedge, leaving her alone with him. Lyney turned back to her, his smile faint. “I thought I’d escort my poor wife out myself,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner.”

She swallowed. Now that he was here—not a voice in her ear, not a shadow behind the maze, but real—she found herself at a loss.

It was always easier to think of him from a distance. Easier to poke and prod at the idea of him, unravel his words like puzzle pieces. But the man himself was something else entirely.

Too sharp. Too close.

She met his gaze. Violet stared back at her. The same colour as the eyes of that man who wore Lyney’s face as blood pooled around him. The same colour as the Sumeru rose her mother had pressed between the pages of her books.

She clasped her hands. “You were being quite frustrating.”

“I know,” he said. “I wanted to see how far I could push you.”

“Do you find something like that entertaining?”

“A little. It’s amusing to see you lose your temper,” he said, offering his hand. She hesitated, then took it. His palm was warm. “You’re usually so… composed.”

“When did you get back?” she asked. “I thought you had errands.”

“I did. Until I sensed someone had entered the maze alone. I was nearly done with my tasks anyway. And when I realised it was my very own wife, well—how could I stay away?”

“And then you watched me and laughed?”

“If you want to put it that way.” His smile widened. “I’d like to think I was quite helpful.”

“All you did was ask me three questions.”

“But you gave such interesting answers.” He glanced at her. “Did you think there was a right one?”

She had no good reply to that. Not one she could give without sounding petulant. So she kept her mouth shut.

He led her through the maze with a casual ease, and before long, she saw a glimmer of light ahead. The exit. The moment they stepped through, the world seemed to shift. The air brightened. The garden welcomed her back with sound and scent and colour.

She hadn’t realised how heavy the silence had become until it lifted.

“I’m never going back in there,” she muttered.

“That’s a shame. It’s a good place to wander,” Lyney said. “When you want to lose your thoughts a little. Drown out the noise.”

She looked at him. “Is that what you use the maze for?”

He shrugged, light and unbothered. “Perhaps.”

He was being evasive again. She stopped, turned to face him. “You don’t have to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“So… vexing.” She frowned. “You don’t have to hoard your secrets. It doesn’t make you mysterious. It just makes you frustrating.”

He blinked, surprised. For a moment, she wondered if she’d gone too far. Then he laughed.

“Ah, my sweet,” he said between chuckles, “you really do know how to keep me on my toes. It’s adorable.”

She bristled—but before she could speak, he reached for her hand and lifted it to his mouth. She froze, her heart stuttering.

His lips brushed the back of her hand—soft, warm, and devastatingly tender. She couldn’t look away. His eyes held her in place: that violet gaze, aglow with something unreadable. Something dangerous.

“You’re such a fascinating woman,” he murmured, lips against her skin. “You make me want to know more. To learn what makes you tick. To see what else might bloom from that clever little mind of yours.”

Her breath caught.

Then he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her palm. She nearly forgot how to stand.

And then—just like that—he let go. “I have other matters this evening,” he said, pleasant as ever. “So I’ll have to miss dinner. But let’s go on an outing tomorrow. Something just for the two of us. What do you think?”

She barely registered her answer. He smiled, nodded, and was gone.

She stood there for a long moment, curling her fingers into her chest. His warmth still lingered on her skin. Her heartbeat hadn’t slowed.

She… was affected by him. There was no denying it.

And worse—she wasn’t sure she wanted that to change.

Chapter 6

The next month was a confusing time for Lumine. Confusing mostly because of Lyney.

Ever since the day she got lost in the hedge maze, he’d been suspiciously nice. She couldn’t put her finger on why, exactly. Only that he made time for her, more than ever before. No matter how full his schedule, he ensured they went out at least once a week—unimaginable, for someone as busy as Duke Perinheri.

It wasn’t affection. She wasn’t silly enough to believe he was falling for her—he was still too polished. Too deliberate, in the way he spoke to her.

No, rather than fondness, his proximity felt more like… study. Like he was still trying to figure her out. But it wasn’t the same aloof curiosity from before their marriage, when he’d watch her from across a ballroom like some rare, fascinating creature.

There was something more intimate now, in the way he looked at her. In how he tilted his head when she paused too long before answering. In the way he let silence stretch when she sidestepped a question. She could feel him sizing her up. Waiting, almost, like he expected her to crack.

Rosseland’s words from the maze lingered at the back of her mind. That Lyney found her interesting. That he didn’t let go of things that fascinated him.

Honestly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be fascinating to Lyney Perinheri. She didn’t really want his attention at all. It felt like pressure. A kind of gravity she didn’t know how to navigate.

So when, at the close of the fourth week, Lyney announced he’d be going on a business trip—she finally felt like she could breathe.

“You’ve been sighing a lot lately, my lady,” Desyree said as she brushed Lumine’s hair.

Lumine blinked, startled out of her thoughts. Her gaze flicked to the mirror. “Have I?” she asked, self-conscious. “I didn’t notice.”

“Are you missing His Grace?”

“What? No!” The words flew out too fast. She froze. Had she spoken too quickly?

But Desyree just laughed, still combing. Lumine exhaled. “Why would I miss him? He’s only been gone two days…”

“He hasn’t left the manor in a while,” Desyree said. “You must have gotten used to his presence. Especially with how much time you’ve been spending together.”

“I’ve not been spending that much time with him,” she muttered.

“He’s been bringing you out of the manor, my lady. And dismissing me.” Desyree made a show of sighing. “It makes me feel almost guilty. As if I’m intruding on your precious couple time.”

“There’s no such thing,” Lumine said.

But her eyes flicked to the mirror again. Her reflection stared back. And for a moment, she didn’t like what she saw—how comfortable she looked here. How natural it felt to dwell in this house.

“His Grace is fond of you,” Desyree said, twining her hair into a bun.

“Lyney is fond of many things,” Lumine replied. “Good wine, good food, good art, good information.”

“Yes. He likes good things,” Desyree said brightly. “And you are the most good thing in this manor, my lady.”

“I didn’t know you had such a honeyed tongue.” Lumine smiled, sidestepping the comment. She didn’t want to linger on how it made her feel—the guilt, the sharp sting of not deserving it. She wasn’t that good a person. If Desyree knew how she’d gotten into this manor to begin with… “Such flattery might work on the head maid, but not on me.”

Desyree laughed and picked up a satin-gold ribbon from the vanity, winding it neatly around the bun. Lumine’s heart skipped. She recognised the ribbon. It was one of several Lyney had bought her on their first outing, after she picked out new clothes for him.

She didn’t know why that stayed with her. Perhaps because that day had felt like the start of something—a small shift she couldn’t name. The first time Lyney seemed less like the untouchable Duke Perinheri, and more like someone she might actually reach.

At least, until night fell, and he left a man bleeding in the alley.

“Don’t say that of me,” Desyree said. “You’ll give people the wrong impression.”

“Oh? And what impression is that?”

“That I run my mouth whenever I please. But we both know I only ever speak the truth.”

She tied the bow off with delicate precision, then tugged a few strands loose to frame Lumine’s face.

“And for the record,” Desyree added, tone dry, “flattery doesn’t work on the head maid either.”

“You speak like someone who’s tried.”

“I was a child once,” Desyree said. “Foolish, like all children.”

They laughed for a while before falling into companionable silence. Then Lumine turned slightly in her chair. “I want to go out today,” she said. “See a new part of the Perinheri territory.”

Desyree blinked. “Why the sudden interest, my lady?”

“I just feel like I want to do more,” Lumine said. “Ever since the renovations wrapped up and everything arrived, I’ve had nothing to do. It’s nice seeing the manor come together, but I’ve been feeling a little… restless.”

“The renovations ended two weeks ago,” Desyree pointed out. “You didn’t mention anything before. What brought on the restlessness now?”

Lumine hesitated. Her hands folded, thumbs brushing. She didn’t quite know how to explain it—how Lyney’s presence had, strangely enough, distracted her. When he was around, her mind was occupied. She was constantly on guard, trying to stay ahead of his quips, his little traps, his ever-present games. It left no space to be bored. No time to think too hard about herself or her place here.

But now he was gone, the quiet unnerved her.

She’d tried to fill it. Spent hours in the library, buried in books. And true to his word, Lyney no longer withheld her invitations; the staff delivered everything now. But she’d grown cautious. She rarely accepted unless the host was from another ducal family—someone too high-ranking to make a move in the open.

This place was twisting her. It made her wary. Paranoid. She hadn’t always been like this.

But after two encounters with people who’d tried to hurt her, she’d learnt quickly: in this world, the only crime a woman had to commit was marrying the wrong man.

The worst part? She couldn’t even hate him for it. She’d walked into this life not knowing any better, and she could only blame herself.

“I just got tired of cooping myself up,” she said at last. “Remember when we went to the market? I liked that. I thought we could do something like that again.”

Desyree gave her a long look. Then nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to see more of the Perinheri lands. You are the duchess, after all. It’s only right.”

“I heard there’s a lake,” Lumine said. “Up in the mountains, near the edge of the territory. The stable boys told me there’s a nymph who lives there. Sings beautiful songs. But you mustn’t let her see you, or she’ll pull you into the lake and drown you.”

Desyree laughed. “Oh, that old tale? It’s not true, my lady.”

Lumine deflated a little despite herself. Not that she really believed it, but still. It would’ve been nice. The idea of seeing something magical. Something impossible.

Desyree noticed. She coughed. “Well… it’s not entirely false. People don’t go to the lake, but not because of a nymph. The Perinheri family keeps a summer house there. His Grace likes his privacy, so there are always guards stationed nearby. No one ventures close.”

Two things struck Lumine then. First, that the Perinheri family had a summer property she hadn’t known about. Second, that Lyney apparently liked solitude, something she’d never quite pictured of him before.

“We have a summer house?” she asked.

Desyree nodded. “We could go, if you’d like. There’s a teleportation circle connecting the manor and the lakehouse. We could be there and back before dinner. I’m sure His Grace won’t mind.”

Lumine blinked. She’d been living here for nearly three months now, and still felt like she’d barely scratched the surface of this place. “Well,” she said. “That sounds like an idea.”

Desyree brightened. “Let’s go, then! I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a little meal, and we can go boating when we arrive.”

She swept out of the room before Lumine could respond.

Lumine remained seated, blinking. Stilled by the new revelation. Not that she should be surprised. Of course the Perinheri family had a summer home. What ducal family didn’t?

But it did make her wonder. Just how many other things was Lyney keeping from her? Innocuous or not.

---

Lumine left for the lakehouse with Desyree and Aurele, the stable boy she’d once given a madeleine to.

Aurele was different from most of the manor staff. It had taken him a while to warm up to her, but once he had, she’d found him inquisitive, free-spirited, and more than a little rebellious. Not towards her—he was always respectful with her—but she’d seen him get scolded often enough for playing pranks on the others.

“Maybe he just has too much pent-up energy,” she’d told Desyree once. “I was like that too, as a child. Always sticking my head out and getting myself into trouble.”

Which was partly why they’d decided to bring him along today. He was one of the boys who’d told her about the lake nymph—it seemed only fair. Desyree even made sure their basket of food included a few extra sweets and pastries just for him.

The manor had a teleportation chamber. She’d heard of it before, but never set foot inside—hadn’t wanted to, knowing Lyney kept close tabs on who came and went. Even now, she hesitated at the door, half-expecting some alarm to go off. But Desyree ushered her in gently, and she stepped over the threshold.

No alarms. Just a glowing, pulsing ring of light on the floor, rainbow colours spilling across the walls in refracted waves. She stopped, caught off guard by its beauty.

It was her first time seeing a teleportation circle this close. They were rare, expensive and difficult to maintain, usually reserved for the royal family or times of dire need. The magic was designed to carry whole groups across long distances, but each use chipped away at the caster.

Somehow, it didn’t surprise her that Lyney would have one casually sitting in his backyard, linked to his lakehouse of all places. “Does Lyney use this circle often?” she asked.

“Not really,” Desyree said. “His Grace can traverse the distance on his own. He keeps this circle open for staff.”

Right. Of course he did.

“I want to see the nymph!” Aurele announced, his voice muffled around the sandwich he’d already dug out of Desyree’s basket.

“Maybe the nymph doesn’t want to see you,” Desyree said.

“Desyree! You’re always so mean!”

“I wouldn’t be mean if you weren’t always so naughty,” she replied. “Look at you, eating before we even get there. What will the lady and I have once we arrive?”

Aurele pouted, taking another bite. “But I’m hungry now, and His Grace’s horse ate the apple I was saving for a snack.”

Lumine laughed. “Let him eat, Desyree. We have too much food anyway.” She eyed the massive basket Desyree was hauling around—she’d tried lifting it once, just to see, and nearly staggered under the weight.

“It’s not too much,” Desyree insisted. “You haven’t seen how much this one can eat.”

“I’m a growing child.”

“You’re a growing brat.”

“Now, now. Let’s stop arguing,” Lumine said, interjecting before it could spiral. “Shall we get going?”

They all turned towards the circle, sparks of magic floating in the air like fireflies. It beckoned—gentle, beautiful, almost alive. She felt the faintest pull to step forward. “What do we do now?”

“You just walk in, my lady,” Desyree said. “The circle will take you where you need to go.” She smiled. “You can watch Aurele and I first, if you’re nervous.”

Lumine nodded, grateful Desyree had picked up on her hesitation.

“Let’s go, you little thief,” Desyree told Aurele. “Then I can finally put this basket down.”

He made a face but skipped into the circle. The light flickered as he crossed the boundary, and a moment later, he was gone. Lumine blinked, startled by how quick it was. As though he’d simply stepped through a door into another room.

“Or we could go together, if you’d like,” Desyree offered. “It doesn’t feel like much. Almost like stepping into water—cool at first, with the magic rippling against your skin like waves. Then you open your eyes and you’re already there.”

Lumine bit her lip. “Yes, I suppose I’d like some company. I’ve never used a teleportation circle before. I’ve heard… stories.” The kind where the magic malfunctioned halfway, sending someone to the wrong place—or worse, leaving part of them behind.

Desyree laughed. “Oh, His Grace’s magic is far more refined than that. You need not worry about the tales you’ve heard.”

Right. Logically, she knew Lyney didn’t make mistakes. That didn’t stop her nerves.

“We can hold hands if that helps,” Desyree said.

“It would, thank you.”

Her maid smiled and held out her hand. Lumine took it, reassured by her warmth, and taking a deep breath, she stepped over the circle’s edge.

It was as Desyree described—something soft and soothing washed over Lumine’s skin, like dipping her feet into cool summer water. Gentle, almost lulling.

Then came a breeze against her cheek. She blinked, and the chamber was gone.

“My lady!” Aurele’s voice rang out. She turned to see him waving, practically bouncing in front of a large cabin.

It wasn’t as vast as the manor, but still large for what she thought was a summer house. She took it in with a blink, then glanced past it to the surroundings.

“We really teleported,” she murmured.

“Yes, we did,” Desyree said, setting down her basket. “We’re at Mont Automnequi now, along the western ridge.”

“That’s quite a distance from the manor. It must drain a lot of Lyney’s mana to keep that circle running.”

“I don’t think His Grace even notices,” Desyree replied. “Or if he does, he’s never said so.”

Lumine didn’t address that. Instead, she studied the valley—mountains and trees on every side, the cabin tucked between two gentle slopes, with a single path stretching towards a silver gleam of lake in the distance.

Quiet. Lovely, but quiet. It gave the impression that this might be the only place left in the world.

“Does Lyney come here often?”

“I believe so. Though he never stays long,” Desyree said. “It’s a safehouse. A rest stop between missions. Or somewhere to get away from His Majesty for a while.”

“You know his habits well.”

“I’ve been in the Perinheri household for two decades,” Desyree said with a smile. “You learn a thing or two about your master’s preferences.”

“And mine?” Lumine asked, curious.

“I wouldn’t claim to be an expert, but I’ve picked up a few,” Desyree said, smile widening. “You like your Darjeeling with a splash of milk, your favourite colour is white, you’ll choose citrus over chocolate every time… and you’re hopeless with liquor. When you’re drunk, you always let your true thoughts slip. Especially about His Grace.”

Lumine felt heat rise to her face. “That’s not true. I don’t say anything about Lyney.”

Desyree’s smile didn’t falter.

Clearing her throat, Lumine glanced away. “Is that the lake from the story? The one with the nymph?”

“Yes!” Aurele had appeared beside her, evidently bored of waiting. “But I’ve been here a few times, and she never shows.”

“Why do you want to see her so badly?”

“Because people say her singing’s amazing. And if you listen to the whole song, you’ll meet someone you really, really want to see.”

Even knowing it was just a tale, the words gave her pause. Someone she really wanted to see…

Aether’s face came to her instantly—smiling, golden-eyed, warm.

She missed him. Two years since she’d last seen him, and sometimes it felt like she never would again. In the quiet corners of her mind lurked the fear that he might vanish into the northern wastes, and she’d never know until it was too late.

“It’s just a story, my lady,” Desyree murmured, breaking into her thoughts.

Startled, she glanced over. Desyree was watching her, concern in her eyes.

“What? Is there something on my face?”

A headshake. “No. Just for a moment, it felt like you were somewhere far away.”

“I was thinking of my brother.”

Recognition flickered. “I’m sure he’s doing well in the north. His Grace says he’s keeping his battalion safe single-handedly.”

“Lyney talks about him?”

“Now and then. Whenever there’s correspondence from the front. The commanders there have nothing but praise.”

Despite herself, Lumine smiled. “He’s strong. Always had to prove himself, no matter the field.”

“He’ll be fine,” Desyree said, her hand warm on Lumine’s shoulder. The touch was cautious, but comforting—a small reminder she wasn’t entirely alone here. “I believe in your brother, my lady.”

She nodded, then looked down at Aurele. “Shall we go sailing on the lake? Maybe if we get closer to the centre, we’ll find the nymph.”

Aurele blinked, uncertain. “Really, my lady? You don’t have to…”

“Why not? Isn’t that why we came here?”

“Well, when I mentioned the nymph just now, you looked a little sad.”

Lumine exchanged a glance with Desyree, then smiled and patted Aurele’s head. “I was just remembering something. But I’m fine now—and I think a boating trip will cheer me right up.”

Aurele’s face lit up. “Then yes! I’ve never been on a boat.”

“I’ll ask the boatman to prepare,” Desyree said, lifting her basket. “I sent word earlier, so he should be ready for us.”

“I’ll trouble you, then.” Lumine watched her maid disappear towards the cabin with the food, leaving her alone with Aurele.

“My lady?” he said, the moment Desyree was out of earshot.

“Yes, Aurele?”

“You’re really… okay, right? In the manor. Are you happy there?”

She blinked. “Why do you ask that?”

He folded his arms behind his back, shuffling his feet in the grass. “You just looked a little sad lately.” A pause. “Like you were lonely.”

“Did I?” She honestly hadn’t noticed. She thought she’d been perfectly normal, though perhaps a little fidgety with Lyney away.

Aurele nodded. “For the past few days. Especially when you look at the Sumeru roses.”

“Oh.” The discomfort was quick and sharp. She had been lingering in the gardens more after tiring of the library, but she hadn’t realised anyone was watching closely enough to draw conclusions. And the suggestion that people might think she was pining for her absent husband, coupled with Desyree’s earlier question about missing Lyney—

Wait. Was she moping?

“I’m fine,” she said, trying not to sound flustered. “I just… miss my brother, that’s all.” A safe answer.

“Oh! I miss my brother, too.”

“You have a brother?”

“I used to. He died three years ago,” Aurele said simply. “He got sick, and we didn’t have mora for medicine. His Grace took us in, tried to help, but my brother was too far gone. After he died, I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so His Grace kept me.”

His voice was open, guileless. Lumine stilled. She’d never thought about Aurele’s past—never about how any of the staff came to be here, apart from Desyree.

“I really like His Grace,” Aurele went on, oblivious to her sudden unease. “He’s kind to us stable boys. We don’t have parents, but he made sure we never went hungry again.”

There was such childlike wonder in his voice that she felt her chest tighten. She wasn’t sure what the feeling was, or what she wanted it to be.

“Hm.” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “Would you still like him if he weren’t kind? If you found out he was… a bad person?”

Aurele hesitated, scuffing his shoe against a tuft of grass. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’d follow him anywhere.”

A chill ran down her spine.

She didn’t know how to answer—but she didn’t have to. Desyree returned just then, carrying a smaller basket than before, accompanied by a stout, ruddy man whose smile was so bright it nearly eclipsed the sun.

“Duchess Perinheri!” the man boomed. “Name’s Chambelland. Boat’s ready and waiting for you to sail!”

Lumine blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. “Oh. Thank you?”

“It’s been ages since anyone took her out!” Chambelland gestured towards the lake, where a boat bobbed along the shore. “Lyney doesn’t sail nearly enough. Shame, really.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of his enthusiasm—no one at the manor was quite so exuberant—but it was… nice. A change from the usual reserve. “Would you show us around the lake?” she asked.

“Oh, gladly!” Chambelland chortled, rubbing his belly. “The lake’s beautiful. And if we’re lucky, we might catch a glimpse of the elusive nymph!”

He winked at Aurele, who lit up. Lumine glanced at Desyree, questioning. Her maid only smiled. “I repacked some of the finger sandwiches and savouries,” she said, lifting the smaller basket. “We’ll save the desserts for later.”

“Always so well-prepared,” Chambelland said, half in awe. “A marvel, truly.”

“Someone has to prepare, going on trips with this one,” Desyree said, poking Aurele’s shoulder.

Aurele pouted but didn’t move away. “Stop making me sound like trouble.”

“Remember last time we came?” Desyree said to Chambelland. “When this little devil tried to jump into the lake?”

“Oh, right!” Chambelland laughed. “Doesn’t even know how to swim!”

“And no idea how deep the lake is…”

“Oh, stop nagging,” Aurele groaned. “I won’t jump this time. We have a boat—why would I?”

“We had a boat last time, too.”

“No, we didn’t! You had a bellyache, Chambelland, so we couldn’t go out!”

Lumine listened, curious and faintly amused. It reminded her of her family—of Aether before the war, and her mother before she grew sick. Of a time when she’d been younger and far more willing to trust.

She was less gullible now. But at what cost?

“Shall we head out?” Chambelland’s voice boomed again, cutting through their bickering. “It’s a fine day—waste of sunlight to linger here.”

Lumine nodded, and their small, merry party set off towards the lake. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was pleasant: wildflowers lining the path, crisp mountain air filling her lungs. Sunlight filtered through a thin veil of clouds, gentle and diffused. Even the vast gardens at the manor couldn’t match this kind of openness.

She found herself thinking it might be nice to stay here a while, far from the court politics and attempted murders. Far from her husband’s knowing smiles and the calculating glint in his eyes.

Aurele skipped ahead while she fell in step beside Desyree, Chambelland trailing behind. “Do you come here often?” she asked.

Desyree nodded. “The maids come at least once a week. We take turns. His Grace doesn’t like too many people at the lakehouse, but someone has to keep it clean.”

“He doesn’t like people here? Not even staff?”

“Not even staff. He sees the cabin as a private space. Only Chambelland stays here, along with a few perimeter guards.”

That was… suspicious. She frowned. “What does he do here?”

Desyree shook her head. “I wouldn’t know, my lady. His Grace doesn’t tell us, and we don’t pry.”

She glanced back at Chambelland. “And you? How long have you served the Perinheris?”

Chambelland brightened. “Me? Hm. Must be three decades now. I was here when Arlecchino still headed the house. Watched Lyney and Lynette grow up—never imagined they’d turn out the way they did.”

He didn’t sound like the other staff. Too casual, too open. She wasn’t used to it. “Do you know what Lyney does here?”

“Ah, that I can’t tell you, Duchess.” His grin was wide and unbothered. “Not even if you’re his wife. A man is entitled to his secrets, yes?”

Well. She’d tried.

“Can you at least tell me more about him?” she asked. “You said you didn’t imagine he’d turn out this way.”

“Oh, right!” Chambelland’s expression turned thoughtful. “Well. You’d never believe it, but when he was just a lad, Lyney was shy. Always hiding behind his sister. Lynette was the bold one, charging headfirst into trouble, bullying off the kids who picked on him. He was small for his age back then. Bit of a coward, if you ask me.”

She blinked. That was a lot to take in. “Lyney? A coward?”

Chambelland chortled. “Told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

She glanced at Desyree, but her maid only offered a noncommittal smile. “Then what happened to make him turn out…” She searched for a word, something to encompass everything that was Lyney Perinheri now, and came up empty. “... this way?” she finished, a touch lamely.

“Ah, you can’t ask me too much, Duchess,” Chambelland said. “Memory’s not what it used to be. Too many drinks, too many knocks to the old noggin.” He folded his arms, brow furrowed. “But I do remember how much they trained. The both of them.”

“Trained?”

“Aye. To succeed the duchess,” Chambelland said. “It was harsh. Not the kind of expectations I’d wish on anyone, let alone a child.”

Unease tightened in her gut. “What kind of training?”

Desyree had told her about her own lessons in subterfuge—about learning to kill in service to the house. And if that was still kinder than whatever Lyney and Lynette had endured—

“I don’t know the details!” Chambelland said brightly. “Just that it was rough. I’d sometimes find the young duke curled up here in the cabin, hiding from it all. Bruised all over like he’d taken a real good beating.”

The unease crystallised into something colder. “What?”

“How do you think the head of House Perinheri is made?” Chambelland was still smiling, but there was a hollowness under it now. “He’s not only born. He’s shaped.”

A chill traced her spine. She opened her mouth, but Aurele’s delighted shout pulled her attention away.

Without her realising, they’d reached the boat. “It’s so big!” Aurele crowed, darting around the shoreline. “It’s massive! We’ll reach the middle of the lake in no time!”

“Aurele, the bigger the boat, the slower it sails,” Desyree said.

He waved her off. “But if it’s big, it doesn’t have to move much to get where it needs to go!”

Desyree sighed. “If you say so.” She reached into her basket and pulled out a sandwich. “Here. Eat.”

Aurele accepted it with a grin and bounded up the plank. Desyree glanced at Lumine and inclined her head towards the boat. “After you, my lady.”

Lumine looked past it to the lake—a wide sheet of serene blue, reflecting the sky. Still as glass. Beautiful, peaceful… yet she thought of Desyree’s earlier comment and wondered just how deep it went.

When she turned back, she found Chambelland watching her. He smiled, and she swallowed, lifting her skirts to step carefully onto the plank.

She’d never been on a boat before. Her family couldn’t afford such trips. But the lake was calm, and the day was fair.

It’d be fine. Probably.

---

There was a gentle breeze as they sailed deeper into the lake.

It felt nice—cool against her skin, lifting stray strands of hair. The boat chugged forward at an easy pace, and she stood at the railing, watching sunlight ripple across the water. The air smelled faintly of moss and something mineral, like wet stone.

Aurele was beside her, his attention caught by everything—the glint of fish scales just below the surface, the way dragonflies skimmed so close they almost brushed his cheek. Even the simplest things seemed to fill him with wonder. It was endearing, and she felt a faint, bittersweet pang. She’d forgotten what it was like to be that open to the world.

Inside the viewing room, Desyree sat with Chambelland, who was working his way steadily through the sandwiches she’d packed. Lumine glanced down at Aurele, tiptoeing in an effort to see more over the rail. “Don’t lean too far out,” she said. “You’ll fall in.”

“I won’t, my lady,” Aurele chirped. “I’m too short for that!”

She blinked, surprised by his complete lack of self-consciousness. Most boys his age bristled at any mention of being small. “Still,” she said, “better safe than sorry.”

He nodded but then froze, gaze locking on something past her shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Did you see that, my lady?”

“See what?”

“That.” He pointed. She followed his finger and saw nothing unusual—just a lone duck gliding idly on the surface.

“The duck?”

“No!” He shook his head and darted along the side of the boat. She followed, more curious than concerned. “Look! Eyes. Right over there.”

Her first instinct was to smile and humour him. Then she looked properly—past the bright scatter of sunlight on the water—and saw them.

A pair of eyes. Clear as day. Unmistakable. They stared straight at her. And blinked.

She sucked in a sharp breath, stumbling back. Aurele turned to her, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “You saw it too, right? You saw it!”

Her pulse beat in her throat. Surely it was a trick of the light—but for both of them to see the same thing? That didn’t make sense.

“Chambelland!” Aurele bolted for the viewing room, flinging the door open so hard it banged against the wall. “Stop the boat!”

Chambelland dropped his sandwich. “What?”

“We saw the nymph!”

“The—what?” He barrelled outside with surprising speed. “The nymph?”

“Yes! She was right there! The duchess saw her, too!”

Chambelland turned to Lumine. “Did you?”

“I can’t be sure it was a nymph,” she said slowly. “But Aurele and I both saw eyes.”

“Then maybe it was,” Chambelland muttered.

Desyree, who had followed Chambelland out, arched a brow. “You can’t be serious.”

“You think our duchess would lie?”

Desyree hesitated, then looked at Lumine. “No. I don’t.”

“There we have it,” Chambelland said, already moving to adjust the rudder. “Reason enough to investigate.”

Desyree came to stand beside Lumine, lowering her voice. “You really saw something?”

“I swear to the archon. I wasn’t expecting it, but they blinked at me.”

“Nymphs don’t exist.”

“I know,” she murmured. “So what was that?”

“This lake runs deep,” Desyree said. “Looks shallow, but that’s an illusion. No one swims here—it’s too dangerous.”

Her stomach tightened. “So there could be… creatures?”

“Yes. And hostile ones. But His Grace has never intervened. Says there’s no need, so long as we stay out of the water.”

The boat began to turn. She and Desyree grabbed the railing to steady themselves. “Chambelland!” Desyree called. “Be careful!”

He shouted something back, too muffled to make out.

Lumine’s heart thudded against her ribs. This had been meant as a peaceful sail on a summer lake. Now it felt anything but.

Still, she kept her gaze fixed on the water, determined to catch another glimpse of whatever she’d seen earlier. If they were going to the trouble of backtracking, she needed to know she hadn’t imagined it—hadn’t mistaken seaweed or a darting fish for a pair of eyes. Something that could be explained away.

They returned to the spot where she thought she’d seen them. Aurele darted from railing to railing, trying to find the exact angle again. She and Desyree followed at a steadier pace, scanning the glassy blue surface.

Nothing.

She felt a pang of relief. Perhaps it really had been a trick of the light. The alternative—that something unknown was lurking beneath—was far worse.

“I think it’s gone, Aurele,” she said, resting a hand on the boy’s back as he craned dangerously over the railing, still peering into the depths. “Whatever it was.”

“No, it can’t be!” His voice cracked with urgency. “We definitely saw eyes, right? We can’t just give up.”

“Maybe the nymph will show herself another day,” she offered.

“No. I have to see her today.”

“Why?”

“Because today is the day my brother died.”

The words caught her off guard. She blinked, trying to piece together what that had to do with the nymph—and in that heartbeat of hesitation—

Aurele leant too far. The next moment, he was gone, plunging into the water with a sharp splash. The lake closed over him in an instant, ripples smoothing to calm.

“Aurele!” Her shout rang over the water. One second passed. Two. The boy did not resurface.

He couldn’t swim. She remembered that too late.

Before she could think, she was climbing over the railing, but Desyree caught her wrist, face pale. “Don’t,” she said. “The lake is dangerous.”

“All the more reason to go,” she snapped. “Aurele can’t swim!”

“I know. But I’m not letting you risk yourself, my lady.” Desyree’s voice trembled, her gaze flitting between Lumine and the still water. “You are the duchess. You cannot go in there.”

“Then who will?”

“I… can’t swim either.”

“Chambelland?”

“He’s the boatman. He has to stay aboard.”

“Then it’s me.”

She didn’t wait for another protest. Wrenching free, she vaulted over the railing. The air whistled past her ears, drowning out Desyree’s cry—then cold hit her like a blade, the lake swallowing her whole.

It was shockingly frigid, the kind of cold that bit to the bone. She sank, then kicked up, breaking the surface for a quick breath before diving again, scanning the water for Aurele.

Her dress dragged at her limbs, the weight of it clumsy in the water, but she pushed forward. The lake was clear, yet she couldn’t see far; everything blurred into an endless wash of blue.

Fish in jewel tones flitted around her, brushing against her arms. Turtles drifted past. Once, the sinuous shape of a water snake slipped by. She didn’t remember seeing this much life from the boat—it was as if she’d crossed into another realm entirely. Sunlight lanced through the surface, but there was no warmth, only cold.

And below her, no lakebed. Only a murky dark, as though the water went on forever.

Where was he?

Then—movement ahead. A shape. She swam towards it, heart hammering, and the figure resolved into Aurele, suspended midwater like a doll.

But he was not alone.

Something coiled around him—something vast and sinuous, scales ripping in iridescent colour beneath the filtered light. She froze, stomach lurching.

A sea serpent.

She had thought them sailors’ tales, spun for tavern applause. But this one was real, and impossibly huge—the girth of its body easily three times hers, its length so great that ten of their boat, lined end to end, might not match it.

How could something like this have lived here, hidden, for so long? And more importantly, what was she going to do?

She had no weapon, no plan, and no hope of overpowering something this size. Provoking it could mean certain death. For now, the serpent seemed almost languid—curious, but not hostile. It hadn’t attacked Aurele. Not yet. But who knew what would happen if she drew closer?

She swallowed, then kicked forward anyway. If Desyree and Chambelland weren’t doing something from the boat, this might be the only chance either of them had.

The serpent turned towards her, its yellow, slit-pupiled gaze locking onto hers. The sheer weight of it froze her in place. She forced herself to look away—to Aurele, limp and drifting—and made herself keep going.

It didn’t lunge. It simply watched, as though studying her. Aurele’s eyes were closed; he was unconscious. She was near enough now to feel the danger humming off the serpent’s coiled body, close enough to know she wouldn’t outswim it if it struck.

What did it want? It wasn’t barring her, only observing—waiting, almost.

Would it let her touch him?

Slowly, she extended her hand and kicked closer. Her fingers closed around Aurele’s arm. She tugged. Something resisted, fine as spun glass, clinging to him. She pulled harder, and whatever it was tore loose—she caught a flicker of something gossamer drifting away—and then he was in her arms, slack and cold.

Still, the serpent didn’t move.

She began to edge backwards.

Then its jaws opened, fangs bared, coils loosening.

She spun and struck out hard through the water.

Swimming had always been one of the few things she was better at than Aether. Even if her family couldn’t afford boats, her mother had taken them to the ocean often, and they’d raced until their lungs burnt. She wasn’t at her peak now, but even dragging Aurele, she could still move fast.

And something about the lake buoyed her, cradled her, made her glide as if through air. She could breathe easily, somehow. Cut through the water with almost unnatural speed. She felt the serpent behind her, but not gaining—Aurele bumped against her side, colliding with fish now and then, but she couldn’t afford gentleness.

Was she even headed towards the boat? She had no idea. It didn’t matter. A lake had shores. If she kept going, she’d find one. At some point, the water would be too shallow for the beast to follow. Surely.

But fatigue was setting in, the burn creeping into her arms and legs. She risked a glance back—the serpent was closer. Slower than she’d feared, but inexorably closing the gap.

Aurele stayed limp in her grip. Probably for the best—if he panicked, she might not be able to keep hold of him.

She turned forward, only to stop short, stomach dropping.

A rock wall suddenly loomed in front of her. No shore, no escape. Just a sheer barrier stretching up and down beyond sight, as though the lake itself had conspired to trap her.

She veered sideways, but the pause had cost her. The serpent was near enough now that she could see the dark of its gullet, the gleam of each needle tooth.

She kicked harder. She couldn’t die here. Couldn’t let Aurele die. Not trapped, not torn apart, not in the dark of this lake—

Then someone splashed into the water. A flash of blond hair, the silver arc of something sharp cutting through the depths. The serpent recoiled as if scalded, then twisted away, vanishing into the blue.

Her eyelids fluttered. Panic, adrenaline and exhaustion pressed down all at once. The newcomer turned towards her, pried Aurele from her grasp, then took her arm as well, dragging them both upwards.

She floated, weightless, until sunlight broke over her—and then she was coughing, spluttering lakewater as crisp mountain air rushed into her lungs.

“My lady!” The voice was familiar, piercing through the fog in her head. She blinked blearily, groaning at the effort, and Desyree’s worried face swam into view.

“Are you all right?”

“I… I’m fine,” she croaked, coughing again. Her throat was raw, lungs aching with each breath—yet she kept inhaling, greedily, as if to prove she still could.

While she hadn’t felt the need to breathe underwater, her chest ached, as though she’d been holding her breath for hours.

“How’s Aurele?”

“He’s waking now.” Desyree gestured to Lumine’s right. Chambelland crouched beside Aurele, trickling water over his face. The boy groaned and weakly pushed Chambelland’s hand away. Alive, then.

“That’s… good,” she murmured.

“Can you sit up?” Desyree offered a hand. Lumine rose slowly from the grassy shore, sodden skirts dragging at her limbs. The fabric chafed against chilled skin; a breeze cut through, making her shiver.

“Someone pulled us out,” she said, leaning closer to Desyree. “Was it you?”

She pictured blond hair again, and for a fleeting second, thought of Lyney. But he was away. Wasn’t he?

Desyree shook her head. “It wasn’t me.”

“It was me.”

The voice was quiet, steady—unfamiliar. Lumine turned.

A girl stood a short distance away, dry despite the rescue. Strikingly beautiful, almost porcelain doll-perfect, in a crisp shirt and black trousers, a sword at her hip. Her waist-length, ash-blonde hair was tied back in a sleek ponytail.

But it was her eyes that caught Lumine—violet, the exact shade of Sumeru roses. The same shade as Lyney’s.

“... Lynette?” she guessed.

The girl nodded. “And you must be Lumine. The girl my brother married.”

The moment felt surreal—her first meeting with her sister-in-law, here of all places, moments after nearly being eaten by a sea serpent. She swallowed, the motion scraping her throat. “It’s… nice to meet you.”

Lynette inclined her head. “Likewise. I was looking forward to meeting you. I did not think my brother would ever settle down.”

Lumine couldn’t tell if that was genuine or not. Lynette’s tone was polite, but cool—formality without warmth.

“We should bring her back to the cabin,” Lynette said to Desyree. “She’ll catch a chill in wet clothes.”

“Yes, Lady Lynette.” Desyree took Lumine’s hand. “Can you stand, my lady?”

She managed to, though the weight of her skirts made each step awkward. Beside Lynette, she felt like a bedraggled cat—dripping, pale, graceless—but Lynette only gave her a small nod before turning, leading them towards the cabin.

They cut through the distance back, Lumine shivering all the way. When they reached the house, Deysree wasted no time running a hot bath. She helped Lumine into it, then worked warm oils into her skin afterwards.

“You’re freezing, my lady,” she murmured, her hands brisk but gentle. “I worry you’ll catch ill.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lumine said. “A little water and a swim never killed anyone.”

Desyree gave her a look—half reproach, half resignation—but didn’t argue.

When the bath was done, Lumine dressed in a simple gown that Desyree had laid out. “It’s the young lady’s,” Desyree said when she hesitated. “She said you could use it.”

Wearing Lynette’s clothes felt vaguely intrusive, but it was still better than her sodden dress.

Lynette was waiting in the front parlour when Lumine emerged. A fire crackled in the hearth, the air rich with the scent of burning wood.

“You look better already,” Lynette said.

“Thank you.” Lumine eased into the armchair beside her.

“No need to thank me. It’s only right to look out for my brother’s wife.”

That same formal, detached tone. Lumine couldn’t tell if Lynette knew the truth of her marriage to Lyney—or the blackmail that had bound it.

“Forgive me if this is rude,” she said after a pause, “but I thought you were stationed at the northern front.”

Lynette nodded. “My unit’s last campaign ended. And I heard my brother had gotten married. I was curious, so I came back to visit.”

“Oh.” Lumine found herself fiddling with her fingers, staring into the flames. “Why stop by the cabin, then? Instead of going straight home?”

“My magic isn’t as strong as Lyney’s,” Lynette said. “I can only teleport shorter distances at a time. It’s faster to come here first, then use the circle.”

Practical. Entirely reasonable.

“How did you know we were boating?”

“When I reached the cabin, there was quite a ruckus on the lake. I could hear it,” she replied. “So I went to investigate. Your maid told me you’d dived in after a stable boy.”

Lynette’s voice was so flat, Lumine still couldn’t gauge her thoughts.

“I’m sorry for troubling you.”

“No trouble,” Lynette said. “It was good that you did it. The serpent would have eaten the boy otherwise.”

“You knew the serpent was there?”

“Yes. It’s a family pet of sorts.”

That… didn’t surprise her.

“My brother and I used to spar with it during training. It probably remembered me.”

That explained why the creature had turned tail the instant she appeared in the water.

Lynette rose then, and Lumine instinctively moved to stand as well, but Lynette shook her head. “You’re still recovering. Rest by the fire. Your maid is bringing tea. Drink that, get warm. Then we can all return to the manor together.”

“You’re going to wait?”

“Yes. No point overusing the circle. Lyney will complain if we drain his mana.” Her tone softened by a hair. “I hope you feel better soon, Lumine.”

And with that, she left.

Lumine turned back to the flames, watching the wood split and collapse under the heat. Even after the bath, even after sitting by the fire, her fingers were still cold.

Chapter 7

When they returned from the lakehouse, Lyney was already waiting.

He stood leaning against the wall of the teleportation chamber, arms folded across his chest. She didn’t notice him straightaway, but beside her, Lynette turned. “Lyney,” she said, her voice as reserved as before.

Lumine startled, looking up. He smiled, pushed off the wall, and crossed to them with easy grace. “I wasn’t expecting so many visitors at the lakehouse today. Did it make for a pleasant excursion?”

She couldn’t tell if he minded. Desyree had said he disliked too many people going there, yet his tone was as smooth, unreadable—too Lyney—as ever. She kept her eyes down and said nothing.

Lynette, unruffled, answered in her stead. “It was nice to take a breather. Though I was surprised the serpent was still there.”

Lyney’s brows lifted. “You went into the lake?”

“Your wife did,” Lynette replied. Lumine stiffened, still refusing to look at him. “To rescue a child. Very brave,” she added. “If a little foolish.”

Ordinarily, Lumine might have bristled at that, but considering Lynette had saved both her and Aurele from being eaten, she let it pass.

“My darling wife went into the lake,” Lyney repeated softly.

“Yes. She’s a strong swimmer,” Lynette said, a shade approving. “I was impressed.”

The pause that followed was heavy enough to press against her ribs. Not knowing what else to do, Lumine whispered, “Thank you?”

His stare landed on her like a weight, drilling through her chest. She stubbornly avoided looking back.

Then Lynette turned to her and—just faintly—smiled. The first smile since they’d met. “You must swim with me sometime. Few can outpace that serpent.”

“There was something in the water,” Lumine said. “It let me swim faster. And I didn’t need to breathe.”

“Ah.” Lynette nodded. “The lake is enchanted. A training ground. We couldn’t afford to drown while sparring. Though, in hindsight, that might have made things more interesting.”

The casualness of the remark was a little alarming, but Lumine let it slide. “Well… if you’d like to go for a swim someday, then I’d be glad.”

Before Lynette could answer, Lyney cleared his throat. “You must be tired, Lynette,” he said. “After such a long trip from the northern front. Desyree, Aurele—help her settle back in. Show her the changes to the manor.”

“The manor changed?” Lynette asked.

“Yes, Lady Lynette,” Desyree said. “Her Grace refreshed the artwork and the flowers, among other things. You might enjoy the garden.”

“That does sound interesting.” Lynette nodded, already turning to go.

Lumine moved to follow, but a hand closed lightly around her wrist. Lyney. Still smiling, but his grip was unyielding.

“I’d like a word with my duchess,” he said, silk-smooth. “We’ll join later.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Desyree and Aurele bowed, but their worried glances lingered on Lumine as they departed with Lynette.

Silence.

Lyney studied her in that silence, gaze cool, detached. At last, he released her. “You’re not hurt,” he observed. “Though I see you’ve borrowed one of my sister’s dresses.”

“Mine was wet.”

“I can imagine.” His tone was neutral. Polite. And that, somehow, was worse than anger.

Unable to bear it, she asked, “What do you want to say?”

“You’ve met Lynette.” His stare was piercing. “That’s nice. I wasn’t expecting her back so soon. Nor was I expecting you to visit the summer house—let alone dive into a lake every servant knows is out of bounds.”

He spoke so mildly she might have believed him perfectly calm, if not for the absence of a smile. That was the giveaway. Lyney was almost always smiling. For him not to—

“I didn’t mean to jump in,” she said. “Aurele fell. Someone had to save him.”

“And it had to be you?” His head tipped, feline.

“At that point, yes. Desyree can’t swim, and Chambelland couldn’t leave the boat. I could swim. And I wasn’t expecting there to be a serpent. No one was.”

“Aurele would have been fine,” Lyney said. “That lake doesn’t allow drowning. And the serpent… it isn’t usually hungry. Only territorial.”

Different from Lynette’s comment. Lynette had said Aurele might have been eaten. Which left Lumine uncertain whom to believe. “Lynette said the serpent would have killed him.”

“Lynette doesn’t know that beast half as well as I do.” A thread of tension ran beneath his voice now, sharp enough that she knew not to press. “She hasn’t gone near the lake in years. She hasn’t had to.”

Something laid unsaid there. But before she could ask, Lyney exhaled, and light returned to his face—too bright, too beautiful. He touched her cheek with featherlight fingers.

“I’m glad you’re unharmed. But that was reckless, my duchess. Don’t do that again.” His voice softened, almost tender. “You’re not replaceable.”

The words chilled her more than any reprimand. She was suddenly reminded of her role, the family she had married into, the invisible target on her back.

Her stomach knotted. She thought she could taste lakewater again. “I just… want to do more,” she murmured, twisting her skirt in her hands. “I’m tired of being weak.”

“Why should you?” His violet eyes gleamed, catching rainbow refractions from the chamber walls. “You’re my wife. You need never lift a finger.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip. He leant in. Her heart lurched, frozen by the sudden nearness, by the cloud of his scent—flowers, sweet and bitter, intoxicating.

“So long as you listen to me.”

His smile never reached his eyes. The pressure increased; her lips parted under instinct. His thumb grazed her teeth. She gasped.

“You’ll be good, won’t you?” he whispered. “My darling wife. So sweet. So delicate. So very helpless.”

She couldn’t answer. Could only stare at him, pulse hammering.

At last, he withdrew his hand, though not his closeness. The flowers lingered around her like a snare.

“You know why you’re here. Why you married me,” he said. “So let’s not deviate too far from expectations, hm? Forgive your foolish husband. I don’t do well with surprises, chérie.”

Only then did he step back.

She stood rooted, trembling. His smile shifted—turning effortless, back to the Lyney she knew. “I’ll see you later. For dinner, we’ll prepare a proper feast. Lynette deserves a welcome home.”

Then he swept out of the chamber.

The instant the door shut, she inhaled sharply, stumbling against the wall. Arms wrapped tight around herself. Her chest constricted, unease simmering like a sickness. His words echoed in her head; his smile burnt behind her eyes.

What had she done wrong? What did he want? He’d been kinder of late—kinder enough that she thought perhaps they were inching towards something less than blackmail, something almost… human.

But the look in his eyes—she shuddered, clutching herself tighter. If he looked at her like that again, she wasn’t sure she could endure it.

---

When they all gathered for dinner, the air felt… off.

Lumine couldn’t quite name why. Perhaps because there was a third presence at the table, though Lynette’s quiet reserve hardly demanded attention. No, the difference lay in the seating. Usually, she sat across from Lyney, but now Lynette had taken his place, and Lyney presided from the head of the table between them. The shift left him uncomfortably close, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

True to his word, Lyney had ordered a feast. Platters of roast goose glistened beneath the light, alongside cuts of cured meat, fruit shining with glaze, and boards of cheese whose aroma hung in the air. On any other evening, she might have been eager to taste them—the Perinheri chefs never faltered in their craft. But tonight, tension sat heavy in her chest, and she found herself only nudging food across her plate.

Of course, Lyney noticed. He noticed everything these days. “Not to your liking?” he asked, his tone mild, a smile curving his lips as he sliced neatly into the goose.

Her eyes tracked the blade carving through meat, and she had to suppress the urge to flinch. “It’s delicious,” she said quickly. “I’m just… not very hungry.”

“You should still eat.” His voice was light, touched with something that might have been concern. “A day like yours would drain anyone.”

She swallowed. He speared the goose with his fork, lifted it with effortless grace, every movement precise, controlled. Nothing wasted.

“I’ll have something later,” she said. “If I still want it.”

“Leave her be, Lyney,” Lynette said dryly, setting aside the core of her sunsettia. “She’s not going to wither away from missing a single meal.”

“No good husband would watch his wife starve.”

“You’re hovering,” Lynette countered. “If not in body, then in spirit. Let her breathe.”

Lyney huffed—a quiet, irritated sound, startlingly human in its plainness. Lumine blinked. She had never heard him make a noise so… ordinary. “You’ve barely set foot in this house and already you’re ordering me around.”

“Me? Order you?” Lynette replied primly, folding her napkin with careful fingers. “I wouldn’t dare. You’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“You always say such things,” Lyney said, amusement glinting faintly, “but we both know they’re lies.”

“That’s not true.” Lynette’s voice remained composed, almost stiff with formality. “You only think I’m ordering you around, when in truth I’m offering suggestions.”

“Very forceful suggestions.” Lyney sighed.

“But suggestions nonetheless. Whether you follow them is entirely your choice.” She reached for a wedge of cheese, nibbling with a quiet hum. “This is excellent. I haven’t tasted food like this in two years.”

The words tugged at Lumine. The northern front—how starkly different her life must have been there. “What was it like?” she asked. “At war.”

Lynette paused, then set the cheese down and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Cold,” she said simply. “But the north is always cold.”

“Was there much fighting?”

Lynette inclined her head. “Enough. But not always difficult. My unit specialised in covert operations. Direct combat was rare—only when necessity demanded it.”

That was very different from Aether’s battalion. He had been part of the offensive campaign to reclaim northern territories. “Do you think the fighting will be over soon?” Lumine asked.

Lynette shook her head. “Another year, at least. There aren’t many hostile tribes left, but the ones that remain are…” She paused, weighing her words. “Cunning.”

A chill slid down Lumine’s spine. She lowered her gaze to the untouched bread on her plate. “That doesn’t sound good,” she murmured.

“War is rarely good,” Lynette replied simply.

Silence followed. Heavy, settling over the table like a shroud. Lumine fumbled for something else to ask, questions crowding her throat but refusing to form.

It was Lyney who broke the hush. “Curious about your brother?”

She startled, head snapping up. Lyney’s eyes were already on her—intent, unreadable. The weight of his gaze sent tension coiling down her spine, a nervous flutter rising in her chest. “I—well. I’d always like to hear news,” she admitted at last. “But I’m not sure if Lynette… knows?”

“Hm?” Lynette tilted her head. “Your brother? Aether Viatrix?”

“Yes!” The urgency in her voice surprised even herself. “Yes, that’s him.”

“He’s doing well,” Lynette said. “I crossed paths with him a few times. Very courageous. A little reckless.” A faint smile softened her face, and Lumine found herself staring.

In that moment, Lynette didn’t look like the aloof second-in-line to House Perinheri—didn’t look like the woman who had pulled her and Aurele from a serpent’s jaws. She looked like any ordinary girl, young and fond, recalling someone she admired. “He reminds me of you,” she added. “Always ready to stand for those weaker than themselves.”

Lumine felt her face warm. “I don’t really do that. There aren’t many who are weaker than me.”

“Weakness isn’t always physical.” Lynette’s gaze flicked towards her brother. Lyney, still silent, regarded them with that same unreadable expression. He blinked when they both turned to him.

“Are you asking for my opinion?” he drawled.

“I thought you’d chime in by now,” Lynette said. “As you are prone to do.”

“I don’t always have a comment ready.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like Lyney Perinheri.”

He chuckled. “You’re painting me in such poor light before my wife.”

“I doubt she needs me to paint anything,” Lynette replied. “She’ll have her own impressions already.” She glanced at Lumine then, her smile curving just a fraction wider.

The heat seemed to be spreading from Lumine’s cheeks down to her neck. She smiled back—hesitant, but genuine—before ducking her head once more. The bread was still on her plate. She took a bite, and this time she tasted it: the soft crumb, the faint sweetness. She dipped it in her soup, forcing herself to focus on the meal.

Perhaps… perhaps Lynette would be easier to speak with than her brother.

---

Lynette never said how long she intended to stay. When asked, she only replied she’d remain “as long as she felt like”. Lyney didn’t press. He seemed used to this kind of answer, so Lumine let it be.

Her daily rhythm shifted in small ways. Passing Lynette in the gardens. Catching sight of her training with the guards. Watching as she studied new paintings—lingering before some, frowning at others. The butler had been right: her taste was… interesting.

But the most distinct change was at dinner. Lynette sat across from her now, while Lyney appeared less often. He was always away.

“His Grace said he was busy,” Desyree explained when Lumine asked once. She tried to sound casual, but curiosity tugged at her.

“There’s been a rise in dissidents,” Desyree went on. “Too much focus on the northern war, they say. People are restless.”

Lumine frowned. “I feel like you’re telling me something I shouldn’t know.”

“Oh, but you are the duchess, my lady,” Desyree said lightly. “You should know what the rest of us hear.”

“Lyney tells the whole household about state secrets?”

“It’s not a secret when drunkards are shouting about it in taverns.”

A fair point. Perhaps she was the last to hear such things. Perhaps she ought to get out more.

Lately, she’d been thinking of home. It had been nearly half a year since the wedding, and she hadn’t seen her mother once. Married women rarely returned to their maiden households—she knew that. But worry gnawed at her. Letters said the medicine and the mora she sent were helping, but Lumine wanted to see for herself.

She didn’t know how to ask Lyney. First, she hadn’t even seen him in three days. Second…

Every time she thought of raising the subject, she froze. It wasn’t rational—she knew he wouldn’t harm her mother, not unless Lumine gave him cause. And yet that knowledge made her fear sharper. Her mother’s safety, her very life, might rest on whether Lumine pleased him.

“Lumine?”

She blinked, startled, and turned. Lynette was coming down the garden path, alone as always. She had no attendant; she didn’t need one. Not with the strength of someone who had stood on a battlefield.

“Lynette,” she greeted. “Going to the training grounds?”

“Not today. Pulled a muscle yesterday,” Lynette admitted. “I’m resting it.”

“I see.” Lumine hesitated, then drew a breath. “When my brother trained, he often got aches. I used to make him a salve. Nothing special, just common herbs. But he swore it worked. If you’d like, I could make some for you, too?”

Heat rose to her cheeks as soon as she offered. But Lynette only blinked, then smiled. “You would? I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

Her voice was soft, sincere. Lumine found herself smiling back. “Then I’ll send it to your room when it’s ready.”

“I look forward to it.” Lynette glanced past her, then back. “Why are you alone? Where’s Desyree?”

“The head maid called for her,” Lumine said. “I promised I’d stay put until she came back.” She gave a small, sheepish smile. It had taken much persuasion after the hedge maze incident.

“Well, you’re not alone now,” Lynette said. “If you’d like to walk, come with me. I won’t go far, so Desyree won’t scold you later.”

She glanced between Lynette and the rainbow rose she’d been staring at, then back again. “All right,” she said. “Where were you headed?”

“Nowhere, really.” Lynette’s tone was even. “Just trying to clear my mind.”

“What’s troubling you?” The words slipped out before Lumine could stop them. She coughed. “You don’t have to answer, of course.”

“I’m not troubled,” Lynette said after a pause. “Just… restless.”

“Restless?”

“Yes. After two years in the open wastes, even the manor’s grounds feel too small.”

The wistfulness in her voice caught Lumine off guard. Surely she couldn’t be missing the northern front.

“Maybe you just need to leave the grounds,” Lumine suggested carefully. “You’ve been back for two weeks, but I haven’t seen you step outside the estate.”

Lynette blinked. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Oh—I mean, not intentionally!” Lumine raised her hands, flustered. “I just thought you’d be busier, now that you’re back in the city. Surely there must be plenty of people who want to see you.”

“I see. That’s what you meant.” Lynette turned her gaze to the roses. “Not really. I didn’t announce my return. There are always rumours, of course, but I haven’t accepted any invitations.”

Lumine remembered what Desyree had told her once—how Lynette was the opposite of Lyney, disliking the spotlight. “So you don’t like going out?”

“Not to parties,” Lynette said. “Too noisy. Too tiresome. Especially when the crown prince attends.” Her expression hardly shifted, yet Lumine thought she glimpsed a flicker of distaste. “The moment he arrives, the women flock to him like birds to a granary. I can understand why he’s so reluctant to be matched.”

“You seem to know the prince well?”

“Not as well as Lyney, of course. But well enough.” She shrugged, then abruptly turned the question back. “What about you? What do you do in your free time?”

The blunt shift didn’t bother Lumine. “My mother is sickly, so I never had much time for myself. But before she fell ill, I used to visit the public gardens. Or the beach, with my brother. We always preferred being outdoors.”

“Ah.” Lynette nodded. “The outdoors is freer than staying confined at home.”

“Yes. Though Aether was always a little overprotective.” She smiled fondly. “Only five minutes difference between us, but he acted like he was so much older. And wiser.”

Lynette laughed. “Lyney is the same. Though when we were younger, I was the one protecting him.”

That drew Lumine’s attention. “Protecting him?”

“From… others.” Something shuttered in Lynette’s eyes, the openness closing in an instant. “We started training for succession early. As the male heir, my brother bore the brunt of it.”

Lumine hesitated. She wanted to ask more, but the weight of it felt too raw—something she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear. Before she could decide, Lynette cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“Your mother is ill, you said? How is she now? It’s been a few months since your wedding, hasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lumine said softly. “I miss her.”

“Then why not visit?”

“I don’t know if I can,” Lumine admitted. “My hometown is a full day’s ride by carriage, and I’d need to stay the night before coming back.”

“That’s not very far,” Lynette said evenly. “Are you afraid Lyney would disapprove?”

The question struck too close. Lumine faltered, silent. Lynette read it as confirmation.

“I don’t think my brother would forbid you from visiting your mother,” she said. “If anyone understands the importance of family, it’s him.”

Lumine didn’t doubt that. But knowing and allowing were different things. Every word she spoke around Lyney felt like it might be turned against her. Sweet one moment, cool and distant the next—his shifts left her unsteady. And always, she was reminded of what she had done to claim her place at his side.

“I still need to tell him first,” she said at last. “I just… never found the right time.”

Lynette tilted her head. “How about this? I can take us there myself. We’ll spend a few hours with your mother, and I’ll bring you straight back. My brother wouldn’t even need to know—or worry.”

Lumine blinked. “You would? But I thought you didn’t like going out.”

“This is different,” Lynette said. “You’re my sister-in-law. I don’t see why Lyney would object to us spending time together. And besides—” her mouth curved faintly “—I’m curious about the place that raised both you and one of the finest swords on the northern front.”

Lumine’s heart skipped. It was a generous offer, but nerves twisted in her stomach. She remembered Lyney’s displeasure after her last excursion to the lakehouse. Would this be the same?

“I’ll vouch for you if he’s upset,” Lynette added. “I’ll say it was my idea. He won’t argue further. What do you think?” Her voice gentled. “I’m sure your mother would be glad to see you.”

The words pricked hot at Lumine’s eyes. After a long moment, she nodded. “All right. I just need to gather a few things. I’ve been collecting gifts for her whenever I went out… but I never knew when I’d have the chance to bring them.” Her voice wavered. She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry.

“Then go prepare them,” Lynette said, smiling. “I’ll let Desyree know you’re with me. Meet me in the main hall in thirty minutes?”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Lumine clasped her hands together to still their trembling. “Thank you, Lynette. Thank you so much.”

“No need for thanks. I’m glad to help. Go ahead—I’ll stay here a little longer. The Sumeru roses have been especially lovely.”

Lumine nodded and turned back towards the manor. She tried to keep her pace steady, not break into a run. But her chest felt light, her steps quickening despite herself. At last, she would see her mother again.

---

“It might be a bit bumpy,” Lynette warned as she took Lumine’s hand. “I’m not as proficient as Lyney with teleportation.”

“That’s fine,” Lumine said, though her pulse betrayed her. In her other hand, she clutched a small basket: jars of jam, a dried-flower bookmark, stationery from the town market, and a bundle of fresh fruit.

Lynette glanced at it, then at her. For a moment, her expression softened—her eyes looked so much like her brother’s that Lumine’s breath caught. “You don’t always have to say that you’re fine,” Lynette said. “You’re allowed to admit when you’re not.”

The bluntness jolted her. She steadied herself under Lynette’s gaze, then forced a smile. “I really am fine. I’m not just saying it to smooth things over. I’m grateful you offered to help me—truly.”

Lynette studied her for a moment longer, then gave a small nod. “Hold tight.” She squeezed Lumine’s hand and pulled them forward.

The world lurched. Lumine felt herself tumbling through weightless space—her stomach dropped, her heart leapt—until her feet struck solid ground again. She gasped, nearly dropping the basket, her breath shaky.

They stood in her hometown, all the way across Fontaine. The air was salted with sea breeze, the streets cobbled and familiar. A far cry from the glided façades of the Court.

“It’s a lovely place,” Lynette murmured. “Quiet.”

Lumine nodded, throat tight. She hadn’t realised how much she missed it. Even before the wedding, she and her mother had been away in the Court of Fontaine for treatment, and when her mother returned alone, Lumine hadn’t followed.

“Shall we?” Lynette prompted when she remained silent.

“Yes.” Lumine’s fingers clenched around the basket. “Let’s go.”

They walked through the narrow streets until the house came into view—larger than most in town, but humble compared to the Perinheri manor. The sight twisted her heart. This was once her entire world: growing up with Aether, believing she would never leave, never live far from her mother’s side.

She had never really dreamt of marriage, let alone true love. She hadn’t had the luxury. Romance didn’t earn mora. Dreams didn’t keep food on the table. Her mother’s frail health had consumed everything. And so… she had gambled everything on Lyney. Blackmail, marriage, glided halls—was it worth what she had surrendered?

“Lumine?” Lynette’s voice cut through her stillness. Lumine realised she had frozen before the front door.

She startled and lifted her gaze. Lynette was watching her, unreadable but not unkind. She only seemed to be waiting.

“Yes,” Lumine breathed. “Let’s go.”

She raised her hand and knocked.

Silence stretched—then the door creaked open. And there, framed in the doorway, stood her mother.

---

Lumine spent three hours at home with her mother, Lynette quietly at her side the whole time.

She and her mother both cried when they embraced, clinging for long minutes. But her mother looked better—stronger than she had in months. Her hair had regained its lustre, her cheeks some colour. Her hands, once cold and frail, were warm again with the strength Lumine remembered from childhood, when she would chase her and Aether in from the fields for supper.

Her mother brought out tea and biscuits. They sat together, talking of ordinary things: Lumine sketched a careful picture of life as Duchess Perinheri—omitting, of course, the blood and shadows that trailed her husband—while Lynette supplied anecdotes from Aether’s campaigns at the northern front. Time slipped past too quickly.

Her mother accepted the bundle of fruit, slicing some for them to share. She fussed over the jams, admired the glaze lily bookmark, and carried the new stationery into her study. When she returned, she hugged Lumine tightly.

“I’m so happy,” she whispered. “That you’re happy too. And that your husband treats you well.”

Lumine’s stomach twisted. But she nodded, returning the embrace. It wasn’t a lie: Lyney did treat her well, in his way.

“Are you sure you won’t stay the night?” her mother asked, cupping her face. “It’s getting dark… you’re both ladies. I’ll worry.”

“It’s fine, Madame,” Lynette said. “I’m quite familiar with the blade.”

Her mother tutted. “It isn’t about that. A mother can’t rest easy letting her daughter wander at night.”

Lynette blinked, as if unaccustomed to such ordinary concern, and Lumine stepped in quickly. “I do have to hurry back, maman. My husband is waiting.” Probably untrue—she had no idea where Lyney was—but it made a neat excuse.

Her mother nodded, stroking her cheek again. “Then stay safe, my darling. You look beautiful. Glowing. I’m so glad you’re being treated well.”

Lumine leant into her touch, eyes stinging. “You look well too, maman. Keep writing me—I want to know everything.”

“Of course. You sound just like your brother. Both so fussy.” Her mother smiled fondly. “I always worry about him. Ever the reckless one.”

“Aether knows his limits,” Lumine said. “He won’t endanger himself or his men. Isn’t that so, Lynette?”

“He’s considerate,” Lynette confirmed.

“Well, if you both say so…” Her mother exhaled, her smile soft. “It eases my fears a little. It was so nice to see you, Lumine. Come whenever you can.”

“I will,” Lumine promised.

They exchanged one last round of goodbyes before stepping out. The door closed behind them, and Lumine felt her shoulders sag.

“Are you tired?” Lynette asked.

“Not exactly.” Lumine exhaled. “I just miss her already.”

“We can come back,” Lynette said. “It isn’t far. We could bring Lyney next time, if you’d like.”

A shiver skated down Lumine’s spine. “Maybe,” she said.

Lynette didn’t press. Instead, she changed tack: “I’m peckish.”

Lumine gave a faint laugh. “After all that fruit and biscuits?”

“Yes. Something savoury. I smelled meat pies on the way here, and I haven’t stopped thinking of them.”

“Oh, the stall down the street,” Lumine said. “He uses fresh meat every morning—perfectly seasoned with salt and pepper. They’re heavenly.”

Lynette perked up. “Shall we get one before returning to the manor?”

“You’ll have no space for dinner.”

“It’s fine. I’ll eat just a little. Besides, the less we eat at dinner, the more the staff have to share.”

Fair point. Lumine led the way towards the stall, hoping it was still there; with food vendors, one never knew. Too many opened brightly only to vanish months later, swallowed by thin margins.

Thankfully, the stall remained. The vendor wrapped two pies—one fowl, one fish—still fragrant and steaming, and passed them over. She and Lynette bit into the buttery crust.

“This is delicious,” Lynette said around a mouthful.

“It is,” Lumine agreed, fanning her lips to keep from burning her tongue. “I haven’t had this in so long.”

“Reminds me a little of what we ate at the northern front,” Lynette mused. “Not pies, of course. But there was a girl in my unit whose family ran a bakery. If flour came in our rations, she’d bake bread. We’d salt our hunts, wrap them in it, dip it in egg wash. Simple fare, but after a day’s work, nothing tasted better.”

Lumine studied her. “You miss the north?”

“Not the place,” Lynette said, shaking her head. “Just the people.”

“Are they expecting you back?”

“Probably not. Most don’t return once their dues are done.” She took another neat bite. “I’m not hungry for war. But if I crossed paths with the old lot in Fontaine, I’d be glad.”

“You don’t know where they are?”

“Not unless they tell me. I don’t pry.”

That was true enough. Lynette was so reserved that the fact that she was continuing this conversation at all surprised Lumine. She opened her mouth to reply—

—when Lynette seized her arm and yanked her into a side alley. Lumine stumbled, nearly dropping her pie. “Lynette?”

“Someone’s following us,” Lynette whispered, violet eyes darting. “Not with good intentions.”

Lumine’s heart lurched. Not again. Was this her life now? To fear the dark, her own shadow, every set of footsteps behind her?

Lynette glanced at her, read something in her expression, then tightened her grip on Lumine’s wrist. “Come with me. And take this.”

From beneath her skirts, she drew a small knife, unstrapping it from her ankle. Lumine’s mouth fell open. “You’ve had that the whole time—?”

“Yes. Among others.” She pressed the hilt into Lumine’s hand. Lumine clutched it, trembling.

“I’ll lure them away from the crowd,” Lynette said quietly. “Do you want to stay here? Safer.”

Did she? Her mind flashed back to Lyney’s warning at the Opera Epiclese: Stay in the light. Her pulse hammered. “I know it’s safer,” she said, steadying herself. “But… I want to come with you.”

Surprise flickered through Lynette’s gaze. Then a small smile. “All right. Follow me. Don’t worry—I won’t let them touch you.”

Her voice was soft, calm. Reassuring. Lumine followed as they slipped through the shadows and emerged on the next street, walking as if nothing was amiss. Lumine tucked the knife into her bodice, trying to move with the same easy calm Lynette carried, though her chest was tight with nerves.

They strolled towards the outskirts, where cobblestones gave way to rough paths and swathes of green.

“Still following?” Lumine whispered.

“Yes. Growing impatient now.” Lynette’s tone was as mild as if she were remarking on the weather. “They’re closing in.”

The casual poise unnerved her. How used to danger must the Perinheris be, to meet it like this?

A rustle. Lumine flinched. Lynette caught her hand. “No need to be nervous,” she murmured. “There are only two.”

Only two. Lumine thought she could hardly handle even one. But the dagger pressing against her ribs gave her the smallest thread of reassurance. At least she wasn’t completely helpless.

“They’ll move soon,” Lynette said. Then, suddenly louder: “Look, Lumine! The moon is out already, and it’s so big!”

The cheeriness was so unnatural for her that Lumine blinked. Then she caught on. “Oh, yes,” she trilled. “Enormous! I heard astrologers say it’s a rare moon—one that comes only once every three centuries.”

“Really? That sounds… fascinating.”

Lynette’s delivery was so stiff that Lumine almost laughed, if not for the prickle of danger at her back. “Yes,” she pressed on. “I once knew someone devoted to astrology. She said moons like these usually marked a change in fortune.”

“A change?”

“Neither good nor bad. Just a shift. Sometimes, it even helps you discover your true purpose.”

Footsteps closed in behind her. Her pulse slammed in her ribs, but she kept her voice light. “Especially if you see your constellation alongside the moon. Since all of us are born under one—”

“Oh, shut it about moons and stars.” A low growl at her ear, then a hand yanked her back. She gasped, wrenching free, spinning towards a broad-shouldered man with a bandana over his face.

A treasure hoarder.

“Rich little lady like you,” he sneered. “Wouldn’t waste breath on fancies otherwise.”

“Stay away from me.” She forced her voice to steady, though the knife in his hand gleamed cold in the light. “Or you’ll regret it.”

He barked a laugh. “Regret? You’re worth more than enough to risk. Easy money.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked, edging backwards, eyes flicking for Lynette. But Lynette had vanished. And there was supposed to be a second pursuer. Where—?

“Isn’t it obvious?” He lifted his knife, casual, confident. “A hostage. Your family’ll cough up a few million mora for you.”

Relief—strange, perverse—flickered through her chest. A ransom-seeker. Just greed. No torture, no politics, no tangled strings of House Perinheri. Greed was something she could understand.

“I don’t know why you think I’m wealthy,” she said. “I’m not.”

He snorted. “Don’t lie. That necklace you’re wearing? One jewel could feed my family for months.”

Her hand went to it instinctively. “I’ll give it to you.”

For a moment, he hesitated. Then his eyes hardened. “Why settle for scraps when I can take the whole feast?” He stepped closer.

Panic jolted her spine. She scrambled back, yanked the knife from her bodice, and brandished it with shaking hands. “C-Come any closer and I’ll use it!”

He looked at her, then burst into laughter. “You? You’ll cut yourself before you cut me.”

“T-Then try me!” she shot back, bluffing with all the bravado she could scrape together.

The blade trembled in her hand. And still, no sign of Lynette.

“Oh? Is that an invitation?” the man drawled. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He advanced a step, slow and deliberate. The knife gleamed, suddenly much sharper, much closer. Lumine retreated to match his pace, too afraid to glance behind her—what if she was backing towards some obstruction, or worse, a drop? She couldn’t keep retreating forever, but the man seemed to relish it, savouring her panic.

“So much for a noble’s strength,” he sneered. “You won’t even lift that little hand.”

“I-I will!” she shouted, gripping the dagger so tightly her knuckles hurt. “Come any closer and I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Cry?”

Her teeth dug into her lip, readying a retort—when a sharp meow cut through the air.

Both their heads turned. A black cat padded into view, tail curling high. Lumine blinked. Rosseland.

He met her gaze. She could have sworn he winked. Then, with two elegant bounds, he was at the man’s feet. The cat yawned wide, flashing a pink tongue and fangs—

The bandit collapsed with a scream, clutching his head, knife clattering to the dirt. Rosseland purred, trotting back to circle Lumine’s ankles.

What did you do to him?

Nothing he didn’t deserve, came the velvet thought.

She stared as the man writhed once more, then fell limp on the grass. Rosseland butted her ankle with his head. Don’t fret. He’ll recover. In a month, maybe.

A month?

Before she could demand more, Lynette’s voice carried down the path. “Lumine! Are you all right?”

Lumine turned. Lynette strode towards her, dragging an unconscious man by the collar. His face was swollen and mottled, one arm bent at an unnatural angle.

“He tried to touch me,” Lynette said when Lumine only stared. Her tone was mild. “He’s still breathing, so there shouldn’t be any… complications.”

Lumine swallowed hard, unable to summon an answer.

Rosseland meowed. Lynette’s gaze fell on him, unimpressed. “Why are you here? Where’s Lyney?”

The cat twined around her legs, purring. Lynette sighed. “Of course. He’s watching.”

“What did he say?” Lumine asked warily.

“That Lyney never lets go of a leash,” Lynette replied. “He sees through Rosseland’s eyes.” She dropped the unconscious man like discarded luggage. “If he’s already noticed, we’d better return before he makes a fuss.”

She held out her hand. Palm up. Waiting.

Lumine hesitated, then looked at Lynette’s calm face and took it. Rosseland leapt into her hold just as Lynette pulled, and that dizzying plunge through nothing swallowed them whole.

They stumbled into the manor’s front hall. Lumine swayed against the wall, her stomach lurching. Lynette steadied her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lumine managed, shaking her head. “It’s just hard to get used to.”

“My magic’s a little bumpy,” Lynette admitted.

“Especially after you beat a man half to death,” another voice murmured. Smooth. Silken. Familiar. Lumine froze. “Volatility makes for rough landings.”

They both turned. Lyney stood waiting, smile pleasant.

“Did you enjoy yourselves?” he asked lightly.

The déjà vu prickled—familiar, but in all the wrong ways.

“It was nice,” Lynette said before Lumine could form a reply. “Her mother’s lovely. Very kind.”

“How sweet.” Lyney came closer, his gaze never leaving Lumine. “I met her before our wedding. I’d like to visit again.” He stopped beside her, close enough to touch. “Though I confess, I’m a little hurt that my wife didn’t invite me. What if my mother-in-law thinks I'm rude?”

“You were busy,” Lynette pointed out. “Wasn’t there that dissident problem this morning?”

“Finished quickly,” Lyney said. “And returned home to find both my wife and sister gone.”

“You’re too concerned,” Lynette replied. “You don’t have to shadow her constantly.”

“I don’t intend to,” he said. His smile didn’t shift, but his eyes gleamed. “But if my wife goes far, I’d like to know. Don’t you think that’s fair?”

Lynette flicked her wrist. “She was with me. What’s there to fear?”

Lumine couldn’t place it at first, but there was a tension in the air. More from Lyney than Lynette, who sounded as blunt and composed as ever. Half a year wasn’t long enough to read her husband well, but if she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed almost…

Irritated.

Rosseland, still cradled in her arms, yawned and began washing a paw. He’s in a foul mood, the familiar remarked.

So her instincts were right. Why?

Wouldn’t know. The cat’s mental voice gave a little shrug. My master’s moods are fickle. Especially when it comes to you.

To me?

You unsettle him more than he admits.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

“Just admit you can’t let go, Lyney,” Lynette said flatly. “The world won’t always turn the way you expect it.”

For an instant, his violet eyes darkened, flickering with something sharper. “I don’t want to imagine anyone I cherish being harmed,” he said, soft as silk over steel.

“And I’m here to protect your wife, so why fret?” Lynette turned to Lumine. “In fact, would you like some self-defence lessons? You know by now what it means to bear the Perinheri name. A little training might ease all our minds.”

“Me?” Lumine blinked.

Lynette nodded. “You won’t become a master swordswoman. But you may have the instincts to stab where it hurts—if you can get past your fear.”

“My fear?”

“I saw how you held that knife.” Lynette’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Rosseland was already there, so I didn’t step in. But you were gripping it like a kitchen tool. You’re meant to draw blood, not slice turnips.”

Heat rushed to Lumine’s cheeks. “W-Well—”

“Would you like to?” Lynette cut over her. “Short lessons. Twice a week. Enough to keep you sharp.”

The thought stirred something in her. The chance to rely less on others, to stand on her own feet. She nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Lynette smiled. “Training grounds tomorrow morning. We’ll start then.”

Lyney had been silent through the exchange. At last, he cleared his throat. “I received a new shipment of tea, Lynette. A floral blend that tastes better steeped cold than hot. Quite novel. I had the staff prepare some for you—it’s waiting in your room.”

“That does sound pleasant,” Lynette said. “Thank you. See you tomorrow, Lumine.”

With that, she slipped away. Rosseland sprang from Lumine’s arms and padded after her, leaving the hall very quiet.

Lumine swallowed the knot in her throat. She kept her gaze lowered, but then gloved fingers tilted her chin, urging her up to meet his eyes. His violet gaze was shadowed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lyney asked softly. “That you wanted to visit your mother.”

“You weren’t around,” she said, truth and excuse both.

“I doubt it was spur of the moment,” he said. “You’re too gentle. Too attached to your family. You could have asked me any time. Yet you chose the one moment I was away.” His smile flickered sharp. “Curious, isn’t it?”

The tension in the air stretched taut, knife-thin. Lumine bit her lip.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt her?” His breath brushed her ear. “Chérie, I’m wounded. What kind of monster do you take me for?”

“I-I don’t think you’re a monster,” she whispered.

He leant back, studying her with chilling lightness. “No?” His fingers traced her cheek, tender as a caress.

“You’re very lovely, mon trésor,” he said. “Especially when you lie.”

She didn’t know what to say in response to that. Lyney’s smile widened a little. Then, without warning, he bent and swept her into his arms as though she weighed nothing.

She yelped, arms flying instinctively around his neck. “Lyney?”

“My pretty wife,” he murmured, walking on with unhurried ease, her body cradled against his chest. “Seems to have forgotten her place.”

He climbed the stairs, passed the floor with her room. Her heart lurched, traitorous, pounding against her ribs. “Where are you taking me?”

“Why? Are you afraid?” A thread of amusement laced his voice. “Afraid that I might lay a hand on my duchess?”

“Just put me down. I can walk.”

“You mean you can run,” he corrected. His eyes gleamed. “Don’t think I can’t tell what’s going through that mind of yours.”

“I wouldn’t be able to run fast enough anyway,” she said. “So if you want to talk—”

“Perhaps I don’t want to talk, ma douce.”

He shouldered open his bedroom door, carried her inside, and laid her on the bed. Before she could sit up, he was already leaning over her, caging her in, pressing her into the mattress with nothing but his presence.

Her breath caught. Heat curled low in her belly, treacherous and unwelcome. The way he looked at her—hungry, unwavering—drew every recent memory to the surface. The wine he poured into her glass. His laughter. The lazy smiles. His fingers against her cheek, lingering a beat too long. She swallowed hard. Her heart pounded in her ears, her own body betraying her.

It wasn’t that she liked him. It wasn’t that she wanted this. She was only… nervous. Nervous at the strange kindness he’d shown her since the hedge maze. Nervous at how she’d begun to expect it. Nervous at how she sometimes wondered where he was, what he was doing, whether he’d be there when she came down for dinner—

His hand closed around her throat.

She froze.

He wasn’t squeezing. Not hard. The grip was light, one she could have pushed away if she dared. But she didn’t dare. Her whole body went still, her gaze locked on his, her pulse thundering beneath his fingers.

“You like to test my patience, don’t you, my love?” His voice was soft. Sweet. Menacing. “Keeping your poor husband dangling at the end of your leash, waiting for scraps of attention.”

Her throat convulsed beneath his touch. He smiled.

“I don’t think I’m asking very much,” he said, deceptively pleasant. “Just to be kept apprised of my darling wife’s whereabouts. A stroll through town is one thing. But another city altogether?”

“Lynette was with me,” she said quickly. An excuse. A weak one. But all she had.

“I’m your husband, sweet. I don’t outsource my precious one’s safety to my sister,” he replied mildly. “You make me sound quite irresponsible.”

His thumb brushed across the hollow of her throat, a deliberate drag over her racing pulse. “Tell me, what should I do when my wife troubles me so?”

“I won’t do anything to upset you again,” she whispered. Her hand rose, hovering before settling lightly over his. Not pulling him away. Not daring. But enough to signal intent. To plead.

Dizziness swelled in her chest—his weight pinning her down, the floral trace of his scent, the thrum of fear braided with something far hotter, far more dangerous. She couldn’t tell what she wanted. To push him away. To pull him closer. To run. To—

“You won’t?” His eyes darkened. His grip tightened just enough to make her gasp for breath.

“I won’t,” she said, voice shaking. “I won’t displease my husband.”

He studied her for a long moment before finally loosening, as if some unseen weight had slid off his shoulders. “That’s good,” he said at last—sweet again, gentle again. His hand slipped from her throat, trailing lightly down to her shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

Relief swept through her in a rush, and she collapsed back against the bed, every taut line in her body unspooling at once. “I’m sorry,” she said—reflex, instinct, not guilt. “I should have told you sooner.”

He blinked. Tilted his head, a feline curiosity in his gaze, as if she’d just offered him something puzzling, delicious. “Do you really think that?” he asked. “Or are you only saying it to make me happy?”

She didn’t know how to answer. Silence felt dangerous, but the truth was impossible. Something in her—fear, warmth, that treacherous thrum in her belly—pushed her into motion before she could think. She caught the hand he’d left on her shoulder, brought it to her face, and pressed her cheek into his palm. “Lyney,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

He inhaled sharply. Then he was lowering himself fully, his weight covering her, pinning her to the bed. She gasped as his fingers seized her wrist, the other still cupping her cheek. “For someone so innocent,” he murmured, “you certainly know how to tempt a man.”

His mouth found hers before she could answer. She startled—soft lips, sweet like sugared tea, stealing her breath. But her resistance faltered in the same instant. Her body relaxed, softened; her eyes slid shut as he sighed into the kiss, deepening it. His mouth was hot. Too hot. And though she didn’t know what she was doing, she knew enough to know—she wanted. Ached. Wanted to know what it would feel like if he touched her as a husband touched a wife. Like the actors she’d watched at the Opera Epiclese, when she couldn’t look away even as her stomach knotted with something sharp and nameless.

His grip tightened around her wrist, holding her helpless beneath him. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but kiss him back, gasping for air between the press of lips, the slide of tongues. And still it wasn’t enough. Her body betrayed her, lit from within, desperate for more. She wanted his hands. Wanted him everywhere. Wanted the heat that seemed to wake her nerves, set her blood molten, make her feel alive in a way she hadn’t since her marriage began.

“Lumine,” he breathed against her mouth, and she heard the helpless sound that tore out of her own throat—low, soft, obscene. She hadn’t known she could make such sounds, but they spilt from her anyway. Heat gathered low in her belly, messy and liquid, coiling between her thighs. She wanted—didn’t know what to call it, but she knew he could give it to her.

“Lyney,” she cried, her voice splintering. “Lyney, please.”

His hand trailed lower, down her side, settling firm on her hip. And then—memory stabbed through her. The last time. In this same room. His soft offer to distract her. The way, for a moment, she’d almost said yes.

And the way later that night, she’d watched him kill a man. Watched his sword go straight through his abdomen, watched the body roll off to the floor. And all Lyney said was a mild, offhand complaint—

That he’d gotten blood on the carpet.

She gasped, wrenching back, her free hand splayed across his chest. He stilled beneath her touch, then slowly lifted his head. His eyes—usually violet—looked near-black in the low light, shadowed and unreadable.

“N-Not now,” she said, voice trembling. “Please.”

For a long moment, he said nothing, only stared at her, as if weighing, calculating. Then he exhaled and drew back, rising from the bed with unnerving composure. He smoothed the front of his shirt, every movement precise, as though nothing had happened at all. “My dear wife must be tired,” he said at last, his voice curiously cool. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

A dismissal. Plain and sharp.

She swallowed, gathering herself, then pushed upright, fingers fumbling to smooth her skirt. “Good evening,” she managed.

“Have a good rest.” No warmth, no bite. Just flat finality.

She fled before she could think better of it, quick steps carrying her down the hall, down the stairs, back to the fragile safety of her own chambers.

The first thing she did was go to her mirror. She froze at what stared back: hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. She looked—she looked—

She tore her gaze away, shame prickling her skin. She looked like a woman unravelled. Like someone who didn’t know what she wanted. Or worse, someone who did, but couldn’t admit it.

And Lyney—what did he want? His moods swung like a pendulum, sweet one moment, cruel the next. His hand at her throat, then his mouth claiming hers. He was a man impossible to read, impossible to pin down. Not even Lynette or Rosseland seemed to understand him.

Her mind spun until her eyes snagged on the vanity. The drawer.

Almost without thought, she opened it. Her fingers found what she’d hidden months ago: the vial. She lifted it carefully from its cocoon of satin and paper. Cool glass against her palm, the liquid within shimmering faintly in the light.

A potion that reveals the truth. That draws out what lies underneath. A potion that forces the drinker to mirror what you feel.

The fortune teller’s words echoed.

Her grip tightened. She thought of Lyney’s smile—sweet, sharp, never steady. The pang it left in her chest every time. The uncertainty, the gnawing curiosity. The need to know. To understand. To feel safe. To protect her mother.

Her breath hitched. She shook her head hard and shoved the vial back into the drawer. No. She couldn’t. Not after the lies that had already brought her here. If she went further, if she crossed this line, she would truly be unforgivable. She wouldn’t be able to meet his eyes again.

Better to forget it. Better to pretend it was nothing more than an old woman’s ramblings. A useless trinket.

And yet—

She couldn’t throw it away. Not yet.

Chapter 8

She hadn’t spoken to Lyney in three weeks.

It wasn’t that she was avoiding him. Not on purpose. If anything, it felt like he was avoiding her—throwing himself into work, returning to the manor late at night, taking his meals alone in his study.

It bothered her. She didn’t know why. Didn’t want to think about why.

“Oh, the king’s been asking for him lately,” Lynette said one afternoon, when she found Lumine lingering outside the corridor that led to Lyney’s study. “Something about a slippery businessman he wants to pin down, but can’t be seen openly courting.”

Lumine, now familiar enough with Lynette to be frank, shot her a look. “I didn’t say anything about him.”

“Yet you’ve been pacing here so long, you’ve nearly worn a hole through the carpet,” Lynette replied mildly.

“I have not.”

“The butler asked me to come fetch you. He feels sorry for you.”

“What—! I’m certainly not pining after him, if that’s what anyone’s thinking!”

“No one is thinking that.” Lynette smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder, gently steering her away. “Come. Let’s go back to the training grounds. You’ve been making good progress. I’m proud.”

Lumine exhaled, but let herself be led away. Still, her gaze strayed to the study door again—closed, silent, unchanged. She wasn’t even sure if he was in there. She just…

Honestly, what was she even doing?

She couldn’t name it.

Lately, her sleep had been uneasy. Feverish dreams plagued her—always too vivid, too real, until she woke gasping in the middle of the night. She dreamt of blood. Of silver blades slick with red. Of the moment eyes dimmed as life drained away, leaving only an empty, cooling corpse behind. She dreamt of violet and a brilliant smile and a voice that whispered terrible things into the shell of her ear.

But sometimes, the dreams were… different. Gentler. Full of wine-sweet kisses and silk-soft touches, and those same violet eyes lingering a second too long. Sometimes they escalated—memories tangled with fantasy—and she’d wake with heat coiled low in her belly, breath caught, body aching with a desire she didn’t want to name.

She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Wasn’t even sure she wanted anything.

So she focused on the things she could control: the present. Tangible, practical things, like Lynette’s self-defence lessons.

They had started slowly. Awkwardly. Lynette made several pointed comments about how knives for defence shouldn’t be wielded like kitchen tools, but after a few sessions, Lumine had begun to grow more comfortable.

At the very least, she now knew how not to cut herself. Even swords, though still heavy for her, no longer felt entirely foreign in her hands. Rapiers are probably better for you, Lynette had said once, passing one to her. It had felt lighter. More natural. Like an extension of herself.

Lyney favours them too. They’re light. Quick. You don’t even realise you’ve been cut until you’re halfway to bleeding out.

Everything reminded her of Lyney these days.

She sighed, and Lynette—still guiding her by the arm—glanced back. “You’ve not been in good spirits lately,” she observed, voice as calm and neutral as ever.

That was something Lumine appreciated about Lynette. She wasn’t intrusive. She didn’t pry, didn’t assume. She simply made observations—soft remarks that opened space for reflection, without pressure or expectation.

It gave Lumine room to think. To speak. To breathe.

And sometimes, in this house, that mattered more than anything else.

“I’ve been feeling a little listless,” Lumine admitted. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Lynette stopped and looked at her. There was something in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps. Maybe even disbelief. “Listless?” she echoed. “Aren’t you busy?”

Lumine hesitated. She wasn’t sure why, but saying it out loud made her uncomfortable, like she was confessing to neglect. Like she was shirking her duties as duchess. Even Lynette—slowly and begrudgingly—had started showing her face at more society events. The world knew she’d returned from the northern front, and the growing pile of correspondence addressed to her reflected that.

But Lumine hadn’t been as responsive. She told herself she was pacing herself. That it made sense to gain some familiarity with a dagger before venturing out again, especially with how easily she could be threatened or taken the moment she stepped outside.

But deep down, she knew the truth.

She didn’t want to face the wolves of high society. The ones who whispered about how she’d married so far above her station. The ones who speculated she must have found something—some leverage—to hold over Duke Perinheri. And while that wasn’t exactly wrong… it still didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel good to be reminded of how she’d lied her way into her current position.

So even when Lynette—who rarely praised—had recently remarked that she could now hold her own in a fight for at least five minutes (Desyree had been very impressed, considering she’d started with no combat experience at all), Lumine still didn’t go out much.

She stuck to her usual strategy: only accepting invitations from other ducal families. And there weren’t many of those. So yes, she’d been reclusive. And some quiet part of her knew she could be doing more. Should be doing more.

But then—

“Maybe you should go out,” Lynette said.

Lumine blinked. “What?”

“Go out,” Lynette repeated. “Accept one of the invitations you’ve been receiving.”

She blinked again. Coming from Lynette, this just sounded strange. “Are you telling me to socialise?”

Lynette nodded. “It might do you some good,” she said. Her voice remained neutral, and Lumine couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking. “As a distraction, at least.”

“I don’t need a distraction.”

“I beg to differ. You’ve become even more of a recluse than I am, and that’s saying something. I refuse to relinquish my position as the rarest sighting in high society.”

Lumine stared at her. “Are you joking?”

“Perhaps.” Lynette’s expression barely shifted, save for the faintest upwards quirk of her mouth. “It’s about time you showed yourself, isn’t it? I know my brother can be overprotective, and maybe that’s made you afraid to leave the manor. But you’ve been training. It wouldn’t hurt to put some of those skills to use.” She paused. “I don’t want to assume you’ll be targeted the moment you step outside, but… we can never rule it out.”

The calm, matter-of-fact way Lynette said it sent a chill down her spine. But she pushed the nerves aside, drawing a breath. Lynette was right—she had put in the hours. She had worked for this.

That had been the point, hadn’t it? To reclaim the freedom to walk outside without flinching at every shadow?

“Maybe just for a while,” she said at last. “I’m not exactly the best at mingling in a crowd.”

Lynette seemed to soften. “Neither am I,” she admitted. “Thankfully, Lyney does enough socialising for all of us. If there’s one thing he has over me, it’s that silver tongue of his. It’s surprisingly useful.”

Lumine decided not to press that. “Are you going out tonight?” she asked, changing the subject.

Lynette nodded. “There’s a debutante ball. The younger cousin of a friend. I was undecided, but I’ll go if you do. I’d appreciate the company.”

That, right there, was an opening. At least she wouldn’t have to go alone.

“I’ll go,” Lumine said. “It’d be nice to have a change of scenery.”

“Exactly. Meeting new people might do you some good. It’s not ideal, staying cooped up in this manor all the time,” Lynette said. “It has a terrible habit of making you forget what it means to live.”

“… What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean.”

Something flickered in Lynette’s eyes—something too quick to catch. It was gone the next second.

“Let’s go,” she said, tugging on Lumine’s elbow before she could respond. Lumine stumbled with a yelp, startled by the sudden movement. “No need to waste the daylight. I want to see if you remember what I taught you last week.”

Lumine groaned but didn’t protest. As tiring as it was to keep up with Lynette—or at least try to; she was still nowhere near the swordswoman’s level—it kept her focused. Gave her something else to think about.

As they walked towards the training grounds, her gaze slid to the Sumeru roses blooming along the garden’s stone wall.

A chill ran down her spine. She quickly looked away.

---

Lynette’s friend turned out to be a marchioness. Half of high society must have been at the ball.

Lumine was already regretting her decision to come, and Lynette clearly shared the sentiment. Not long ago, she had whispered something vague about “needing air”, grabbed a glass of wine, and vanished before Lumine could even attempt to follow.

Which left her here. Alone. Among the wolves.

She tried to smile, tried to respond politely as the women closed in—questions a little too pointed, gazes a little too sharp.

A favourite conversation starter: her husband’s absence.

“Did His Grace not accompany you tonight, Duchess Perinheri?”

“He’s busy,” she always replied. “He’s been travelling quite a bit for work and hasn’t had time for social engagements.”

“Oh, is that so?” One woman tittered, lifting her champagne with dainty fingers. Lumine didn’t recall her name, only that she’d spent the last five minutes asking far too much about Lyney. “You must be lonely then, Duchess. I’d be devastated if my husband kept leaving me alone so soon after the wedding.”

Lumine knew a jibe when she heard one. She kept her face calm, kept the smile fixed, but it was getting harder not to snap.

“Oh, I’m quite fine,” she said, casting a glance around the room. Still no sign of Lynette. Traitor. “Lyney and I stay in touch. Even when we’re apart, it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Isn’t it a shame, though?” Another girl sighed. She was younger, and unlike the others, seemed genuinely oblivious to the tension. “His Grace is so handsome. If I had a husband like that, I’d never want to be apart from him!”

Lumine’s eyelid twitched. “That’s how you keep the romance alive,” she said lightly. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Yet too much distance can let a man’s gaze wander,” the first woman said, fluttering her lashes. “Not that I believe His Grace to be the sort, of course. I’m sure you two have a very stable marriage.”

She smiled. Lumine smiled back. In the back of her mind, she wondered how the woman would react if she poured wine down the front of her dress.

“Oh, Lady Jolienne, really,” the younger girl gasped. “There’s no need to say such things, even if you mean well. Look at Her Grace—she’s glowing! It’s the look of a woman truly in love.”

Lumine wished more than anything to be out on a balcony. Alone. With wine. And maybe only the moon for company.

She was never letting Lynette talk her into another ball again. Tea parties were better. Smaller. Predictable. Easier to manage.

But a debutante ball? With half the noble families present, and every woman circling like a hawk in search of fresh gossip? It was awful. And they were all swarming her, asking why she was alone, speculating on her marriage, trying to figure out how she’d managed to snare Lyney in the first place.

It was exhausting. She wanted to go home.

“Oh, Olivia, you sweet thing,” Lady Jolienne said with a saccharine smile. “I only meant it in goodwill. You don’t have to take it so seriously!”

Goodwill, her foot.

Lumine’s smile tightened as she searched for a way out of the conversation.

“In fact,” Jolienne continued, “I’ve no doubt Her Grace holds the firmest place in Duke Perinheri’s heart. Why, he’s never even looked at another woman, has he? Well. Besides the ones who—”

“The ones who?”

The voice sliced through the air like a blade.

Lumine nearly jumped, her heart thudding in her chest. All three women turned.

Lyney.

Standing there as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Dressed impeccably in a burgundy coat, a white blouse trimmed with silver, and tailored black slacks—the Perinheri colours, worn like a second skin.

He held a drink in one hand, his smile easy, his head tilted just so. Waiting.

“D-Duke Perinheri,” Jolienne stammered. “I-I greet Your Grace—”

“Oh, dispense with the formality,” Lyney said smoothly. “Don’t let me interrupt. I thought I heard my name. What was that about my interest in other women?”

His violet eyes glittered.

Lumine’s pulse quickened. She knew that look. It was the look Lyney wore when he wanted to play—when he sensed you’d backed yourself into a corner and was waiting for you to step off the edge.

Jolienne, vexing and oblivious as she was, at least had the sense to look contrite. “I-I didn’t mean anything by it, Your Grace,” she said. “I was… I only meant to—I thought that—”

“There’s no need to explain yourself,” Lyney said, voice mild. “I just want to know what you were about to say.”

Jolienne paled. “Nothing, Your Grace. I was rambling—nonsense.”

Olivia, the younger girl, was watching them as though this was the most riveting play she’d ever seen. Lumine couldn’t blame her. She’d be watching too, if she weren’t living it.

“I see,” Lyney said. “Then perhaps you ought to go easy on the drinks, Lady Jolienne. One might say something one can’t recover from.”

His voice was smooth. Pleasant. Almost warm. But Jolienne clearly heard the steel beneath it. She gave a shaky curtsey and fled into the crowd.

Olivia lingered for only a moment, glancing between them. “Have a good evening, Duke and Duchess Perinheri,” she said, then followed after.

And just like that, it was quiet.

No more sharp eyes. No more questions. Just peace and solitude, exactly what she’d wished for minutes ago. And yet, now that she had it, she could hardly breathe. Her fingers tightened around her wine glass as Lyney turned towards her—still smiling, though the brilliance had dimmed.

“Shall we get some air?” he asked. “Before the crowd notices us again.”

Only then did she realise the attention in the room had shifted. The debutante was descending the grand staircase, arm in arm with her older brother, drawing every eye in the room. A convenient distraction.

She nodded. Together, they slipped through the thinning crowd and out into the corridor beyond.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as soon as the doors shut behind them. “I thought you were busy.”

Lyney glanced at her. “Wherever did you get that impression?”

“You’ve been gone for three weeks,” she said. “I thought you’d fallen off the face of the world.”

His lips curved. “Was my darling wife worried about me?”

“No,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d updated your will. Just in case.”

That drew a laugh. “Oh, I’ve missed your sense of humour.”

“I might not be joking.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve gotten bold in my absence, ma chère. I suspect Lynette’s influence.”

His tone remained mild, but something about it made her tense. As always, she couldn’t read him. Was he amused? Annoyed? Or did he simply feel nothing at all?

“Why are you here?” she asked, shifting the topic before she could overthink.

“The staff informed me you and Lynette had decided to attend a ball. I was curious what sort of event could possibly tempt you both out of the manor.”

“Lynette said it was a favour for a friend.”

“So it seems. Though unsurprisingly, she’s left you on your own.”

“I thought she’d be more reliable.”

“She usually is. Just not when it comes to society.” He reached towards her. She stilled, but all he did was gently take the wine glass from her fingers. She watched as he lifted it to his mouth, tipping his head back, the deep red catching the light as it slid down his throat.

“You could’ve gotten your own drink,” she said.

“Is my dear wife reluctant to share?” he asked, amusement glinting in his eyes. Her stomach flipped.

“What have you been doing these past three weeks?” she asked, trying to steady herself.

“Nothing important.” He said it too quickly. Too flippantly. A deliberate lie, dangled like bait—one he knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore.

She didn’t want to take it. Didn’t want to play his game. But she couldn’t help herself. “It can’t have been nothing if you didn’t come back for so long.”

“I did come back,” he said. “Just not very early.”

“And you left before breakfast. Even when you were here, you locked yourself in your study. You may as well have been gone.”

She paused, then looked up at him fully. “You felt more like a ghost than something real.”

Lyney blinked. “That’s a lot of words,” he murmured, “to tell me you missed me.”

“I didn’t miss you.”

Her voice wavered—just a bit, just enough to betray her. She didn’t understand why. She only hoped he hadn’t noticed. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “But if you expect me to inform you before I go somewhere far, shouldn’t you extend me the same courtesy?”

He didn’t answer at once. He only studied her, as though she were the most fascinating puzzle in the world. There was a sharpness to the scrutiny, a weight so focused it made her want to flinch.

“You want me to tell you where I am?” he said finally. “And what I’m doing?”

She nodded. “Is that too much to ask?” She met his gaze for three seconds, then glanced away, frustrated with herself. “I always find out secondhand. From Desyree. From Lynette. It would be nice if you could tell me directly. Instead of leaving me the last to know anything in my own household.”

She couldn’t explain why it made her so uneasy. It shouldn’t matter how she learnt his comings and goings. It wasn’t like she wanted to keep tabs on him. Her daily routine carried on regardless of whether Lyney was home.

But she’d grown used to his presence. And a part of her—a small, unwanted part—had come to rely on that presence. On the illusion of consistency. In a world where she was still grasping for stability, it helped to believe that at least Lyney pretended to be on her side.

So when he vanished—without warning, without explanation—and Lynette could only offer some vague excuse about him running errands for the king… she’d felt blindsided. It wasn’t rational. But it bothered her anyway. She didn’t want to lose the few scraps of certainty she had.

“Are you afraid I might abandon you?”

She looked up. His voice was soft, but his gaze wasn’t. It cut. Sharp and assessing. She didn’t know what it meant, and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“Are you afraid,” he repeated, stepping closer, “that I’ll break off our marriage? That I’ll stop funding your mother’s treatment?”

He was close now. Too close. Close enough that, if anyone passed by, they’d raise eyebrows. She swallowed, aware of every inch between them, but held her ground.

“It’s not about that,” she said. Her voice shook, this time obviously. He must have heard it. But he said nothing. Just kept looking at her, waiting. “I’m not trying to cling to you. I’m not trying to monitor you. I just… want to know.”

“Why does it matter?” His voice was barely above a murmur. “Do you care where I am? Wouldn’t you prefer it if I were far away from you, chérie?”

He was near enough now that his scent hit her—soft, floral, bittersweet. It made her head swim.

“You certainly acted like you did,” he went on. “It’s baffling, really. One might almost think you’d made up your mind.”

She swallowed again. The scrape of it grounded her, anchored her to the present. “You haven’t answered me,” she said.

He tilted his head. Then reached out and brushed his fingers against her cheek. She inhaled sharply.

“What will you give me,” he whispered, “if I tell you, mon cœur?”

“Am I not allowed to know by virtue of our relationship?”

“That would require you to fully admit to being my wife,” he said. “And I’m not sure if you’re ready for that.”

She hesitated. His voice remained light, but his gaze didn’t. There was weight in it, balanced precariously between amusement and something darker.

She’d only seen him look at her this way once before. That day when he carried her to his room. When she thought she’d heard him say her name—

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She took a step back, breath shallow, until her spine hit the wall. “What do you want from me?”

“Now, now. We’re bartering, aren’t we?” His voice turned saccharine sweet. “You’re the one asking something of me. It’s only fair you make the first offer.”

‘Fair’ and ‘Lyney’ had never belonged in the same sentence. Lumine bit her lip, weighing her words. Wondering how much to show before she wound up caught in some unseen trap.

“I think I’ve been playing my role as your wife,” she said at last. “And yes, maybe not perfectly—there’s always room to improve. But even so, don’t I deserve a little more transparency?”

His smile curved, unreadable. “I never asked you to play that role,” he said. “You chose to step into it.”

“I didn’t want to be a figurehead.”

“Strange, coming from the one who convinced me to propose.” He closed the remaining space between them. Her breath caught. This was too near—too intimate. They were still just outside the ballroom. “Not quite what I’d call a conventional arrangement, is it?”

“But we’re already in it,” she said, willing her voice to steady. “So I’d like to make the most of it.”

He studied her, then leant in and cupped her cheek, forehead pressing to hers. The scent of him—floral, heady—spilt into her lungs, dizzied her. Flooded her chest and mind with something dangerously close to longing.

“You don’t get to have your cake and eat it, ma chère,” he said softly. “Either you commit to the bit, or you settle.”

She wasn’t thinking straight. Couldn’t, with him this close. Her thoughts spiralled—three weeks ago, the heat of his mouth on hers, the silk of his sheets beneath her, the hunger in his gaze. The way he’d looked at her like she was something to be devoured.

“I don’t know what you want me to commit to,” she whispered.

“And there lies the problem.” His breath brushed her ear, and then his lips—featherlight—grazed the edge of it. She shivered.

“You can’t ask something of someone,” he murmured, “without knowing what they might want in return. That’s how you lose. And you don’t want to lose, do you, Duchess Perinheri?”

What he wanted. Her heart pounded, nearly deafening. She shut her eyes as he dipped lower, lips lingering near the hollow of her throat. Too close. Not touching, but close enough to suggest warmth. Want. Something that could almost be mistaken for tenderness.

She wasn’t foolish. She had some idea of what he desired. But what if that was only the surface—just what he wanted her to think?

Truth was slippery with Lyney. Maybe impossible. And even if she could grasp it, did she wish to offer that much? He wasn’t wrong. Their arrangement, for now, worked. Her allowance funded her mother’s care. Their marriage was tolerable. And if it wasn’t broken, did she really need to fix it?

Except… if she didn’t ask now, would she be able to live with that silence forever?

“Lyney,” she said, just his name—soft, uncertain. A pause. A breath. A stalling tactic. He didn’t move, but she could feel the way his attention narrowed, like a blade.

“Do you remember when I got lost in the hedge maze?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

He pulled back, gaze sharpening with curiosity. “What about it?”

“You asked me then what I thought you wanted from this marriage,” she said. “And you told me I hadn’t quite gotten it right.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “So you’re asking for the answer now?”

“You wouldn’t give it even if I did.”

He smiled again, just a flicker wider.

“But you didn’t say I was entirely wrong either,” she added.

“What’s your point, my dear?”

She drew in another breath. His scent filled her again. Thick and sweet and dizzying.

“I don’t want the manor to be lonely,” she said. “I don’t think either of us does. But you vanishing without warning doesn’t help. So show me the baseline respect a husband owes his wife. No matter what else you think of me.”

He blinked. Then laughed—soft, dulcet. “You still want to make this about respect?” he asked. “That’s a shaky foundation, ma douce. Considering how this all began.”

But she didn’t want to entertain the alternative. What he seemed to be implying. She couldn’t trust him—not entirely—and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself either. Not when it came to him. Not when the lines were this blurred.

So she straightened her spine and met his gaze, fingers curling into fists at her sides. “There’s nothing I can do if you don’t want to listen,” she said. “I’m just making a request of my husband, that’s all. It’s your choice whether to grant it.”

Silence settled between them. Taut, brittle. For once, Lyney looked… contemplative. Not amused, not teasing. As if he were genuinely weighing her words.

Then he shrugged—a smooth, fluid motion, infuriatingly graceful. “If that’s what my wife wishes,” he said. “I’d hate to be thought of as a stingy husband. Fine. I’ll let you know next time, since my absence troubles you so.”

He stepped back, finally giving her space. She exhaled, feeling the tension loosen from her shoulders. Part of her still didn’t believe he’d agreed, especially without further negotiation. She’d half-expected him to deny her outright, just because he could.

“Give me your hand,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“Just give it to me.”

She hesitated, then extended her hand. He placed the empty wine glass into her palm.

“Here. You can have this back,” he said, pleasant.

She stared at him. “You finished my drink and now you want me to take back the empty glass?”

“Consider it payment,” he said, voice light and lilting. “For granting you this much leeway. Not everyone knows my schedule, you know. Not even the king.”

His tone remained gentle, but the prickle at the back of her neck told her better. Then something shifted again. A flicker, a mask slipping smoothly back into place.

Lyney Perinheri: sweet, beautiful, smiling.

“Shall we return to the ballroom?” he asked, offering his arm.

Feeling like she had little choice, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The doors swung open as they approached.

“Duke and Duchess Perinheri, re-entering the ball,” the servant called.

Lyney smiled, nodded, stepped neatly back into the spotlight. Lumine followed with a polite wave—smaller, tighter. Her own smile felt too brittle.

It was going to be a long night.

---

True to his word, Lyney began telling her where he was going.

Sometimes he’d drop by her room late at night, or in the earliest hours before Desyree arrived. Occasionally, she’d already be awake, and he would murmur his plans while adjusting his cuffs or glancing towards the window. Other times, she’d wake to find a note on her nightstand in his elegant script.

He was busy. She’d always known that. But it still surprised her, the sheer variety of his duties. Business negotiations. Military oversight. Intelligence work.

She preferred not to ask about the last one. Not that he ever gave much away. What little he did share was almost worse: chilling anecdotes, flippantly delivered, like how long their latest captive had lasted under waterboarding before breaking.

“Even I don’t know what he’s up to sometimes,” Lynette said one morning, watching as Lumine folded one of Lyney’s notes with a faint grimace. “It’s quite impressive that he’s willing to tell you.”

Lumine thought back to the wine glass. The brush of his fingers against hers. His voice, pleasant as ever, when he’d handed it back: payment for the privilege of knowing my schedule. That had only been two weeks ago. It felt like longer.

“I suppose,” she murmured.

Lynette must have caught something in her tone. She set down her toast. “Did he say something to you?”

Startled, Lumine glanced up. Lynette was watching her closely. Concerned. She could read her now—the subtle lift of an eyebrow, the slight tilt of her head.

“He didn’t,” Lumine said. “Just mentioned he’d be away for a few days. But he’ll be back in time for the crown prince’s birthday ball.”

“A few days?” Lynette echoed. “That’s two weeks away. Sounds like more than just a few days.”

Lumine didn’t reply. She lifted her teacup instead.

“He’s been avoidant,” Lynette said.

“Has he? He seems the same.”

“Well, it is normal for him to disappear for days at a time. But…” Lynette paused. “He used to treat it like work. Now it feels more like he’s using it as an escape.”

“An escape?” Lumine echoed.

Lynette nodded. “Like he doesn’t want to be in the manor. Did something happen between you?”

Lumine thought back to the debutante ball. The simmering tension between them afterwards. Lynette had vanished that night, but Lyney said there was no need to wait for her. So they boarded a carriage home and didn’t speak once on the ride back.

Even now, their exchanges were formal. Cool. The easy charm, the quiet sweetness from a month ago—it was gone. And what had taken its place was far more familiar: the Lyney of the early days. Distant. Unreadable. Watching her not like a partner, but like a player waiting for her next misstep.

“No,” she said, after a pause. “We didn’t quarrel.”

“He’s acting like he’s upset.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s isolating himself. That’s what he always does when he’s irritated—he disappears. Usually, he attends two or three events a week to stay informed. He hasn’t shown up for anything since that ball.”

“You mean the one where you abandoned me?”

“Don’t say it like that, Lumine.” Lynette actually looked a little guilty. “I really couldn’t help myself.”

“You could have told me you were going back to the manor instead of vanishing for fresh air. I was stuck there for two more hours!”

“I thought you’d have given up and left when I did,” Lynette said, lifting her toast. “Anyway, that’s besides the point. My brother’s been acting suspicious. I don’t have a good feeling about it.”

Lumine bit her lip. If there was one thing she trusted about Lynette, it was her intuition. “You think he’s… doing something?”

“Perhaps. Him and his games.” Lynette looked like she wanted to roll her eyes, but didn’t. “I’m more concerned about what that means for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. He’s being extraordinarily difficult, even for him. He knows what people might say if he keeps leaving you alone for this long. So what is he playing at?”

There was a trace of frustration in her voice, more emotion than Lynette usually let slip.

“It’s fine,” Lumine said quietly. “I don’t mind. I can handle the rumours.”

She already had, back at the debutante ball. And the whispering had died down the moment Lyney appeared at her side—smiling, charming, attentive. The weight of his presence alone had scattered the vultures.

Lynette shook her head. “Those women are witches,” she muttered, with startling conviction. “I’d rather deal with the northern tribes. At least they’re straightforward. The noble ladies just wait to pounce.”

Lumine almost smiled. Lynette rarely got so vehement. “What could they say that would truly hurt me?” she asked. “It’s just gossip. It doesn’t matter.”

Lynette’s brow creased faintly. “You remember the young lady who changed the colour of her ribbon and had to flee to the countryside for a month?”

Right. Lyney had mentioned that. The day they were married.

“I remember. But this… the worst they’d say is that the duchess is reclusive and the duke is busy. It’s not like he’s being seen around with other women.”

Lynette hesitated. Looked like she wanted to say more.

But Lumine cleared her throat. “It’s a nice day. We could go to the market.”

She hoped Lynette would let it go.

She didn’t want to talk about Lyney. About the way his name weighed on her chest like a stone. About how he haunted the manor even in absence—his notes, his smiles, the echo of his voice lodged like splinters in her mind.

She was tired of deciphering him. Tired of grasping at gestures and glances, of wondering if anything he said meant what it sounded like. She just wanted the truth. Something simple. Something clean.

But in the Perinheri household, the truth was the hardest thing to find.

Lynette sighed, but didn’t press. “We can go,” she said at last. “But in disguise, please. I don’t want to be recognised today.”

Apparently, she’d run into some old friends from the northern front, joined them for drinks, and ended the evening by punching out a group of men harassing a barmaid. She was now wanted by local law enforcement, who had yet to realise they were putting up posters for Lynette Perinheri. It helped that the tavern had been dark, and no one quite saw her face.

“Fine,” Lumine said, smiling faintly. “Let’s get ready. I’ll meet you in the main hall.”

---

She didn’t know why she brought the truth potion.

It was tucked inside a small velvet pouch at the bottom of her satchel, nestled like a guilty secret. She hadn’t meant to. But after Desyree finished braiding her hair and lacing the final ribbon of her gown, Lumine had glanced once more at her vanity—at the mirror, at the reflection that no longer felt like a stranger. She couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t wearing something gifted by Lyney. Couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be the duchess.

Her eyes shifted to the nightstand.

It was still littered with his notes—paper reminders that he thought of her, even when he was gone. And yet, Lynette’s words from breakfast echoed in her mind.

Even Lynette thought he was playing a game.

Why did it always have to be a game with him? Why was the truth something he held so close?

The moment she thought it, the idea of the potion wouldn’t leave her. She told herself it was nothing. Harmless curiosity. Anyone would be curious. Carrying it didn’t mean she’d use it.

Still, she felt the weight of it as she waited by the main hall, the glass vial solid against her thigh through the fabric.

“Okay, I’m done.”

She looked up. Lynette stood in front of her—unrecognisable, with dark hair and vivid green eyes.

“You look completely different.”

“Thank you,” Lynette said, satisfied. “I’m rather good at disguises, if I say so myself.”

“Magic?”

“A little. Only for the hair—I didn’t want to dye it.” She lifted a lock, twirling it. “It’ll fade in a few hours. Just long enough to enjoy ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Lumine said quietly.

“No need,” Lynette replied. “If it helps you feel better, that’s all that matters.”

Lumine felt a sudden prickling in her eyes. She blinked, rubbing them quickly. “Just dust,” she said when Lynette tilted her head. “Shall we?”

Lynette nodded, and together they set out.

The market was exactly as Lumine remembered. A sprawl of mismatched stalls, bright canopies flapping in the breeze, the scent of spices and smoke hanging heavy in the air. Hawkers shouted over one another, vendors peddled everything from cured meats to magical trinkets. It was chaotic, messy—and alive.

“I haven’t been here in years,” Lynette said, scanning the scene. “It looks exactly the same.”

“Some of it probably shouldn’t be sold in public,” Lumine remarked.

“Well, if you don’t see it, it doesn’t count.”

“That’s not a very reassuring stance from the ruling family.”

Lynette only smiled. “We have an interest in letting it stay just like this. People gather here. And where people gather… so does information.”

“Wait.” Lumine blinked. “So Lyney lets it stay lawless on purpose?”

“Lawless is a bit much. But yes.” She paused. “He set this place up, after all.”

Lumine turned to her, startled. “He what?”

“You didn’t know?”

She hadn’t. Her thoughts flew back to her first visit—the old woman in the tent, the strange way the stall had disappeared behind her, how Desyree had insisted afterwards that she’d seen nothing at all.

If Lyney was the one who ran this market…

Her hand drifted to her pouch. Was that old woman part of his plan? Another step in whatever game he was playing?

“Something wrong?” Lynette asked, already a few steps ahead. “Come on. I have things to get. You reminded me of my list.”

“What are you buying?”

“Polishing oil. Mana stones. A sleep tincture.” She glanced back. “Not for me. For Lyney. I was thinking of slipping a drop into his wine at night. He never sleeps.”

“Would that even work?”

“Maybe not. He’s developed a ridiculous tolerance for poisons and foreign substances.” Lynette shrugged. “But it’s harmless. He’d understand.”

She turned towards the market with the easy grace of someone unbothered by potential crimes. “Coming?”

Lumine followed.

For the next hour, they browsed. Lynette flitted from stall to stall, her arms quickly filling with bags. Lumine bought nothing—only trailed behind, distracted. Lynette was a focused shopper, if a somewhat exuberant one. Her purchases were practical, useful. Still, the way she spent made Lumine think of Lyney.

They were siblings, after all.

At some point—somewhere between Lynette getting distracted by a stall with exotic Inazuman rocks that allegedly let you communicate with the dead, and Lumine deciding to take a bit of a breather—they got separated.

Lumien wandered forward and found herself standing before a strange-looking tent.

Bundles of herbs dangled from the awning. Behind a wooden table sat a bearded, bespectacled man, tinkering with a bubbling contraption. As she watched, a puff of purple smoke exploded from the spout. He coughed violently, waving it away.

“Ah—sorry about that!” he said to no one in particular, blinking through the haze. Then he noticed her. “Looking for anything, young lady? I’ve got all sorts of concoctions! Or, if you’d rather try brewing one yourself, I’ve got ingredients too. Probably.”

She stepped closer despite herself. “You sell medicines?”

“Oh yes.” The man beamed. “Tinctures, salves, elixirs—real and experimental! I dabble in alchemy, you see. Mostly as a hobby. My wife insists I clear out my workshop, so here I am.”

He was talkative. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so she simply nodded.

“Anything in particular you need?”

She thought of Lynette. “A sleep tincture.”

“Ah, I’ve got just the thing. Very strong. Knock a horse right out.” He ducked beneath the table. “Give me a moment. I’m fairly sure I left it… somewhere…”

While he rummaged, she scanned the table. It was covered in tools and strange contraptions—some rusted, some barely whirring, their gears clicking with effort.

“You said you were an alchemist?” she asked.

“Yes, though I’m more of an enthusiast than a professional,” he called from beneath the table. “I love to study how ingredients interact. It’s like solving a puzzle made by nature itself!”

“And these machines help with that?”

“Some do,” he said, reappearing with a thin glass tube. “Here we go. Made from lakelight lilies, loach pearls, and crystal cores. Very potent. Use with caution!”

She took the vial, dubious. Those ingredients didn’t sound even remotely related to sleep. “How much?”

“Oh, five mora will do,” he said cheerfully. “Leftovers from other experiments. I’d feel awful charging proper coin.”

She fished in her satchel and handed over the mora. He passed her the vial and turned back to his contraptions.

But as she slipped the tincture into her bag, her fingers brushed the pouch.

The potion.

She hesitated. Then: “Do you know how to identify what’s in a potion? Or at least whether it’s dangerous?”

The man glanced up, adjusting his glasses. “You have something you want tested?”

Wordlessly, she drew the vial from the pouch and handed it over. He accepted it gingerly, as if it might explode. “What is it?”

“I was told it’s a truth potion. Or a love potion. Something like that.”

“Those are very different things,” he said mildly. He lifted the vial, letting it catch the sun. The liquid inside gleamed faintly. “May I open it?”

She nodded.

He unstoppered the vial and sniffed. “No scent. Viscosity of water. You might mistake it for plain springwater—except…”

“Except?”

“There’s magic in this,” he said, voice lower now. “Potent magic. Highly distilled. Whoever made this knew exactly what they were doing.”

He looked at her, more serious than before. “May I test a drop?”

Another nod.

He moved to a wheezing old device and let a single droplet fall into its spout. The gears whirred to life with a soft grind. The machine shuddered, then began to analyse, sluggish and creaky.

“You can have this back,” the man said, returning the vial. “We won’t need more.”

She took it, tucking the potion carefully back into her satchel. Then stood beside him, waiting.

The machine chugged and wheezed like an old beast, fighting for every breath. She waited. The minutes crawled by. And all the while, something cold settled in her chest.

Then finally, the machine sputtered to a halt with a loud pop, making her flinch. A slip of paper slid out from a narrow slot, and the man snatched it up, squinting at the print.

“Well,” he said at last, “I can tell you it’s perfectly safe to drink.”

“And?”

“I can’t tell you much else,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Here’s the list of ingredients, but… nothing particularly unusual.”

He handed her the slip. Lumine scanned it once, then again. Her eyes didn’t deceive her—perfectly ordinary components. Mist flower corolla. Rainbow rose extract. Spring of the first dewdrop. A blend of tidalga and sango pearl. Nothing that seemed remotely harmful.

“Do you know what the potion actually does?”

“Not unless I tested it on myself,” he said. “I can confirm it’s magic. And from the feel of it, it is aligned with what you mentioned—something to do with compulsion. But I can’t say how, or to what extent.” He paused. “You’ll want to be careful with it, miss. I don’t recommend drinking it yourself, but if you did… well, you wouldn’t die. No lasting physical harm either. That much I’m sure of.”

Her heart thudded. “Thank you.”

He nodded, then hesitated. “Are you going to use it on someone?”

She shook her head too quickly. “Someone gave it to me. I was planning to get rid of it. I just… wanted to know what it was. If it really did what they said it did.”

The man tutted. “Irresponsible alchemists these days. Handing out potions like candy. Someone’s going to get hurt, if they haven’t already.”

Lumine thought of the few mora he’d charged for the sleep tincture and wisely said nothing.

“Thanks for your help,” she said instead.

“No trouble at all,” he replied. “And it’s good you intend to get rid of it. You can leave it with me, if you’d like—I’ll be disposing of the rest of my unsold stock later.”

“Oh—” The word was out before she could stop it. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it myself. Can’t go handing off my problems to someone else.”

“Fair enough,” the man said, still smiling. “Responsible young lady. Just remember, don’t believe everything you’re told. Especially when it comes to unknown substances.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She gave him a polite nod and turned to leave.

The vial seemed to grow heavier in her satchel with every step. What was it, really? Where had it come from? Would it do what the old woman said it would?

Thankfully, she didn’t have much time to dwell. A few moments later, she bumped into Lynette, who had finished most of her shopping and was looking for her.

Lumine handed her the sleep tincture, and Lynette inspected it with interest. When Lumine listed out the ingredients, she gave an approving nod.

“That alchemist knows what he’s doing. Lakelight lilies alone can induce a coma, but he tempered it well. The loach pearl adds restorative balance, and the crystal cores help neutralise the toxic elements. Even Lyney would sleep through this.”

Lynette sounded far too well-versed in alchemy. Lumine only nodded, following her out of the market as she practically bounced along, pleased with her haul.

In the back of her mind, Lumine couldn’t stop wondering. Would the truth potion work? Not that she planned to use it. But still.

---

“His Grace has returned,” Desyree said as she combed through Lumine’s hair, still damp from her bath.

Lumine nearly dropped her book. “He’s back?”

That was earlier than expected. She’d thought he would return the night before the crown prince’s birthday—still three days away.

Desyree nodded. “He came home after dinner, while you were bathing.”

Lumine shut her eyes, trying to recall why he’d left this time. He’d been gone for over a week. “There was… an uprising,” she said slowly. “Near the southern border?”

“Yes, my lady,” Desyree confirmed, rubbing oil between her palms and working it gently into Lumine’s hair. It'd grown longer since she married Lyney—now nearly to her mid-back, longer than she had ever let it grow.

She’d always preferred keeping it short. Just past her shoulders, manageable. Back then, she didn’t have the time or mora to fuss over beauty routines. Now, she didn’t need to worry about food or medicine. Now, she had the luxury of leaving her hair long. And no reason to cut it, really.

Desyree curled the ends, blonde locks framing Lumine’s face. “Your hair is beautiful, my lady. Long and thick. Though it must get heavy.”

“When it’s wet, yes,” Lumine said. “But I’ve gotten used to it.” She shut her book and set it down on the vanity. “Where is Lyney now?”

“In his room. He asked not to be disturbed.”

“Has he eaten?”

Desyree shook her head. “I don’t believe so. The butler asked, but His Grace said he wasn’t hungry, so we didn’t press.”

“That won’t do,” Lumine said, rising from her chair. “He should eat something. At least a little.”

Desyree blinked, stepping back to make space. “He wouldn’t listen to us. But if it came from you, my lady… he might be willing.”

“Does he always skip meals after returning from an excursion?”

A nod. “Even once he’s home, he shuts himself in and works through the night. It’s not healthy,” Desyree added, quieter. “But he never listens.”

She didn’t know why it bothered her. Why the idea of him returning home only to lock himself away made something twist inside her. It wasn’t new—he’d come home late before, always slipping in long after she was asleep. She’d never noticed. Never cared.

But this time, she was still awake. And suddenly, it mattered.

“Could you ask the kitchen to prepare something? Just a snack and a drink. I’ll make sure he eats it.”

“Of course, my lady.” Desyree bowed and left the room.

Lumine stood at the vanity, heart unsteady. Her fingers drifted to the drawer. She opened it.

The potion glimmered under the light. Clear as springwater. Innocent. Harmless.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since the market. Just as she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Lyney—his distance, his silence. His unpredictability. Even Lynette had said something was wrong.

It felt like he was punishing her, somehow. Withholding his presence. His warmth. She might as well be unmarried, haunting the manor like a ghost. And it hurt more than she wanted to admit, because once—just once—he had seemed to care. He used to invite her on small outings, leave her little gifts. And Desyree had said, with quiet awe, His Grace pays you more attention than you think.

It didn’t feel that way anymore. Hadn’t for weeks.

And as much as she hated to acknowledge it, a part of her missed that attention. Missed the way he used to look at her. Missed feeling seen. She didn’t want to admit it, because it felt like losing. Like wanting something she shouldn’t. But the longer she stayed, the harder it was to ignore.

She had come to care for this place. For the staff. For Lynette. And—though she wished it weren’t true—even, in some small way, for Lyney.

He never treated her poorly. On the contrary, he met every material need, and then some. In public, he was the perfect husband: doting, attentive, unfailingly loyal. Even when he was aloof or teasing, she knew he would never let her falter. Not in front of others. Not when Duke Perinheri needed to project the image of a stable marriage.

She could count on that farce. On the weight of his name.

But she hated—truly hated—not knowing what he was thinking. Hated the whiplash of tenderness and distance. One day, he’d be unbearably sweet. The next, cold. Remote. Almost cruel. Some days, she could almost believe there was something real between them. That beneath all the polish and performance, he might actually be human. But then he’d say something that shattered the illusion. And she’d be left fumbling again, questioning everything.

She was tired. Tired of second-guessing. Tired of walking into beautifully laid traps. Tired of not knowing which version of him she’d get.

She wanted the truth.

“My lady,” Desyree called from outside the door.

Lumine jumped. She crossed the room to open it. Desyree stood there, holding a tray with a small plate of biscuits and a cup of warm milk.

“Milk?” Lumine asked, a little amused.

“Lady Lynette’s idea,” Desyree said, smiling. “She slipped in a bit of her sleep tincture. Said His Grace looked ready to drop. And that it didn’t matter if he passed out at his desk, so long as he actually slept.”

That sounded like something Lynette would say.

Lumine took the tray carefully. “Thank you. I’ll take it to him. You may rest for the night.”

“Good night, my lady,” Desyree said with a bow, retreating down the hall.

Lumine stepped back into the room and set the tray on her vanity. Her eyes fell on the potion. It still gleamed in the drawer, a twinkling damnation.

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.

But Lynette had already slipped something into his drink. Would it matter if she added a little more? The alchemist said it was harmless. Just a tiny drop—

She bit down hard on her lip. What was she thinking? It was bad enough that she’d blackmailed him. And now she was considering drugging him?

He would never forgive her if he found out. Never.

But even as that thought echoed through her, her hand moved on its own. She unstoppered the vial and tipped a single drop onto her finger.

It glistened. Perfectly clear. She lifted it to her nose—no scent.

She hesitated. Then licked it off.

It dissolved on her tongue instantly. No taste. No after–feel. No residue. If she hadn’t watched herself do it, she might’ve doubted it happened at all.

Her pulse raced. She waited.

Nothing.

No dizziness. No heat. No sense of being overtaken. Just… nothing.

Before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed the vial and tipped a careful amount into the milk. It vanished the moment it touched the surface. She stoppered the bottle, slid it back into her drawer, and picked up the tray with both hands.

It was a short walk to his room. Just up one flight of stairs.

She paused outside his door. Took a deep breath. Then knocked.

Silence. Then, without warning, the door opened. Lyney stood there, hair tousled, collar undone, his expression drawn with fatigue. “I thought I said I didn’t want to be—”

He stopped when he saw her.

She stared at him. He looked… tired. Really tired. It was the most dishevelled she’d ever seen him. And maybe the most human.

“Chérie,” he said softly, his tone gentling, though she still heard the strain beneath it. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I brought you food,” she said, pulse thudding hard in her throat.

His gaze drifted to the tray, then back to her face. He exhaled slowly.

“Well,” he said, stepping aside. “Since my darling wife has gone to such effort, it would be a shame to turn her away.”

He held the door open. “Come in.”

She entered his room as he closed the door behind her.

It looked just as she remembered—dim, velvet-draped, cloaked in quiet. The kind of space that swallowed sound. It felt like she was intruding. Like she was breaking something sacred.

“You can put that on my desk,” he said.

She obeyed, setting the tray down as he sank into the chair behind it, already reaching for a sheath of papers.

“Why aren’t you in the study?” she asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the bedroom for rest?”

“I think better in here sometimes,” he said, eyes skimming the document. “The study gets too bright.”

She couldn’t imagine working in a space this dark, but she supposed it suited him. “I heard you haven’t eaten,” she said. “You should. It’s not good to skip meals.”

“You sound like Lynette,” he murmured, distracted.

“I sound like any normal person. I don’t want to see my husband wasting away.”

That got his attention. He looked up.

“I thought you’d prefer it,” he said lightly. “After I’ve written you into my will, of course.”

“I’m too young to be a widow,” she replied, stepping closer.

His eyes stayed on her. There was something unreadable in their violet depths—something that made her heart skip. She swallowed, trying to suppress her nerves.

“Come on,” she said, picking up a biscuit. “I’ll feed you.”

“My wife is being unusually sweet to me tonight,” he said, voice low. “Makes me wonder. You must want something.”

“I’m just concerned.” She perched on the edge of the desk and held out the biscuit. “But if you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that.” He caught her hand before she could pull away.

She stilled. Her breath hitched as he leant forward, eyes never leaving hers, and bit into the biscuit. It crumbled across her fingers, flakes scattering over his desk.

“Mm. Chocolate,” he said. “The kitchen knows my preferences.”

“Milk?” she offered, her voice thinner than she’d like.

He glanced at the cup. “Treating me like a child?”

“It helps you sleep.”

“Maybe two decades ago.” Still, he picked it up. Swirled it thoughtfully. His eyes returned to her, steady and strange.

“You really don’t want anything from me?” he asked again.

She shook her head. “I just thought I should show my husband some concern.”

He tilted his head, studying her. Then, with a quiet shrug, he downed the milk in one go. The cup clinked softly as he set it back down.

“I won’t question it tonight,” he said. “I’m too tired. Come here.”

Before she could react, he reached out and caught her by the waist, pulling her off the desk and into his lap.

She gasped, instinctively bracing herself on his shoulders. He leant in, burying his face against her neck, breathing her in.

“You’re very reckless,” he said. “Coming into a man’s room dressed like that.”

She was only in a nightdress. Thin, yes, but hardly indecent.

Still, her skin prickled under his touch. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His arms tightened around her, his mouth warm against the hollow of her throat.

“I might think you came here to seduce me,” he went on, voice velvet. “But I’m sure that’s not your intention… is it, ma chère? Even though you smell so good.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—” she squeaked, jolting when she felt his lips press to her neck. Linger.

Her stomach coiled tight. Was this the potion? Could it really work this fast?

“I love the way you lie to me,” he whispered. “It makes me want to unravel you. To see the way your face looks when you’re backed into a corner with nowhere left to run.”

She felt it this time—his teeth, grazing her skin. She froze.

He made a soft sound—half breath, half moan—and pulled back just enough to speak against her ear. “But my poor wife is afraid,” he said. “So I’ll let you go.”

He released her.

She stumbled off his lap, unsteady, unable to meet his gaze.

“You should return to your room,” Lyney said, his voice sweet again. Polished. “Before I do something the both of us will regret.”

She mumbled something—maybe “good night”—and fled, retreating into the hallway like a woman chased.

Her chest was tight. Her heart wouldn’t slow.

What was that?

Was the potion working? He’d never spoken to her like that before. Never touched her like that. Was it the exhaustion? The mood? She couldn’t tell. Couldn’t tell anything anymore.

She leant against the wall, arms wrapped around herself. Thought about the potion. Thought about whether she could keep using it.

Thought about whether she could live with the consequences.

And yet—she couldn’t stop remembering the heat of his breath, the weight of his arms, the low rasp of his voice in her ear. She shivered.

Maybe…

Chapter 9

She didn’t sleep well that night.

Maybe it was the guilt from slipping something into his drink. Maybe it was the ghost of his hands, his mouth, too warm against her skin. Maybe it was the tension still coiled tight inside her, humming like a live wire.

Whatever it was, rest never came easy. She drifted in and out of light, fitful dreams—fleeting and fevered—filled with violet eyes and too-sharp smiles.

By morning, she felt like a mess.

Desyree came in as usual to draw the curtains. Lumine groaned when she heard the footsteps approach her bed, briefly debating whether to feign illness.

Not that she even had much to do today. Just a visit to Changfeng’s workshop to check on the chinaware she’d commissioned… and a fitting for the new gown she’d wear to the crown prince’s birthday ball…

All right, so maybe she had things to do. So much for spending the day in bed.

She felt a hand brush her shoulder and groaned again. “Just five more minutes,” she mumbled, burrowing into the pillow.

“Five minutes?” said a voice that most certainly did not belong to Desyree.

Her eyes flew open. Her heart jumped.

“You’ll waste the morning away like this,” Lyney said.

She shot upright, scrambling back against the headboard. He was standing at her bedside—smiling, amused, impossibly bright for this hour of the day.

“L-Lyney,” she stammered, her voice catching. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you’d gotten used to me stopping by in the mornings, ma douce.”

Well, yes. He did that. Occasionally. To inform her of his plans for the day. But he never woke her up. Either she was already awake, or he’d leave a note on her nightstand.

This—deliberately waking her—was new.

In hindsight, she should have known it wasn’t Desyree. Her maid usually called softly before touching her. Lyney, of course, had no such qualms.

“I—do you have plans today?” she asked, struggling for composure. She tried not to think about last night. About his arms around her waist. About the rasp of his voice in her ear. About the way his mouth—too pretty, too familiar—felt just inches from her skin.

Lyney hummed. “Not particularly,” he said. “I’m not diligent enough to line up duties the morning after returning from a week on the southern front.”

She blinked. “Then… why are you here?”

“Here?”

“In my room.”

He tilted his head. “Am I not allowed in my wife’s room?”

“No, but—” She faltered. His smile was slow, curling, knowing. Like he was in on some secret she hadn’t been told. “You must want some time to yourself?” she finished weakly.

“I’ve had enough time to myself,” he said. “Now I want to spend it with you.”

The words made her stomach twist. Her heart skipped, just a little.

“I don’t want to be a distraction,” she said. “You must have work waiting.”

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

His voice was light. Soft. Dangerous in its sweetness.

“I’ve cleared my schedule, ma chère. It was a hard-earned break. I’ve been a neglectful husband, haven’t I? Let me make it up to you.”

And what could she say to that?

Refusing now would sound ungrateful. And maybe—just maybe—he had a point. It had been a while. Not that she missed him, exactly.

But she noticed the absence. The manor didn’t feel the same without him. Not that she would ever admit that aloud.

“I already have plans today,” she said at last.

“I know,” Lyney replied smoothly. “But none I can’t join you for, surely?”

She hesitated. “I just worry it might bore you.”

“Why would it?” he said, his smile deepening by a fraction. “I’m never bored around you.”

There was a beat.

“In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it. Doing normal things,” he added, almost wistful. “A little excursion with my wife. A taste of the ordinary. We all need that sometimes, don’t we? To remind ourselves what’s worth living for.”

It sounded strange coming from him—too sentimental. Lyney had never struck her as someone who craved normalcy. Not when Duke Perinheri’s life was anything but normal.

She didn’t know how to respond. So she cleared her throat, pivoting instead. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I am,” he said, without hesitation. “Much better than last night.”

Her breath caught. She wished he hadn’t said that.

The memory flared too easily—his voice at her ear, the brush of his mouth against her skin. Her fingers curled into the duvet, twisting the fabric between them. She prayed he hadn’t noticed the way she stilled.

“You slept well?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Very,” he said. “So well that one might suspect someone slipped something into my drink.”

He smiled as he said it. Light. Teasing. But the words made her blood run cold.

Was he joking? Or pretending to joke? Did he know? She stared at him, frozen. Her pulse hammered at her throat.

Then he leant in. Slowly. Intentionally. His hand landed on the duvet, just beside hers.

She flinched. He was too close. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, to see the faint curve of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

“It was sweet,” he murmured. “Seeing my wife in my room. Feeding me biscuits. Milk and all. Very domestic.”

She tried to pull away, but he didn’t let her.

“I might almost think you’ve grown fond of me,” he said.

Her heart thundered. She couldn’t think. Could hardly breathe.

His voice remained easy. Almost idle. As though none of this meant anything. As though she didn’t mean anything.

“So if I could request a favour,” he continued, brushing a fingertip across her cheek, “bring me a snack every night. Just something small. While I work.”

The touch made her shiver. She gasped, barely audible, as he cradled her face in his hand.

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” he whispered.

She could scarcely manage a nod. Couldn’t have said no even if she tried.

Lyney’s thumb traced the edge of her cheek, tender. “That’s my wife,” he said. “You always know how to make me happy.”

And just like that, he stepped back, letting her go.

The air felt too cold in his absence. Or maybe she’d simply forgotten how to breathe.

He lingered for a moment, gaze unreadable. Then: “You want to visit the workshop, don’t you? That Liyuean craftsman. Let’s go after breakfast. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

He turned to leave. She still hadn’t moved. Still sat frozen in her bed, unsure what had just happened.

But right before he reached the door, he glanced back.

“Oh—and tell Lynette to increase the dosage next time,” he said, voice still light, still pleasant. “Whatever she gave me wasn’t quite enough to sedate me, if that’s what she’s aiming for.”

Then he smiled, warm as sunlight, and closed the door behind him.

---

She couldn’t relax.

She really should. It was a beautiful day—sunlight poured through the carriage windows, the weather was mild, and Lyney sat beside her, smiling like always. He was charming, effortless. No veiled jabs, no unreadable pauses. His voice light, almost careless, as though he had nothing to hide.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about what he said that morning. Tell Lynette to increase the dosage.

The words stained her thoughts like ink bleeding into paper.

He knew Lynette had spiked his drink. But Lynette hadn’t exactly been discreet about it—maybe he’d just guessed. That didn’t necessarily mean he knew she had added something else. Not when the potion left no taste, no trace.

Still, the doubt gnawed at her.

If he did know, he wouldn’t be so kind, would he?

That thought should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.

She turned to the window, seeking a distraction. The carriage glided smoothly through the city, its wheels muffled despite the cobblestones. She jumped slightly when she felt silk brush her skin.

“You’re distracted,” Lyney said. His head was tilted, watching her with gentle curiosity. “Something on your mind?”

“Not… not really,” she said, forcing a small smile. “I was just thinking that Changfeng seemed happy.”

And he had. They’d visited the workshop earlier, and the craftsman had been practically glowing. With Lyney’s support, he’d hired extra hands, increased production, and secured a steady stream of orders. Lyney had even arranged new trade routes. The business was thriving.

“My daughter will be going to school next year,” Changfeng had told her, beaming. “A good one, too. Proper teachers, real books. She’ll learn how to read and write, and not just enough to get by. Maybe one day she could even work in an office or test into a government post. Imagine that.”

He’d updated her on the chinaware, too—said he’d finish the last few pieces next week and deliver them himself after a final inspection.

She’d nodded, smiled, even congratulated him. But her thoughts had been elsewhere.

The pride in Changfeng’s voice had struck her. He sounded content. Fulfilled. As though everything had gone exactly the way he dreamt, even though Lyney now owned the rights to all his exports, and the debt that bound him might never be repaid.

She couldn’t tell which possibility unsettled her more: that Changfeng didn’t realise he’d stepped into a cage, or that he did, and chose it anyway.

Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe Lyney hadn’t meant any of it as a trap.

But somehow, that was the most unsettling thought of all.

“Doesn’t it please you?” Lyney asked beside her. His thumb drew slow, idle circles across the back of her hand. “You worried about him all those months ago. He’s thriving now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I’m happy for his success,” she said carefully. “And that he can provide for his family. I just don’t know if I’d have made the same choice in his shoes.”

“Oh?” Lyney’s voice was mild. “Why not?”

“Leaving home. Crossing the sea. Being alone in a place where no one knows your name.” She shook her head. “It takes courage. More than I think I’d have. He endured so much. I admire that.”

Lyney was quiet for a moment. Then: “But you think he made a mistake. Taking my help.”

She didn’t respond. Just bit her lip.

His fingers laced through hers. Gently, he lifted their joined hands and brought hers to his mouth. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, but his eyes never left hers.

“He wouldn’t have survived without it,” he said. “He was drowning in debt. The treasure hoarders would’ve killed him.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know he didn’t have much of a choice.”

And that was what made it so frustrating. Because if she had been in Changfeng’s shoes, she might have done the same. Reached for Lyney’s offer like a drowning man grasping at driftwood. Why wouldn’t anyone, when Lyney smiled so brightly and spoke so sweetly? When he offered everything you could ever want at the price of what felt, at first, like nothing at all?

She thought of the last time she’d seen her mother. The flush of health in her cheeks. The warmth of her hands. She shut her eyes and exhaled, the ache rising in her chest like a tide.

A beat passed. Then—fingers, gloved and cool, touched her face.

She startled, eyes flying open. Lyney was leaning in close, studying her, his gaze unreadable but not playful. Not mocking. “Do you see yourself in him?” he asked softly. “Do you think you didn’t have a choice?”

He sounded genuine. Neither taunting nor testing. Just curious. She swallowed, her pulse hammering so loudly she could hardly think. “I did what I had to,” she said. “I don’t regret going to your manor that day. I don’t regret asking you to marry me.”

Lyney tilted his head. Then he smiled—slow, assured, almost tender in its arrogance. His fingers traced down her cheek, resting briefly under her chin, tipping it up just slightly.

“You know,” he murmured, “you’re so self-aware. I adore that about you, chérie. Your honesty. Your determination. The way you look at me like a frightened little rabbit and still come to me anyway, because it’s the only way you know how to survive. It’s delightfully compelling.”

She had no answer. Just breath trembling in her throat as he moved in, their foreheads almost brushing. One inch closer, and he’d kiss her.

But he didn’t.

He lingered for a moment more, suspended in that breathless space between intention and restraint. Then suddenly, he drew back. She nearly tipped forward before catching herself—just barely managed to right her posture, spine stiff as she pressed herself against the velvet of the seat.

“I’m quite looking forward to lunch,” he said, light and airy. “I haven’t had a proper meal in over a week.”

She curled her fingers into the folds of her skirt. Tried to look casual, unaffected. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just peeled something open inside her.

Because that—whatever that was—had felt like the closest she’d ever come to the truth of him. The rawest edge she’d ever touched.

Was that how he truly saw her? A puzzle. A contradiction. Something to amuse and occupy him.

She didn’t want to be that. She didn’t want to be a toy.

But maybe… maybe being a toy was still better than being discarded.

Unbidden, her thoughts circled back to the way he’d kissed her last night—along her throat, unhurried, deliberate. Like he wanted to taste her slowly. Like he didn’t quite want to stop.

And just now, the way he hovered near. The magnetism of it. The way her body reacted before her mind could catch up.

Did he even remember kissing her?

Maybe not. Maybe it had meant so little to him, it wasn’t even worth mentioning. After all, they were husband and wife. Perhaps he thought she wouldn’t dwell on it either.

But she did. She couldn’t stop thinking about it—the weight of his mouth, the heat of his breath. The startling want in the way he touched her, the unspoken reluctance in the way he let her go.

Strange thoughts. Strange compulsions. She really ought to sleep earlier tonight. The fatigue must be making her more suggestible.

She risked a glance at him. He was gazing out the window, a faint smile playing at his lips.

It took her a moment to realise—he still hadn’t let go of her hand.

---

He wouldn’t stop looking at her.

She could feel his gaze from across the room—steady, unblinking. It unsettled her, though she couldn’t quite say why. Whether the twist in her gut came from nerves or something else entirely, she didn’t know. She only knew that she couldn’t meet his eyes. So for now, she pretended not to notice. That felt easier. Safer.

They’d returned to the manor after lunch, which had been surprisingly pleasant. Lyney took her to a restaurant he claimed served the best Boudin Noir aux Pommes in Fontaine. Lumine wasn’t usually fond of blood sausage, but she had to admit—their signature dish was unlike anything she’d tried. The sweet-savoury contrast, the texture, the spices… it was memorable.

Strange, but she’d enjoyed being out with him. At least when he wasn’t prying too deep, when he allowed conversation to flow lightly, without edge. Over the meal, he told her about what he’d been up to over the past week. Nothing on the ground, he said—mostly strategy, oversight, making calls on rebel movements as reports trickled in.

“Wasn’t it dangerous?” she’d asked.

He’d only shrugged, fluid and elegant as ever, cutting into a piece of sausage and lifting it to his mouth. “Danger doesn’t matter,” he said mildly. “Someone still has to see it through.”

She didn’t fully grasp the burden of House Perinheri, and she knew she never would. But in that moment, she understood something of the weight he carried—and how effortlessly he bore it, as though it were light as air. That, too, was a kind of strength. A terrifying one.

When they returned to the manor, the seamstress was already waiting in the parlour. Lyney expressed interest in watching her fitting, so they went straight to her chamber.

Now, Lumine stood stiffly in the centre of the room while Lyney lounged at her vanity, legs crossed, arms folded, watching her. The seamstress darted around her, checking the fit of the dress, muttering to herself as she made small adjustments.

She didn’t know what to do with herself. Couldn’t relax, couldn’t speak. She kept her head high, spine straight, eyes locked with his. He hadn’t said a word since the fitting began, but his gaze never left her, not once. It wasn’t quite lewd, not quite clinical either. It was a quiet kind of scrutiny. As though he was memorising something.

She didn’t know what he saw. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Right, we’re done with this part,” the seamstress announced briskly, stepping back to jot something down. “Now I’ll need you to remove the dress, Your Grace.”

“What?” Lumine blurted, startled.

The woman looked up, patient but firm. “Your inner slip is sufficient for the next round of measurements. Shall I assist you?”

Heat surged to Lumine’s face. She glanced at Lyney again. He still hadn’t moved. Only tilted his head, smiling lazily. There was something teasing in it, like he was daring her to say something. Daring her to ask him to leave.

She swallowed. “F-Fine,” she managed. “I’ll take it off.”

“I’ll help you,” Lyney said, rising smoothly to his feet.

She froze. Her breath caught in her throat.

“So many ribbons,” he added lightly. “It’ll take too long on your own.”

She wanted to protest. Wanted to say no. But her voice wouldn’t come. She stood still as he approached, slow and sure, smile soft and sweet.

The seamstress stepped back, giving him room.

He came up behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. Close enough to drown in his scent: bittersweet florals, cool silk, the faint trace of something darker beneath.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, hands settling at her waist. His touch skimmed lightly upwards—faint, almost innocent. It shouldn’t have made her heart skip like that. Lumine shut her eyes, biting down on her lip as he leant in, his breath grazing the back of her neck.

“Why?” he whispered. “Are you embarrassed?”

Should she be?

A little, yes. But he was her husband. There wasn’t anything indecent about this. And the seamstress was still present, hovering just a few steps away. It was all perfectly proper. Or it should’ve been.

“D-Don’t make assumptions,” she said.

She hated the slight crack in her voice, but Lyney let it pass. “I’m quite looking forward to seeing the final gown,” he said, fingers working their way up her back as he began to unlace the ribbons holding her dress together. One by one, they loosened. She fought the instinct to clutch the fabric to her chest, to hide the slow reveal of skin as the bodice slackened around her shoulders.

“Though,” he added, “you always do look lovely in anything.”

The compliment was delivered so casually, so easily, she almost missed it. Then it registered, and she swallowed again, uncertain how to respond.

“You’ve seen me in new dresses before.”

“That doesn’t make it any less interesting.” His voice was a hum against her skin. “A new dress is still a new sight. You don’t stop enjoying your meals just because you ate the day before, do you?”

Her breath caught.

He undid the final ribbon, and she felt the dress loosen completely. His hands shifted upwards again, drawing the sleeves down her arms with slow precision. The fabric whispered against her skin as it slid off her shoulders and down the curve of her back, pooling silently at her feet.

She still had her inner slip. But the silk was thin. Barely a barrier. And his hand—his hand returned to her waist, slower now, lingering. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric, his fingers settling just above her hipbone. Not accidental. Not careless.

“My pretty, dainty wife,” he breathed, lips brushing her ear. She jolted—her eyes flying open—as a shiver ran down her spine.

“So nervous around me,” he murmured. “But I’m your husband, chérie. I’m not going to eat you.”

He said it like a joke. But she could feel his breath, warm and intimate against her skin. Could feel the heat of his touch, the closeness of his body, the quiet certainty in the way he stood behind her.

She felt giddy. Lightheaded. Maybe from nerves. Maybe from how vulnerable she suddenly felt, stripped down to so little with him so close. The last time he’d been near her while she was dressed like this…

“Shall I take your measurements, Your Grace?” the seamstress called, snapping her back to the present.

Lumine startled, grateful for the interruption. Her thoughts had wandered too far. Again.

“Yes, please,” she said, relieved that her voice stayed steady.

Lyney stepped away—slowly, deliberately—and returned to the vanity. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel it. His gaze. The weight of it. Never wavering.

Quiet. Watching. Calculating.

She wondered what he was thinking. And whether, if he told her, she’d be able to look away from it.

---

The seamstress left soon after, promising to return with the finished gown the next day. Lyney didn’t linger either. One of the staff came to summon him—the king had called.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner,” he told her with a smile. “Don’t start without me.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone with a mind frayed thin from the tension of being near him for so long.

It wasn’t that he’d been difficult, not in the way he usually was. This time, she was the one who didn’t know what to do. What to feel. She was so used to the mask he wore—his evasions, his misdirections—that any moment that even hinted at authenticity threw her off-balance.

Maybe it was the lingering guilt from the night before. Or maybe she’d just spent too much time in his orbit, in this house where every word had a double meaning and every kindness came at a cost. Maybe she was so twisted from being part of his world that she no longer knew how to hold a real conversation. No longer knew what to do with something that felt honest.

Whatever the reason, the unease lingered. Coiled tight in her chest. It dulled her appetite, made everything feel just slightly off.

Even when he returned for dinner a few hours later, she still wasn’t hungry.

He took his usual seat—between her and Lynette, at the head of the table—but his face was distant, blank in a way that unsettled her. The audience with the king hadn’t gone well, she guessed. She couldn’t recall the last time she saw him sit without smiling.

Maybe he was just tired. Maybe the king had been too demanding. It could have been anything, really. But after a whole day of soft charm and light teasing, his silence felt louder than usual.

Lynette didn’t seem particularly surprised. “You’re picking at your food,” she said, bluntly.

Lyney blinked. “Oh,” he murmured, glancing down at his untouched plate. “Am I?”

Lynette looked at him, then the plate, then back again. She didn’t say a word.

Lyney sighed. “I’m just tired,” he said, nudging a piece of bulle fruit with his fork. “I’ll eat.”

“Tired?” Lynette echoed. “Should I give you more of that sleep tincture tonight?”

His mouth curled faintly. “You might as well hand it to me directly, instead of sneaking it into my drinks.”

“We both know you won’t take it if I do,” Lynette said, prim as ever. “It has to be a surprise.”

“Then don’t put it in warm milk. That’s too obvious. Practically theatrical.”

“I don’t want to hear complaints about my execution,” she said. “I want to hear that you’ll actually sleep.”

“I’m tired in the mind, not the body.”

Lynette paused. “What did the king want this time?”

“So many things.” Something flickered in Lyney’s eyes then—sharp, brief, almost like irritation. It passed as quickly as it came, smoothed away by the next breath. But Lumine had seen it. Just for a moment, something real. “I’ve half a mind to ask what his military is for if he’s just going to keep using me for errands,” he said, tone dry. “I’m not free labour.”

“You could just tell him no,” Lynette said.

“And deal with his complaints for the next three months? I’d rather not.”

“Then that’s on you.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Lyney muttered, stabbing into a chunk of duck. The movement was sudden, sharper than it needed to be, and Lumine flinched. “Sometimes I wonder what’s the point of—”

Then his gaze landed on her. He fell silent. For a moment, their eyes locked.

And then—he looked away.

She inhaled sharply. Startled. Offended. Hurt. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to dwell on it either, didn’t want to chase after a feeling she couldn’t name.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t even part of this conversation. She didn’t know enough to weigh in.

And yet—after a whole day of his attention, his smiles, his gaze so relentlessly fixed on her… this quiet withdrawal felt jarring. Like she’d been left outside in the cold without warning.

Dinner continued like that. Lyney spoke mostly to Lynette, responding only when prompted, quieter than usual. He didn’t engage her. She didn’t try to engage him.

In a way, it was a relief. But it left her uneasy all the same. Doubt curled at the edges of her thoughts. Was he just tired? Or was this something else?

It had been nearly twenty hours since he drank the potion.

Her breath caught. Knife and fork suspended mid-air. Was she really thinking about that again? Dosing him again?

She shouldn’t. She’d already done it once.

But when she thought of the warmth he’d shown her earlier—how close he’d stood, how softly he’d spoken—versus the distance he was giving her now…

It felt like something had shifted. Like something was fading.

Was this the Lyney she would return to, once it all wore off? Aloof, preoccupied, leaving her to haunt the manor like a widow in all but name?

She didn’t want that. No matter how tense his attention made her, it was still better than silence.

She cut into her duck slowly. Ate without tasting. Glanced sideways at Lyney as he spoke to Lynette about something the crown prince had said. His voice was smooth, distant. His eyes never strayed to her.

Her chest twisted.

Maybe just one more time. Just to be sure. Just to test it. Maybe it wasn’t the potion. Maybe it was just how he was—hot and cold, impossible to predict.

She wouldn’t know. Not unless she tried again.

---

It was late—past ten.

Lumine was in her room, debating whether to go down to the kitchen. She wasn’t even sure if it was for her or for Lyney. He’d asked her to bring him food at night, but after how dinner had gone, she didn’t know if he still expected it.

Still, there was no harm. She hadn’t eaten much earlier, and she was feeling a little peckish herself. Oddly enough, Lyney hadn’t mentioned her half-finished plate. Normally, he would’ve noticed. Would’ve said something.

But tonight, he hadn’t seemed to be paying attention to her at all.

It didn’t sting, not really. That would be too dramatic. It was just… strange. Off. Like expecting to hear music in a familiar room, only to find silence.

She opened the door and nearly ran into Lynette, who stood holding a tray with a cup of milk and tea biscuits.

Lumine blinked. “Lynette?”

Without a word, Lynette handed the tray to her. She accepted it instinctively, too surprised to refuse.

“I heard you got him to eat last night,” Lynette said. “That’s rare. Even I can’t do that.”

“Oh,” Lumine said, glancing down at the tray. The milk caught her eye. She thought of the vial hidden in her drawer. “Is it?”

Lynette nodded. “Lyney doesn’t like being distracted when he’s working. He tunes out his body—hunger, exhaustion, everything. It’s part of how he got this far. But it’s not sustainable.”

“Is that why you spike his drinks?”

“Yes. Otherwise, he’d never rest.” Then, more casually: “Don’t worry. I didn’t do anything to that one.”

Lumine must have looked confused, because Lynette gave a faint, knowing smile. “It doesn’t work if he starts to expect it. You can’t create a pattern.”

“I… see.” It was a little unsettling how matter-of-fact she was about it. Like this was routine. Calibrated.

“Well,” Lynette said, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

She paused at the top of the stairs. “Help my brother rest, Lumine. I think only you can.”

Then she was gone.

Lumine stared down at the tray in her hands. Her throat tightened.

She brought it back inside. Set it down on the table. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the drawer and pulled out the vial. It gleamed under the light. Carefully, she tipped a few drops into the milk, just like last night. Then she stowed it away.

And steeled herself.

Lyney’s door was ajar tonight. That was strange. He never left it open.

She hesitated at the threshold. “Lyney?”

A pause. Then the door opened wider, and there he was. Hair tousled, collar loose, expression unreadable. “Oh,” he said. “You really brought something.”

“You asked me to.”

“That I did.” He looked her over. Slowly. Head to toe. His gaze didn’t linger long, but something about it made her acutely aware of her night slip. Her posture. Her presence.

Then he stepped aside. “Come in.”

She moved past him, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Working late again?” she asked, setting the tray on his desk.

Lyney shook his head. “Not in the mood to humour His Majesty tonight. He can wait.”

“What did he want?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her.

She fidgeted. “If it’s too sensitive, you don’t have to—”

“It’s not.” He tilted his head, watching her. “I’m just wondering what you’d offer me in exchange for state secrets.”

The words were light, but the chill they carried wasn’t. She recognised this tone. Had heard it before—outside that ballroom, the night of the debutante ball. He always made her feel like she was standing on a line she couldn’t see.

“I don’t have anything to offer.”

His smile curled, slow and sharp. “Try harder, ma chère. There’s always something.”

He stepped towards her. Instinctively, she turned away—heart tight in her chest—and reached for the tray. “I brought you a snack,” she said, lifting the cup. “Like you wanted.”

“Oh?” he said. “Did Lynette spike it again?”

“She didn’t.” She held out the cup. He raised an eyebrow, but took it. Then, without hesitation, he lifted it to his lips and drank it all at one go.

She couldn’t look away as he set the cup down on his desk, tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of milk.

“Is that all?” he asked.

She startled. He was watching her now, gaze intent, almost heavy. Instinctively, she shuffled back a step, trying to create space between them. “Do you want something more?”

“You offered to feed me last night,” he said. “None of that today? How disappointing.”

She couldn’t tell if he was teasing. He was smiling, but it didn’t feel light. Not playful. In the dim hush of his room—where the air felt thick with unspoken things—he seemed further away than ever. Unreachable. Dangerous.

“If you want me to,” she said, reaching for a biscuit. “I’ll do it.”

“No need for that.” His voice dipped—low, smooth, almost a purr. She blinked. And he stepped forward, closing the distance she’d tried to make. “I’m not in the mood for biscuits, anyway.”

Her heart skittered. If she moved away, it would be obvious she was rattled. But if she didn’t…

“Well, chérie?” he asked, stopping just in front of her. Not close enough to trap. Just close enough to choose. “What are you going to offer me tonight?”

His eyes gleamed, unreadable in the shadows. She thought of the way his irises caught sunlight, that faint violet shimmer. Of the way he sometimes looked at her: unblinking, focused. Like she was a puzzle he meant to take apart. Like he wanted to see what she looked like inside.

“You won’t tell me what you want,” she said.

“There’s no fun in that, is there?” He tilted his head. His smile was slow. Patient. Feline. “Besides,” he said, “I’m sure my darling wife is clever enough to guess. I married an intelligent woman, after all. One who hides enough secrets to lure even Duke Perinheri to her side. Or so the whispers go.”

She swallowed. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She felt frozen, caught between instinct and calculation, her thoughts a snarl of options and consequences. None of them seemed right.

“Mon trésor,” he murmured. “It’s really not such a difficult answer. Or do you want me to give you a hint?”

He reached for her, a finger grazing the length of her arm. Sliding up to the strap of her nightdress.

“A man and a woman,” he said, voice light. “Alone in a room this late. The man hasn’t asked the woman to leave. There are only so many reasons why.”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Lyney’s smile sharpened. “So tell me what I want, my sweet,” he said, voice like silk drawn taut. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

She felt dizzy. This—this was a line. She always knew they’d cross it eventually. That she’d have to. They were married, after all. The heir wouldn’t make itself.

But not like this. Not when he looked at her like this. Not when it felt like a game to him—like he was waiting to see what move she’d make just so he could counter it.

Lumine had never been someone who believed in saving herself for love. That kind of softness belonged to girls who’d never needed to survive. Who’d never weighed what their bodies could buy them.

But here, now, in the silence before his next touch, she was being forced to think about it. About what it meant. About whether she could give herself to—

He tugged.

Just a soft motion. A slip of fabric. Her strap slid down her shoulder, and she gasped.

He met her eyes, dark and smiling. “You think too loud,” he whispered.

Then his arms curled around her waist and pulled her in, and he was kissing her, and she moaned before she could stop herself.

It felt like a spark catching dry wood. Like the first flare of fire. His mouth was hot and demanding, his hands steady as if this was already familiar. As if she belonged to him, and he was merely claiming what was his.

He kissed her like he meant to consume her. Like he wanted to drink her down to the bone.

His hand cradled the back of her head, holding her in place. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want him to stop.

“Lyney,” she tried to say, trying to pull back just enough for air. But he groaned at the sound of his name and kissed her deeper—holding her close, swallowing her breath—and she whimpered against him, lightheaded from the sheer force of it all.

It felt like her knees might give out.

Her fingers twisted in the front of his shirt, seeking something—anything—to hold on to. Then, abruptly, he withdrew. She almost fell forward with the loss of contact, only for him to catch her, lifting her into his arms in one smooth motion.

By the time she registered what was happening, he was setting her down on the bed. Then leaning over her.

And she was already flattening herself against the mattress, heart thudding, eyes wide as his gaze bore into her, hooded and unfathomable.

“So,” he said softly, voice husky, almost coaxing, “how far can I go?”

He wasn’t mocking. His tone was gentle. But it still made her skin prickle.

“Tell me, chérie. Or I might do something you hate. And I don’t want you to look at me like you hate me.”

He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her arm up, his mouth gliding across the delicate skin of her wrist. Lingering where her pulse fluttered.

Heat curled in her belly, pooled low and molten. She couldn’t focus—could barely think—over the feel of his mouth on her skin.

What did she want?

She didn’t know. She was frightened and curious in equal measure. Wanting to push forward and run away all at once.

He kissed lower, slow and deliberate, eyes still fixed on her as he pinned her hand to the bed, just above her head.

“If you don’t say anything,” he said, “I’ll keep going, you know?”

She tried to speak. No words came. Only breath.

He dipped to her throat, nuzzling against her shoulder. “You always smell good,” he whispered. “It drives me a little mad. The way you tremble, but still step into my arms like this. Like a gift wrapped just for me.”

She opened her mouth again. What came out didn’t even sound like her. Her voice was shaking. Small. Tight with something sharp and unfamiliar. “Y-You don’t really want me.”

It had to be the potion. The difference between how he acted now and how he’d been at dinner—detached, indifferent—was too stark. Too sudden. There was no other explanation.

“Hm?” His grip tightened. His free hand tilted her chin until she was forced to meet his gaze. His eyes were bright. Heated. Calculating. “Do you think you know what’s going on in my head, sweet?”

Her heart thrashed. But she swallowed hard and forced the words out.

“I… I’m tired,” she said. “I want to rest.”

He stilled.

She couldn’t read his expression. Could only stare up at him, waiting, hoping he’d hear what she was trying to say. That he’d let them both go before this crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.

Then finally, he exhaled. “Very well,” he said. “If my wife is tired, then I won’t push further.”

But even as he said it, he lifted her hand again and brought it to his lips—kissed the back of it, then lower, to her wrist. His eyes never left hers.

“Still,” he added, voice velvet-smooth, “don’t keep me waiting too long, ma chère. There’s only so long a man can be patient.”

He smiled then. Bright. Beautiful. Devastating. And finally, he let go.

She sat up slowly, cradling her hand to her chest as he stepped back. He returned to his desk like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just kissed her breathless and placed her on his bed.

He picked up a biscuit. Bit into it absently as he flipped through a notebook. “You should go back to your room,” he said. Casually. Without even looking up. “Or I might take it as a sign you’ve changed your mind.”

Heat rushed to her face. She slid off the bed, murmured a barely audible good night, and all but fled.

Her heart was still pounding as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Only once she was back on her floor did she finally pause, drawing a shaky breath.

The potion worked. That much was clear.

But it didn’t soften him. Not really. If anything, it made him sharp—brought his attention into terrible, blinding focus. Like a spotlight. A knife.

And yet…

As she touched her throat—remembering where his lips had lingered, warm and reverent as if memorising her pulse—she realised something else.

That no matter how dangerous it felt, no matter how biting the edge, she’d rather teeter on the tightrope of his attention than fall back into the silence of being ignored.

Because when Lyney looked at her, when he played his games, she was something. And when he didn’t?

She was nothing at all.

Somehow, the latter felt worse.

---

The next day passed in a blur.

Lyney left early, forced to address the backlog he’d let pile up after refusing to deal with the king’s requests the night before. He brought her a bouquet of rainbow roses, murmured apologies over breakfast, and departed after eating a single croissant.

The manor, in his absence, descended into chaos.

Apparently, some of the stable boys had forgotten to lock the pens, and now several of the estate’s wilder horses were galloping freely across the lawn—trampling flowerbeds, nibbling on potted shrubs, and reducing the meticulously maintained hedge maze to shredded leaves and broken branches.

It was the first time Lumine had seen anything short of perfect order at the Perinheri estate.

Daniaud and several servants were shouting, trying to herd the horses away from the beds of pluie lotuses, while Aurele led a frantic team of stablehands brandishing carrots, apples, and whatever else they could find to lure the creatures back into their stalls.

“I feel like I should help,” Lumine said from a safe distance, watching one particularly large stallion rear dramatically in a patch of petunias.

“How, exactly?” Lynette asked mildly. She sat beside her on the garden terrace, sipping tea with calm detachment. “There’s nothing you can do. Besides, they created the mess. They can fix it.”

“The stable boys won’t get into serious trouble, will they?”

“I’m sure the butler and head maid will give them a dreadful earful. But that’s how lessons stick.”

“They’re still children.”

“You worry too much.” Lynette set down her teacup. “At most, they’ll be put on extra duties for a week.”

Lumine sighed and turned to her. “Are you going to the crown prince’s ball tomorrow night?”

She’d learnt to ask again near the date. Lynette had a habit of scheduling appointments over events she had no choice but to attend.

“Yes.” Lynette exhaled, clearly unenthused. “It’s the prince’s birthday. Everyone invited has to go.”

“Will there be many guests?” Lumine asked. She’d never been to a royal ball—not counting the salon where she first met Lyney. But that had been more of a matchmaking stunt than an actual state affair.

“Not as many as you’d think. The royal family doesn’t cast a wide net. You need to be at least an earl or countess to make the guest list.”

Right. Her father had once held the title of baron, but he’d lost their land, their wealth, and his life in a string of failed ventures. She’d had nothing before marrying Lyney.

“Do we need to do anything?” she asked. “At the ball, I mean. I’m sorry if that’s a silly question. I just never—”

“It’s not silly.” Lynette waved the apology off. “Better to ask me than ask Lyney. He barely respects the king as is.”

Lumine had gathered as much.

“When we arrive,” Lynette continued, “we greet the prince. The king and queen rarely appear—if they do, it’s only for a brief speech at the start. Then they leave the rest of the night to him.”

“And after that?”

“It’s a typical ball. Dancing. Food. Wine. Gossip. Our job is to survive it without becoming the centre of scandal.” She sighed. “I can’t even leave halfway, so I’ll just have to endure.”

“You can’t leave early?”

Lynette shook her head. “It’s considered disrespectful to leave a royal event before midnight. One of Fontaine’s more absurd traditions. Honestly, war was easier. At least there was less small talk.”

“Midnight,” Lumine echoed. “That’s quite a few hours to stay.”

“If you drink enough wine, the time flies.”

Lumine didn’t think that was good advice, but she kept quiet.

“My lady,” a voice called down the garden path. Lumine turned to see Desyree approaching. “The seamstress has arrived with your gown.”

“Ah—already?” She glanced up at the sky. The sun was still high; it couldn’t be much past noon. “I wasn’t expecting her until later. But that’s fine. It’s good to get the dress early.”

She rose to follow Desyree, but Lynette’s voice stopped her.

“At the ball tomorrow,” Lynette said, “you’d be wise not to leave my brother’s side.”

Lumine turned back, puzzled. “Why?”

Lynette’s gaze flicked away, then back. “There’ll be a variety of attendees. Some from outside Fontaine. Some with… particular agendas.” She picked up her teacup again. “They’ll see you as a way to get to Lyney. Whether they’re after an audience, information, or something else entirely. So just stay close.”

A shiver traced her spine.

She looked at Lynette, at those violet eyes catching the light, calm and unreadable, and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

---

Lumine clung to Lyney’s arm, nervous.

She didn’t know what to expect—nothing beyond what Lynette had told her yesterday, in the garden. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to either of the Perinheri siblings since.

From what she’d heard, Lyney would be returning to the manor late that night. So late that she hadn’t stayed up to wait for him. She’d simply taken a tray from the kitchen—milk again, and a slice of chocolate cake—and left it in his room with a note.

Desyree told her later that he’d eaten everything. One of the staff had seen the empty dishes while tidying his room. That relieved her more than she liked to admit.

He was gone again in the morning and didn’t return until evening, just in time to change and escort her to the ball.

Lynette, too, had vanished after breakfast. Lumine had no idea where she went or what she was doing.

“Lynette will be there when the time comes,” Lyney had said when she asked. “You don’t need to worry about her.”

If her own brother wasn’t concerned, then Lumine supposed she shouldn’t be either. Still, she hoped Lynette hadn’t found a way to skip the proceedings—it’d be nice to see another familiar face.

“You’re shivering like a leaf in the wind,” Lyney observed as they walked through the palace halls towards the ballroom.

“I’m not,” she said quickly, though her fingers curled tighter around his arm.

He smiled. “You don’t have to pretend to be brave,” he murmured. “It’s your first royal event. Even I was nervous.”

“When did you go for your first?” she asked, grateful for the distraction.

Lyney hummed. “I think I was ten. I’d been to the palace many times, but attending as a proper guest at one of their balls is another thing entirely.”

Ten. A child. She blinked and turned to look at him. He smiled back, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away.

Her husband had always been beautiful. She knew that. She was reminded of it constantly, every time she stepped out into society and was met with envious whispers. But tonight, he was breathtaking.

He wasn’t dressed in the Perinheri colours, oddly enough. Instead, he wore an ensemble that matched her own dress: deep midnight blue with crisp white ruffles and lilac accents nearly the same shade as his eyes. Wherever they walked, heads turned.

“Did you like going to these events?” she asked, blurting the question before she could stop herself.

“Hm. No one’s ever asked me that before,” he said. “I don’t think anyone sees these affairs as enjoyable. You go because you’re obliged to. It’s part of your standing.”

His tone was light and polished. She swallowed and glanced away. “It’s not fair,” she murmured. “To make children play a role in this world so early.”

“You think so?” There was a trace of genuine curiosity in his voice now. “What makes you say that?”

“Children are children,” she said. “They should be allowed to enjoy themselves innocently. They shouldn’t have to carry burdens meant for adults.”

He didn’t reply immediately. Their footsteps echoed against the marble floor as the ballroom doors drew near. Two uniformed servants stood by, waiting.

“That’s a nice dream,” Lyney finally said.

She blinked, caught off guard by the tone of his voice. He sounded wistful. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, his expression distant.

“Though unfortunately, it must remain a dream,” he added. “Not everyone gets to preserve their innocence.”

Unbidden, she thought of what Chambelland had told her at the lakehouse. About young Lyney. About the crushing expectations placed on him. She bit her lip and tightened her grip on his arm.

This ache in her chest—she didn’t know what to call it. Sympathy? Frustration on his behalf? Whatever it was, she didn’t voice it. He didn’t need it. Might not appreciate it, either. Not for wounds long scabbed over.

The servants opened the doors as they approached. “Duke and Duchess Perinheri, entering the ball,” one of them announced.

They stepped into the light.

Lumine instinctively flinched, resisting the urge to lift a hand to her face.

The ballroom gleamed with chandeliers and polished marble, glittering like crystal under a thousand candles. It was already full. Lyney had timed their arrival perfectly—not early, but not late. No point showing our faces when the room’s still empty, he’d said.

Now that they were here, he slipped into his usual persona with ease—graceful, polished, charming. He greeted the other ducal families; Lumine followed, smiling and nodding and speaking when expected.

She felt eyes on them. Watching. Measuring. Judging.

Thankfully, as a duke, Lyney only had to greet a limited circle: the royal family and fellow dukes. She was grateful for that. She wasn’t ready for the rest of the crowd yet—the ones who watched her with veiled curiosity, who’d been waiting to pounce.

“Where’s the prince?” Lyney asked, in the middle of trading pleasantries with another duke.

“There.” The man nodded towards the grand staircase. “Hiding from the women, as always.”

“I feel a little sorry for him sometimes,” Lyney said.

“So do I, but don’t let Her Majesty hear that.”

The two men chuckled, exchanged a few more light comments, and then parted ways. Lyney turned, and Lumine followed him through the crowd.

She glanced at him as they walked. “Do you really feel sorry for the prince?”

“In a way. There’s no greater torment than being besieged by women desperate to climb the social ladder.” His lips tilted into a faint, sardonic smile.

She hesitated. “Then is that one of the reasons you agreed—?”

“Perhaps. You seemed like a sweet, harmless, innocent little thing.” He paused, leant closer. His breath grazed her ear, warm and low. “You didn’t seem at all interested in using me for power. Just wanted my mora. Just wanted to save your ailing mother. And that was a desire I could live with.”

He straightened, and she looked quickly away, heart thudding. She cleared her throat. “What will you do after you greet the prince?”

“I need to speak with Count Ambra. Though I don’t think he’s arrived yet.”

“Count Ambra? Isn’t he one of your vassals?”

Lyney smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. The expression was thin. Almost wolfish. “He is,” he said, and offered no more. Lumine wisely let the matter drop.

“Then I’ll go socialise.”

“Don’t stray too far,” he said. “Stay where I can see you.”

“That’ll be difficult if you’re looking for someone.”

“Well, try your best. Or if you happen to bump into Lynette, that would be helpful too.”

They reached the staircase, but the prince was nowhere to be seen. Lumine frowned slightly. Lyney, catching her look, smiled and steered her towards the back—where, tucked behind the stairs amid a few tall potted plants—

“Your Highness,” Lyney said pleasantly.

Lumine blinked. That was unmistakably the prince, crouched behind a fern and trying very hard to look inconspicuous.

“Lyney!” the prince hissed. “Don’t draw attention here! What do you want?”

“I do have to greet you, you know.”

“Greetings received. Now go. You attract women like flies to honey, and I don’t want to deal with that any earlier than I have to.”

Lyney’s lips twitched. “And my wife, of course. Say hello to the prince, ma chère.”

The prince glanced at her, his expression a fascinating mix of exasperation and pleading. Lumine gave a small, startled curtsey. “I… greet Your Highness. And wish you a blessed birthday.”

“Thank you,” he said, voice tight. “Now either join me in hiding or leave me to my misery.”

“You really need a better spot,” Lyney said. “Half the nobility knows about this one.”

“Where else am I supposed to go? I can’t exactly stand on the balcony, can I? They’d descend on me like wolves.”

“Or you could marry someone.”

The prince gave Lyney a flat look. “And who, exactly?”

“I can’t help you there.”

He turned to Lumine. “Do you have any friends, Duchess Perinheri? Single ones who wouldn’t buckle under the pressure of becoming princess?”

Of all the things she thought she might do at a royal ball, crouching behind greenery to discuss eligible bachelorettes with the crown prince was not one of them. She glanced awkwardly between Lyney and the prince, aware of how ridiculous this must look—especially given that she remained standing, talking down to the future king, because crouching in a ballgown was frankly impossible.

“I don’t have many single friends, Your Highness,” she said. “But I’m sure there are ladies of good standing—”

“You don’t have to say it.” The prince gave her a weary smile. “I’ve heard it plenty, mostly from my mother. But thank you.”

Lyney finally tugged lightly on her arm, and they withdrew from the greenery.

“Was he always like that?” she asked as they rejoined the flow of the crowd.

“For as long as I’ve known him.”

It was strange. She’d seen the prince before, from a distance—distractingly handsome, regal, with a reputation for wit and intellect. She had always assumed he simply hadn’t found the right match yet. But after that encounter…

“He seems afraid of women,” she said.

Lyney let out a quiet laugh. “Careful. That’s not something you want overheard. But yes—fair observation.”

“Is he really?”

“Not exactly. Just wary. Especially of the ones who treat these balls like a battlefield. Unfortunately, those are the ones who chase him. The alternative is a political marriage to a foreign princess, but he’s shown very little incentive to marry at all.”

“But doesn’t he need a queen? To… ascend?”

“Eventually, yes. But the king is still healthy, and the prince is young. He has a few more years to enjoy himself before the crown truly becomes a burden.”

Lyney’s tone was airy, but something about the way he said it felt vaguely ominous. She swallowed, trying not to dwell too long on his cryptic words.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I think I see Count Ambra over there. You don’t have to come with me—but stay somewhere visible, yes? Lest the rumour mill assumes you’re alone again.”

She nodded and watched him slip away into the crowd, graceful as always. Then she summoned a servant and requested a glass of wine.

Liquid courage, she told herself. She wouldn’t drink much—just enough to warm her blood, to dull the edge of her nerves.

For the next few minutes, she did what was expected of her. She smiled and nodded as younger girls came up to offer greetings. Made polite small talk. Deflected questions about her husband with practised ease. In a distant part of her mind, she marvelled at how bold people could be—so brazenly curious about the state of her marriage.

What made them think they had a chance with Lyney, even if her marriage was in shambles? It wasn’t the ring on her finger that made it offensive—it was the sheer disrespect.

At some point, Lynette appeared, a wine glass in one hand and a macaron in the other. “I’m tired of this,” she said, breezing up beside her. “Let’s go.”

“You just arrived five minutes ago.”

“And that’s five minutes too long.” Lynette squinted at the lights. “I feel trapped.”

“Maybe greet His Highness first,” Lumine suggested, amused. “He’s hiding behind the staircase.”

“Again?” But Lynette left anyway, muttering under her breath.

That left Lumine momentarily alone. She exhaled, gaze drifting towards the balcony doors. The king and queen were still nowhere in sight, and with the prince continuing his valiant campaign to avoid eligible women, surely no one would notice if she stepped out for just a moment.

She glanced around, looking for Lyney, then paused. He didn’t seem to be in the vicinity either. Odd. Wasn’t he headed towards Count Ambra?

Hesitation caught at her heels. He had told her to stay visible. But Lynette was still nearby. That should count for something, right?

Just a moment, she told herself. A moment to breathe, to recollect herself before diving back into the glittering wreckage of noble gossip.

Decision made, she slipped through the crowd and out onto the balcony.

Stepping into the cool night felt like sweet relief. She inhaled deeply as the noise behind her faded. Moonlight poured across the balcony, gilding the stone with silver. A soft breeze stirred her hair.

This was better. This was peace.

She didn’t like these kinds of scenes. Didn’t like the constant vigilance they demanded. She missed her old life. Missed the simplicity of the days before marriage.

But still, she had made her choice. And she would live with it.

A sound behind her made her turn. Footsteps. And a sharp intake of breath.

A man stood at the threshold, clearly surprised to find her there. “Oh,” he said. “Forgive me. I didn’t realise anyone was here.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “These spaces are meant to be shared.”

He hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

She looked him over. He didn’t dress like a native. All black—elegant, stark—with a single frost-white teardrop pinned to his lapel. His accent, too, was lightly touched with frost.

“You’re from Snezhnaya?” she asked.

A slow smile. “Yes. Mikhail. I’m part of the visiting delegation.”

Right. Lyney had mentioned something about an upcoming closed-door discussion on trade and armaments. This must be related.

He didn’t look like what she’d imagined of a Snezhnayan delegate. No towering bulk, no heavy furs. Instead, he was dangerously handsome. Pale skin, dark eyes, dark hair, with striking features that bordered on too perfect. Silver-inked tattoos curled up his arms and peeked from beneath the open collar of his coat. There was something catlike about his movements—slow, smooth, and unhurried, like someone entirely sure of his own appeal.

She wasn’t sure why, but he reminded her—forcefully—of Lyney.

“You’re Duchess Perinheri, aren’t you?”

She stiffened. Mikhail tilted his head, watching her. Something about the look in his eyes made her want to lie. But it was too late for that. Too many people knew who she was.

“Yes,” she said.

His smile deepened—warm, almost gentle. And yet it sent a chill down her spine.

A man that beautiful, smiling that softly, right after confirming her identity—it was all too familiar.

“I didn’t know Lyney married someone so lovely,” he said.

She blinked. “You know Lyney?”

“Oh, yes,” he said lightly. “A little too well for my liking, in fact.”

He leant against the railing beside her. It looked casual, but there was a note in his voice she couldn’t place. Something quiet and cutting, buried under the charm.

“He comes to Snezhnaya often,” Mikhail continued. “It always made me wonder what his poor wife thought of it. Waiting alone, while her husband stayed away.”

His tone was conversational. Idle. The nape of her neck prickled. “It’s fine,” she said. “I understand he’s busy, and he often needs to travel. It’s part of his duties.”

“How kind. Sweet of you, Duchess,” he said. “To be so understanding towards a man so cruel.”

He took a step closer, drifting along the edge of the balcony. She froze, her fingers tightening around the railing.

“I’d never leave my beautiful wife alone for that long,” he murmured.

She forced a smile. “Are you married, Lord Mikhail?”

“Hm? Me? No. Not yet.” He was relaxed. Smooth. “Are you offering, Duchess?”

“What?” She blinked. “I’m married.”

“I’m aware.”

He stopped in front of her. Moonlight spilt across his features, highlighting the gleam of jet-black hair, the cut of his cheekbones. His eyes were dark—bottomless—and there was something almost unnatural about his beauty. Too precise. Too poised. It struck her like a warning. Every instinct in her flared. Danger.

“It’s not an obligation though, is it?” he said softly.

“What do you mean?” She frowned, calculating whether she could leave politely without drawing attention. There was something in the way he studied her—curious, but with the coldness of a scalpel.

“What did you ask the duke for?” he continued, tilting his head. “You must’ve wanted something. Everyone does. That’s what people seek from power.” His smile hollowed. “And whatever he gave you, Duchess… I can give you too.”

Her heart skipped. Her blood felt cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but you do.” His gaze flicked to the moon. “No need to lie, zayka. It’s written all over your face.”

“You shouldn’t be trying to seduce a married woman,” she said flatly.

“It only matters if it works.” He glanced back at her. “Does it, Lumine Perinheri? Or would you rather I call you by your maiden name? Viatrix, wasn’t it?”

She stepped back. Mikhail matched it—one step forward. Amusement flickered like a knife’s edge in his smile.

“What do you want?” she asked, quiet.

“You, Duchess.” His smile widened. “How should I put it? It’s always the things that belong to others that catch my eye.”

He was too close.

“I’m sure you’d enjoy my company,” he whispered. “Far more than the duke’s.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “And I’m sure you don’t want Fontaine gossiping about you trying to steal another man’s wife. So if you’ll excuse me—”

He opened his mouth, but another voice cut in.

“You heard her, Mikhail,” Lyney said, stepping onto the balcony. His voice was smooth, but razor-sharp beneath the surface. He walked to Lumine’s side, slipping an arm around her waist. “You don’t want to be called persistent, do you?”

“Oh, speak of the devil.” Mikhail sighed. “And here I was, thinking I might’ve finally stepped out from beneath your shadow.”

“In what universe would I take my eyes off you?”

“Careful, Duke. You’ll make people think you’re in love with me.”

“And you’re testing the limits of your diplomatic immunity.” Lyney’s smile was sickly sweet. “What happened to keeping your hands clean, hm? Or is Pantalone giving you too much slack on your leash?”

That hit home. For a flicker of a second, Mikhail’s expression twisted.

“Marriage has made you dull, Lyney Perinheri.”

“And boredom’s made you reckless,” Lyney said, almost lazily. “But I’m not here to bicker with you. I came to find my dear wife.”

He turned to Lumine. Smiled. “Have a pleasant evening, Lord Mikhail.”

He guided her away from the balcony. She let him, heart still thrumming. When they reached the ballroom, Lyney’s grip eased, just a little. He sighed, voice dropping low.

“Ma douce,” he murmured, too close for propriety. “I thought I asked you to stay somewhere visible.”

“I didn’t think I’d run into any trouble,” she whispered. “It was only a moment.”

“Trouble does love to find you.” He glanced behind them. “Of all people…”

“Is there something about him?” she asked.

“You could say that.” His lips lifted. She couldn’t tell if it was amusement or something colder. “Mikhail… he’s a piece of work. That’s being generous. Let’s just say it’s best not to get too close.”

The chandeliers above shimmered like stars. Lyney reached for a glass of champagne and handed it to her. “Drink,” he said.

She did. The bubbly sweetness slid down her throat, sharp with fizz and nerves. Across the ballroom, the prince had emerged at last, now standing atop the staircase, addressing the crowd, looking every bit the royal figure he hadn’t been behind the greenery.

“It’s good,” Lyney continued, “that you know how to guard yourself.”

He took the half-drunk flute back from her. Sipped from it himself, his gaze never leaving hers, his hand steady at her waist—light, unhurried. Like he had every right.

“Still. Next time, ma douce…” A pause. “Don’t wander too far from me.”

He smiled, polite as ever. “I don’t like it.”

Chapter 10

As the days passed, she felt like she was losing her footing.

She no longer knew what to make of her husband. Or what she wanted from him, exactly. She wasn’t even sure if she liked the changes taking root in him—only that he was different now. Different in a way that was equal parts enthralling and terrifying.

Because Lyney, always persistent, had only grown more so.

She saw it every night when she brought him his tray.

It had become a ritual. Most nights, he was home—seated at his desk, half-immersed in work. On the rare occasions he wasn’t, she’d leave a note instead, neatly folded in lieu of her presence. But when he was there, she’d step in with the tray in her hands, offer him that same cup of milk, imbued with a potion that felt like nothing… and meant everything.

And Lyney—

He always drank it.

Afterwards, he’d ask her to stay. Just a little while longer. And this was where things grew uncertain. She could never quite tell what version of him she’d be facing.

Sometimes, they’d simply talk. He’d ask about her day. Share small details about his—what the king demanded this time, where he’d be the next day, what he thought of whatever official errand awaited. He had stopped leaving her notes on her nightstand, so these chats were her only clues to his movements, except for the mornings when he’d come by her room to wake her himself instead of letting Desyree do it.

These nights, she could handle. They felt ordinary. Manageable. Even gentle. She’d sit nearby as he muttered grievances about the king or the court, and she’d nod and offer the right kinds of sympathy. He didn’t ask for anything more.

But then there were other nights.

Nights when his smile flickered too sharp. When he leant in too close. When her heart pounded in her chest, and she couldn’t breathe.

Nights when he’d pull her into his lap, press her against the wall, carry her to his bed. Nights when she didn’t know whether to push him away or fall willingly into his arms—give in, offer whatever it was he seemed to be silently asking for.

He never said it aloud. Never named the thing he wanted. He only danced around the edges of it, fingers brushing lightly over her skin, his gaze dark and unreadable. And she—

She thought she knew. She thought she understood what he wanted. But she was too afraid to give it voice. Because naming it would make it real. Irrevocable. They’d cross a line they couldn’t uncross. And she wasn’t ready for that. Not while he was still under her influence.

But it was getting harder to resist. Harder to keep pretending not to notice the way he touched her.

It used to be just kisses. Just the soft skim of his fingers against her arms, over the silk of her nightdress, anchoring at her waist. Just warmth.

Now—

Now her cheeks flushed just remembering. The way his hand crept slowly up her thigh, languid and unhurried. The way he no longer stopped at the fabric of her dress. The gentle, featherlight passes over her ribs. The circling pressure around her breasts. Not forceful. Just deliberate.

The way he slotted a knee between her legs, holding her open as he kissed her harder, deeper. The way he once pinned her wrists above her head, holding her there against the bed—not roughly, but firmly. Like he didn’t want to let her go.

Though he always did, in the end. Always stopped when she hesitated. Always let her go.

It must have been frustrating for him. She would’ve been in his place. But Lyney never complained. He only smiled, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and told her he wouldn’t ask for more. Not until she was ready.

And that just made everything worse.

The guilt—souring, swelling in her chest. Guilt for drugging his drinks, for stripping him of the right to choose. And guilt, too, for withholding what he clearly wanted. What a part of her maybe wanted, too.

It made her wonder how long she could keep doing this. Whether the vial hidden in her vanity was her only lifeline or the thing that would finally ruin them both.

---

“Are you cold?”

Lyney’s voice was laced with concern. She instinctively shook her head even as her hands rubbed briskly along her arms, trying to still her shivers.

They’d been caught in a sudden downpour. Thankfully, they were already on their way back to the manor by then, but the timing hadn’t spared them much. Worse, they hadn’t taken a carriage. It had been her idea. They hadn’t gone far, just a short walk in the public gardens—Lyney had suggested they get some air, claimed he missed the feeling of sunlight after being cooped up for days. So they’d strolled through the park, lingered by the fountain, exchanged light conversation. And then the clouds had broken open.

Now, they stood soaked through in the manor’s doorway. She was freezing.

“Let’s get you changed,” Lyney said.

His hair was dark with rain, plastered to his face. His clothes clung to him, soaked to the bone. The butler, who’d received them at the entrance, ushered them in quickly, and Lyney guided her up the stairs towards her room.

He was… softer, these days. Gentler. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she liked it. Liked the way he touched her less like a puzzle and more like something precious. Liked how attentively he looked at her. Even if it was all because of the potion. Even if every act of tenderness only deepened her guilt.

It had been two months now. Two months of dosing him. Two months of second-guessing her own choices, of quietly dreading the day he might find out. Two months of comparing the way he treated her now to the way he had treated her before.

And she couldn’t bring herself to stop.

Not when he was like this. Not when he was warm, and kind, and spoke to her like she was someone he valued. Not when, for the first time in their marriage, she didn’t feel like she was walking a knife’s edge with every word she said.

It wasn’t that Lyney’s manner had changed. He had always seemed like the perfect husband. Charming, graceful, attentive—the sort of man other women envied her for.

But she’d always sensed the calculation beneath it. The cool assessment in his gaze. The way her every reaction was studied, catalogued, filed away for future use. Like her affection was something to earn, manipulate, weaponise.

Now, he looked at her and didn’t seem to be searching for anything.

Now, his kindness felt… real.

She didn’t dare believe it would last. Didn’t dare name it happiness. But it was a relief, however fleeting, to feel like she could finally exhale. Like she could stop guarding her every sentence. Like she didn’t have to be so careful all the time.

She hadn’t realised how tense she’d become. How small and brittle she’d made herself. And it scared her, a little, to realise that she barely recognised the person she had turned into.

They reached her room. Lyney opened the door, and she stepped inside, only to pause when she felt him follow.

“Don’t you need to change too?” she asked, glancing back. His hair was still dripping. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“It’s fine.” He smiled—bright, gentle. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”

Her heart thudded. The idea of Lyney lingering in her room while she undressed—

It was one thing to share time with him during the day, when the sun was out and everything felt innocuous. But things always changed in the dark. In private. In the glow of candlelight, when his gaze turned unreadable and his hands warmed her skin like fire, making her feel far too exposed.

“Y-You should go back,” she blurted, voice high and breathless. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Lyney tilted his head. His smile didn’t fade, but something about it shifted. Less sunlight. More shadow.

“Why?” he asked lightly. “Is my wife afraid of something?”

“I’m not afraid,” she squeaked. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

“I won’t,” he said, almost dismissive. “I’ve been through worse than a little rain.”

“It wasn’t a little rain.”

“Close enough.” His hand came to rest lightly at the small of her back, guiding her forward. She obeyed, shivering—whether from cold or nerves, she couldn’t tell. “Don’t worry so much about me, ma chère.”

The door shut behind them with a soft click. That was all it took for the air to shift. The same husband, the same smile—but inside the boundary of her room, everything felt sharper. Closer. Trapped.

“Do you need help changing?”

She jolted, twisting towards him. His violet eyes were steady on her, brow faintly furrowed.

“I-It’s fine,” she stammered, fleeing to her wardrobe. She flung the doors wide and used them as a shield, pretending his gaze wasn’t burning holes through her back. If she kept her head down, if she kept moving, she could pretend.

Her fingers fumbled through the rack until she found a familiar slip. She clutched it and turned, only to startle. Lyney was already beside her, soundless as a shadow.

His gaze flicked from her face to the garment in her hands. “That one?” There was something taut in his voice—strained, indecipherable.

She nodded quickly.

He smiled, sudden and soft. “Let me.”

Before she could protest, he spun her gently by the shoulders, fingers already tugging at the damp ribbons lacing her gown.

“Lyney!” she yelped, heat rising to her face. Her pulse hammered as the wet fabric peeled away under his touch, cool air rushing in to prick her skin with goosebumps.

“Yes?” His breath ghosted her ear as he leant closer. She shivered.

“You don’t have to—I can do this myself,” she tried weakly.

“You expect me to stand aside when my wife looks so helpless?” His voice was threaded with amusement.

“T-That doesn’t mean you need to undress me!”

“It would be faster if I did.” He tugged another ribbon loose. “Or would you rather spend ten minutes fumbling for laces you can’t reach?”

The sodden dress slipped free and pooled around her ankles. Only her slip remained—and that, too, was soaked through. White silk clung to every curve, translucent, revealing everything it was meant to conceal. She froze.

He must see. He must see everything.

“If you don’t take this off,” he murmured, toying with one damp strap, “you’ll fall ill.”

He was right behind her. Too close. His breath ghosted over her nape, hot against her chilled skin, and a small sound escaped her throat before she could stop it—a soft, embarrassing whimper.

She couldn’t utter a word. Could only stand there, silent, impulses at war inside her. One part of her screamed that she should stop this—that even in their most heated nights over the past two months, he had never stripped her bare, and she had never let it go this far. She’d always found some excuse, some barrier, some way to pull back before they crossed that line.

But the other half of her—the half that missed his gentleness, that lay awake recalling the violet of his eyes and the burn of his touch long after she’d fled to her own bed—wondered what it would be like if she didn’t stop him. If she simply let herself fall into him, his front warm against her back, and turned her head to say—

His hands tugged, and the straps slid from her shoulders. The slip whispered down her arms, joined the ruined dress at her feet.

And then she was bare. Utterly bare.

She stood rigid, still clutching the dry slip in her hands, her spine taut, every nerve alive with cold and shame and want. Lyney’s palms skimmed down her waist, settled with quiet certainty at her hips.

“You’re freezing,” he breathed.

She couldn’t stop focusing on his hands at her hips. Warm. Grounding. Holding her on just this side of too hard. She swallowed, afraid her voice might crack if she tried to speak.

“You need a warm bath,” Lyney said, his mouth grazing her throat in a fleeting kiss. “I’ll run it for you.”

And just like that, he stepped away. Relief slammed through her, relief shot through with disappointment.

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Or rather—she did. She did, and she didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want to think about it at all. Because the moment she acknowledged her desires, the moment she named them even in her own mind, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop wanting.

At least now, Lyney was gone. Distance returned, and with it, breath. Thought.

Shaking, Lumine tugged her dry slip over her head, the silk a fragile shield against the chill. She stepped away from the puddle of fabric on the floor and paced her room, restless. Nerves nipped at her heels, pooled heavy in her stomach. She didn’t know what to do, what could make her feel even a little better. So she walked circles across the carpet, twisting her hands together, until—

“Ma douce,” Lyney called from the bathroom. “Come here.”

She stilled. Bit her lip. Then turned and obeyed.

The bathroom was warmer, blessedly so, steam curling above the water. Lyney sat beside the filled bath, coat draped over the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His gaze caught hers. Held it. Whatever steadiness she’d gathered outside the door slipped away.

She couldn’t bear the silence—it left her mind free to run places it shouldn’t. So she cleared her throat, searching for something tangible. “Thank you for starting the bath,” she said, her voice small. “You added lavender oil?”

He nodded. “You had some on the counter.” His tone was easy. “You don’t mind?”

“No,” she said, edging closer, acutely aware of how thin her slip was. “I like it.”

“Mm.” He rose, reaching for her. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and she stumbled forward with a startled sound into his arms. His smile was blinding, almost absentminded as he murmured, “Maybe that explains why you always smell so good.”

Her head swam at the proximity. “I can bathe myself,” she said.

“I know.” His hand cupped her cheek, thumb sweeping slow along her jaw. Her breath caught. “But I want to help you.”

How could she say no when he said it like that? Sincere. As though it really was an offer, not a demand. Maybe she was the one overthinking.

“Okay,” she breathed at last. He kissed her forehead—gentle, startling—and her heart skipped.

“Then you need to remove this,” he said, tugging lightly at the silk of her slip. “Why did you put it on?”

“It was cold outside.” She pulled away enough to undress herself, embarrassed by the act of stripping under his gaze. She tried to focus on the tiles, the bathwater, the faint shimmer of lavender oil instead. Anything but him.

The fabric slipped down her body. Lyney took it, setting it aside, and she stood there bare, shivering—not with cold this time, but something else. His eyes moved over her, unreadable. Unfathomable.

What was he thinking?

“You should get in,” he said softly. “Before the bath cools.”

She obeyed, stepping into the water. Warmth embraced her skin, steam loosening every taut muscle. She leant back against the edge, a faint moan escaping before she could stop it, eyes fluttering closed. For a moment, she forgot he was there.

Then fingers combed through her damp hair, and she jolted, eyes flying open. “Lyney?”

“Shh,” Lyney said, velvet-soft. She stayed still in the bath, her heart thudding. “I told you I’d help you, didn’t I?”

His hands moved gently over her head, massaging her scalp. She was melting already—into the warmth of his touch, into how good it felt.

“You have such lovely hair,” he murmured, working shampoo into her strands until they foamed. “I love watching it catch the light. The way it glimmers in the sun.”

His tone was light, conversational. She could almost convince herself this was fine. Normal. That she didn’t have to overthink every motion. He was just helping her wash her hair—innocent enough. Nothing to fear.

But even telling herself that, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t push words past the tightness in her throat. Every beat of her pulse drowned out what little composure she had left. If she tried to talk, her voice would splinter. So she kept silent.

“It’s grown since we married,” Lyney said. His fingers slid down to her nape, his thumbs pressing slow circles at the base of her neck. She couldn’t stop the moan that escaped her, relief and pleasure rushing through her body all at once.

“It’s beautiful either way,” he continued. “Short or long. But when it’s long, it makes me think of… things.”

His voice dropped, quiet enough that she barely caught it. “Makes me think of it wrapped around my fingers. Sprawled across my pillow. I imagine it, night after night. You, pliant in my bed. Drunk on me.”

Her breath hitched. She wanted to turn, to see what expression he wore when he said such things—but she couldn’t. Frozen, she curled her fingers against the smooth edge of the bath, searching for anything solid to ground herself.

“How pretty,” Lyney said. His hands, slick with suds, skimmed from her shoulders down her arms, and she jolted.

“Lyney,” she managed, voice thin, wavering. “Lyney—”

“Yes, my dear?” A splash, ripples licking at her skin as he dipped his hands into the water, rinsing off the foam. “Is there something you want from me?”

He sounded pleasant. Sweet. Innocent. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she had imagined his earlier words.

“I can wash my body,” she whispered.

“Of course you can.” His tone curled indulgent now. “But why make it harder when I’m here, willing to help?”

She wanted to object. But then he picked up a washcloth, and her protest faltered.

The cloth was rougher than skin, but pleasant against her back. And he wasn’t touching her directly. That made it fine, didn’t it? Safe.

She shifted forward slightly, letting him reach lower. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“It’s good,” she admitted. “It feels… nice. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me.” His laugh was soft, silken. “I’m your husband. I’ll do whatever I can to make you comfortable.”

The cloth drifted lower, over her waist, then up again, circling her chest. She tried to ignore it. It was just fabric. Just washing. Until it grazed her nipple. She gasped, water rippling as she flinched upright.

“Lumine?” His voice was gentle, concerned. She forced herself to exhale, sinking slowly back against the wall of the bath.

“It’s nothing,” she breathed. She didn’t want to admit she’d reacted. Didn’t want to give meaning to it.

“If you say so.” His hand moved again, patient. The cloth circled her breasts, unhurried, until she sagged back into the water, her eyes fluttering shut.

Another splash. She thought nothing of it until the cloth slipped lower. Over her navel. Down, under the water. It still felt good. Too good. Sleepy warmth spread through her body, numbing her will to resist.

Then the cloth brushed the inside of her thigh. She startled, eyes snapping open—

Lyney was in the bath. Still fully clothed, kneeling in front of her. His violet eyes were dark.

“W-What are you doing?” she said, uncertain if she was dreaming. Maybe she had fallen asleep. Maybe none of this was real.

“Chérie,” he murmured—and she twitched, a moan escaping when the washcloth dragged slow over the delicate skin of her thigh, too close, far too close. “Relax.”

“I can’t—not when you’re touching me like this—”

“Don’t think so much.” He pressed closer, and suddenly she was bracketed between him and the wall, with nothing between them but water, his soaked clothes, the single barrier of the washcloth. “I’m just helping you wash. Remember?”

Then the cloth dipped. Grazed her centre. The shock of it jolted through her, sparking along every nerve, and she whimpered before she could stop herself.

“Relax,” he said again, trailing lower, back to her thighs. “If you’re too tense, you’ll only make yourself ache.”

He was the one making her ache. But she couldn’t say it. Not when every pass of fabric twisted something deep in her belly, heat unfurling like fire through her blood. It was too much—too sharp, too consuming. Half pleasure, half panic. She didn’t know how to make sense of it.

Her hands shot forward, bracing against his chest. Her thighs clamped tight around his wrist. “Don’t,” she said.

Lyney tipped his head, violet eyes shadowed. “But if I don’t,” he said, voice honey-sweet, “how will I know you’re clean?”

She had no words. Only silence. He smiled faintly and leant closer, close enough that she had to tip her chin back to meet his gaze. “Won’t you trust me?” he asked. “I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

Her hands shook. He slid one palm slowly over her knee, coaxing. “Let go.”

Her legs parted before she could think.

The washcloth was set aside. He reached for the shelf of glass flasks at the bath’s edge, poured a trickle of perfumed soap into his palm. The scent of lilies rose sharp in the steam.

Then his bare hands were on her. Warm. Calloused just enough to remind her he was no stranger to steel, but steady, precise, pressing down with just enough weight to brand her with the memory of his touch.

She should stop this. She should say something. With the cloth, she could pretend propriety—pretend they were playing at decency. But this? His skin on hers? It was too much. Too intimate. A line she knew she couldn’t cross.

And yet she stayed quiet. Wanting. Heat wound so tight inside her she thought she might snap.

Lyney, for all that, was careful. Deliberate. His hands skimmed over safe places—her shoulders, her arms, the curve of her waist, down her legs. He avoided her chest, her hips, her thighs. His restraint only made it worse, somehow. Like he was holding himself back, and that felt like a tease more devastating than any bold touch.

Time blurred. Every second stretched into eternity. By the time he rinsed his hands and leant in to kiss her forehead, she was trembling, thighs clamped, an ache pulsing low and wicked inside her.

She gasped at the kiss and looked away when he drew back. His smile was soft, unfathomable in the candlelit steam. “I should be cold,” he said lightly. “But I’m not.”

Water rippled as he stood, stepping out of the bath, clothes dripping. “My turn to change.” He glanced back at her, still curled against the bath wall. “Do you need help?”

Her gaze jerked up to his. Concern. Gentle curiosity. Nothing else—nothing to suggest he’d just touched her into this ruinous state. Her body burnt. She wanted to cry. To grab him back down into the water. To give in.

Instead, she forced herself to shake her head. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice thin, trembling.

“No need,” he murmured, lips curving into a tender smile. “I’m your husband. I’ll do whatever you want.”

And then he turned to go. For a split second, before the steam swallowed him, she thought she saw hunger flash in his eyes.

---

For a week after that day, Lumine couldn’t bring herself to look at Lyney.

Not that she had many chances to. He’d fallen into another one of his busy stretches, gone for hours at a time, only returning well after nightfall. The distance gave her cover. She left trays and notes in his study, and he left replies in neat script on his desk for her to find the next evening. It was almost routine. Almost safe.

If anything, she suspected she was the one left most altered by what had happened.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking of him. Dreaming of him. As though the mere fact of him hadn’t already haunted her enough before. At least those dreams used to be scattered, infrequent. Now they came nearly every other night. Dreams of his mouth, his touch, the washcloth grazing where no one else ever had. Dreams that left her restless, shaken, unsure if what she felt was pleasure or dread.

Once, shame burning through her, she’d tried to imitate it herself in the bath. To recreate that jolt, that shock of sensation. But her fingers never found the same rhythm, never coaxed the same reaction. It was only ever a hollow echo. She abandoned the attempt quickly, humiliated by her own failure, disturbed by her own want.

So she drifted. Distracted, unmoored. She busied herself with Desyree and Aurele, endured Lynette’s sharp tutelage in self-defence, accepted select invitations, oversaw little affairs of the manor—but beneath it all her thoughts circled back to him. To her husband’s voice, his impossible smile, the violet of his eyes when sunlight touched them. It was infuriating how he lingered, even in his absence.

Which was why she was grateful when a letter arrived—rare, sealed with the mark of the military. From Aether.

She tore it open eagerly, only for the words to sour in her throat. He had been injured. An ambush. A spear through the leg. He insisted he was fine now, insisted he’d be back on the field within a month, even boasted about how many enemies he’d felled before going down. But she couldn’t read pride into those lines. All she could picture was his face twisted in pain—or worse, eyes dulled, body falling limp.

Her mind betrayed her further: she remembered the spy Lyney had stabbed in his bedroom, the blood pooling across the carpet. For a heartbeat, she saw Aether instead, his golden eyes glassy, his body crumpling in a widening stain of red.

After that, the dreams of Lyney vanished. In their place came Aether’s corpse. His last breath rattling in her ears, night after night.

She stopped sleeping. Anything to keep the images away. Aether was fine—he’d said so himself—so why was she afraid? Why did she keep seeing him dead in her mind’s eye? He was strong. He was brave. He wouldn’t fall so easily. And yet fear made her irrational.

And Lyney’s absence made it worse. With nothing to distract her, nothing to keep her tethered, her mind spun deeper into shadow.

She asked for a vial of sleep tincture from Lynette. Claimed she needed rest—though what she really wanted was dreamless rest, a sleep without images. Lynette had looked concerned but said nothing, pressing the glass into her palm without question. For a while, it worked. The nights went mercifully blank. But her body adjusted too quickly, and soon the tincture dulled nothing at all. So she stopped sleeping altogether.

And one night, while she sat hollow-eyed by a bay window overlooking the garden, moonlight spilling silver across the glass, the door to the manor opened. Lyney returned—late, but earlier than usual. Early enough that she had not yet retreated to her room.

And that was when he saw her.

---

“Chérie.” She heard his voice. Was too tired to startle, so she only turned slowly, searching for him through the dark.

Lyney was walking towards her, expression taut, strained by something she couldn’t name. “It’s late,” he said. “What are you doing here, all by yourself?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

Or more truthfully, she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to shut her eyes and see Aether’s face again. Staying awake was preferable. Staying awake, even as exhaustion dragged at her body, at least gave her the illusion of control. In the waking world, she could choose where her thoughts went. In dreams, she was powerless, forced to watch whatever her mind dredged up from its depths.

And lately, it was always the same: Aether, struck down. Golden eyes turning dim. Blood blooming scarlet against snow. The rattle of a final breath.

The manor had made her strange. Twisted her into someone too full of darkness, paranoia. In the past, she would never have lingered on his injuries—he’d been wounded before, and she’d simply written back, trusting he’d recover. But now—now that she knew what death looked like, how easy it was to make someone bleed and break—she couldn’t stop imagining it. Couldn’t stop imagining him.

Lyney had told her so casually before, all the ways a body could shatter. Those words lived in her bones now, echoing louder than Aether’s reassurances.

She looked at Lyney, too tired to be ashamed of what he might see in her face. He studied her, silent, as if taking her apart piece by piece. She felt pathetic beneath that gaze. Illogical. Aether had already said he was fine, so why couldn’t she let go?

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

He didn’t touch her. Just stood there, waiting, observing, as though she was an experiment behind glass.

She shivered. Wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold her fraying edges together. “Nothing,” she said. “Just… nightmares.”

“About?”

She shook her head. “Silly things. I’m being irrational.” Her voice was more sigh than speech.

A beat of silence. Then he moved to sit beside her on the bay window. She shifted aside, making room, though her body screamed with tension.

“Dreams are rarely rational,” he said. “So you don’t need to justify yourself. I’m here. I’m listening. Tell me.”

It was strange, hearing him so blunt. On another night, she would’ve hesitated. But she was desperate for something—anything—that might anchor her.

“Aether wrote to me,” she said. “He’s fine now, but—he got ambushed. A spear through the leg. He says he’s recovering, that it’s nothing to worry about. But I keep imagining the worst. What if it wasn’t his leg? What if it’s somewhere else, next time?”

Her throat felt dry. She forced herself to swallow. “Before I married you, I didn’t really know what death looked like. Not up close. I thought it would be… loud. Brutal. Something impossible to ignore. But it isn’t. It’s quiet. Too quiet. A man can be here one moment and gone the next, and the world doesn’t even pause to notice.”

Her voice cracked. “And then I thought of Aether. Out there in the wastes. What if he died like that? Quietly, without anyone to see him. What if the snow took him forever, and no one was there to know or remember? And my mother and I—we’d just keep waiting, never knowing why he never came home.”

Lyney’s hand suddenly covered her mouth. She stiffened. His eyes were steady, violet dark in the dim light. “You’re thinking too much,” he said softly.

His hand was cool against her skin. His thumb brushed her lip. “Don’t you have faith in your brother?”

She wanted to argue. Wanted to say she did. But if that was true, why did her mind keep betraying her in sleep?

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” she whispered when he let her go. “I just can’t stop the dreams. They keep coming. I don’t know how to make them stop.”

Lyney shifted closer. His arm came around her shoulders, and she leant into him before she could think better of it, breathing in his scent. Flowers, still—sweet and faintly bitter, tinged with frost. The tail end of autumn lingered in the air, the bite of winter creeping in even through furs and heavy coats.

He tugged her closer, and her head found his shoulder almost on its own. For once, she let herself rest there, taking the quiet grounding he offered.

“Dreams are dreams,” he said, his tone distant, almost wistful. “You can’t run from them forever. But you must remember—they don’t mean anything real.”

“They wear me down,” she said, closing her eyes, pressing her cheek into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Even if I know it’s meaningless when I wake, when I dream… it feels so real.”

He didn’t answer at once. Only combed his fingers idly through her hair, playing with the loose strands. Her heart beat—once, twice, thrice—before he shifted. She nearly tipped over as he rose from the window seat and extended a hand. His fingers curled lightly around her wrist, coaxing her to her feet.

“Lyney?” she asked, uncertain.

He didn’t answer her question, only looked at her with that unreadable expression and said, “Come with me.”

She was too tired to resist. Too tired to think. So she stumbled after him through the dim hallway, up the stairs, into her room.

“Lie down,” he said.

She hesitated, then obeyed, curling on the mattress. He followed close behind, and she gazed up at him, her pulse tight in her throat, wondering what he meant to do.

He must have noticed, because his smile softened, though the strain she’d glimpsed earlier lingered at its edges. “I can’t let my wife wither away,” he said. “And if it’s dreams that plague you, there are ways to make you forget. To stave them off for a little while.”

“How?” she asked, wary.

“Petty distractions,” he said. “The human mind is a curious thing. Stubborn, but easily diverted.”

Her breath hitched. She remembered the last time he had spoken of distraction, on a night filled with too much blood. “I don’t know if that’s—”

“It’s better than nothing.” His hand found hers, fingers twining with sure familiarity. Her words faltered, falling apart in her throat. “We should at least try before you dismiss it. Don’t you think?”

His hand was warmer than before. Steady. He lifted their joined fingers, brushed his lips over the back of her hand. “The tinctures don’t work anymore, do they?” His voice was hushed against her skin, almost lulling. “You need something else.”

“I—”

“I don’t want my wife dead on her feet,” he said simply.

She had no answer to that. She didn’t want this, either—the sleepless nights, the gnawing fear. And if Lyney could ease it, even for a little while…

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

His lips traced lower, from the back of her hand to the place where her pulse leapt fast and uneven. “You’re afraid,” he murmured. “Of shadows, of ghosts, of dreams that don’t exist. So all I want is to make you forget.”

Her heart raced. “I don’t think I can—I’m not sure I can go through whatever it is you’re thinking of.”

He smiled against her skin, his voice low, curving gentle. “And what do you think I’m thinking of?”

He released her hand only to lean down over her. His gaze locked on hers, unblinking—quiet comfort slipping into something more deliberate, more consuming. “I won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he said, his voice all velvet promise, dangerous in how much she wanted to believe it.

Maybe there was nothing wrong in giving this a try. In taking what he gave. Maybe this really would quiet the blood and death and Aether’s blank eyes that haunted her nights. Maybe she could stop pretending to be strong.

If Lyney was offering—and he was, wasn’t he? Rare as sincerity came from him—then would it be so wrong to take it?

“All right,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

His breath brushed cool and sweet against her face. Then his mouth found hers, and she parted her lips without thinking, some unfamiliar hunger pushing her forward.

She had felt this impulse before. It had only grown sharper over the past weeks, swelling with every touch, every kiss, every caress. Made her want things she knew she shouldn’t. Made her crave warmth she had no right to seek.

But she craved it anyway. Craved the silence that came whenever Lyney touched her like this. Because when he kissed her, when his hands slid lower, rucking her dress higher up her thighs, there was no room left for fear or grief or guilt. Only the sweet sear of his touch. Only his voice, honeyed with endearments, filling her ears.

It was too easy to be caught up in him. To let him sweep her into a place where she didn’t have to think at all. All she had to do was hold on—wrap her arms around his neck, pull him closer, let him take.

He moaned into her mouth, then broke away to trail down her throat. She shivered when his teeth grazed her skin, when he bit down lightly—sharp, fleeting. The sting dissolved into heat, and she gasped when his tongue followed, soothing.

“You’re soft,” he murmured against her shoulder, his voice husky. “Feels like I’ll break you if I’m not careful.”

“Do you want to break me?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, her fingers twisting in his hair.

“Maybe.” His teeth caught on the strap of her slip, tugging. His lips brushed over her skin. “Just to see what you’d look like when you fall apart. So I can put you back together again. See whether you’re still the same after going through me.”

It should have scared her. It didn’t. Not tonight. His voice rasped low, and instead of fear, something wicked and electric unfurled in her chest, spreading hot through her blood.

In some distant corner of her mind, she felt scandalised. She knew she shouldn’t be giving in like this. Knew she would regret it, that maybe he would too. But she wanted escape. She wanted silence. And Lyney—his mouth, his hands—burnt everything else away.

His lips trailed down her collarbone, pausing at the swell of her breasts. His hands slid beneath her slip, anchoring at her waist, drawing the fabric higher.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

A laugh ghosted against her skin, quiet, indulgent. “You don’t need to do anything, ma chère,” he said. “Just leave it to me.”

Then his mouth closed around her nipple through the thin silk, and she cried out, arching into him.

It was dizzying. Lightning through her veins. Too much, too new. The press of his tongue, hot and wet through the fabric, made her clutch at him helplessly, shamelessly, her moans spilling out as though she had no control over them at all.

His hands roamed higher, dragging her slip up with them, baring more and more of her skin. One palm smoothed up her thigh, and she jolted, startled by how close he was—how close he might be to sliding lower, touching her where no one ever had.

The thought made her breath stutter. She remembered the bath. The rough drag of the washcloth over her core, the shock of it lashing through her body, the way she had tried to recreate it later and failed.

Lyney bit down again, harder this time, and she inhaled sharply, the sting bleeding into strange pleasure, spreading across her chest. He sucked lightly at the underside of her breast, then moved lower, past the edge of the slip, his breath a whisper against bare skin.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” His voice was low, silken; when she lifted her head, his violet eyes caught hers, gentle as still water, too calm, too deep. The longer she held his gaze, the more she realised there was nothing gentle about it at all.

“I’m not sure,” she said, shivering.

He blinked, then tilted his head. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips, almost arrogant in its certainty. “Where does it hurt most, ma douce?” he purred. “Tell me.”

Where it hurt most. There were too many answers. Her head hurt. Her chest hurt. Her belly was knotted, molten and tense. Her whole body felt strung taut on the edge of something unnameable—and once she let herself fall, she wasn’t sure she’d ever climb back.

Her hands lifted blindly, searching for an anchor. She cupped his face, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. He turned into her palm, pressing a kiss against her skin. “I can’t do anything unless you tell me, sweet,” he said.

She swallowed hard. Between her thighs, something ached. Heavy. Pulling her down, spiralling into this ruin she told herself was only distraction. But if she gave in, if she let herself want this—would she regret it in the morning? Would she ever forgive herself?

Then Lyney kissed her again. Soft, coaxing. He tasted faintly sweet, like spun sugar, like candyfloss melting on her tongue. Light. Insubstantial. Something she could almost pretend meant nothing at all.

“Here,” she whispered at last, her voice trembling. She drew one of his hands down, guiding it to her navel. Her fingers shook. “Touch me here.”

His gaze flicked up, held hers, steady and unblinking, as though offering her one last chance to stop.

Then he touched her. His fingers slipped lower, grazing her core, and she cried out, startling herself with how raw, how needy the sound was.

“You’ve never been touched here before, have you?” Lyney mused, his voice gentle, searching. His fingers moved slowly, learning her. “No one’s touched you. My delicate, innocent wife.”

She wasn’t listening. Couldn’t. Every brush of his fingers sent a jolt through her, small bursts of sensation sparking in her nerves, climbing until she trembled. She couldn’t keep hold of a thought. Couldn’t do anything but feel.

“Do you know what this is?” Lyney’s tone was steady, almost firm. She shook her head, unable to form words.

His thumb pressed against a tender spot, and stars lit behind her eyes. Her breath broke.

“It’s your clit,” he said. “Sweet little thing. Touch it properly, and you’ll swear you see heaven.”

She whimpered, the sound escaping before she could bite it back. His thumb began tracing slow circles, deliberate and unhurried, the faint pressure turning her nerves molten. “You’re very sensitive,” he murmured. “It makes me want to see more.”

Was she? Maybe. Because every single motion made her clutch at the sheets, searching for something solid. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe through the haze. Could only cling to the sharp edge of sensation.

“You’re already wet,” Lyney said, his voice drifting like it came from far away. She blinked, dazed, her thoughts clouding until another image intruded. Aether’s eyes, blank. Blood pooling on snow—

“Focus on me.” His voice snapped sharp, dragging her back, and his thumb pressed hard on her clit. Pleasure lashed through her so violently she nearly sobbed. “I don’t want your mind drifting. Pay attention to your husband, chérie.”

She wanted to tell him she was, that she didn’t dare think of anything else. But then his fingers left her, replaced by his mouth—warm, unrelenting—and her words broke into a strangled moan as his tongue swept slow and sure over her clit, circling, tasting, devouring.

She had never known her body was capable of this. Never imagined a universe of sensation locked away inside her, waiting to be found. She had never touched herself, never thought to. Watching The Bell of Rue Mortelune with Lyney had been her first glimpse into such things, a phantom that lingered, haunting her whenever she least expected it. Feeding her curiosity. Making her wonder what it might feel like if Lyney ever—

Now he was. Touching her that way. Kissing her that way. And she didn’t have the words for it. Could only twist and whimper as his mouth and hands pushed her higher, higher, towards a peak she was too afraid to breach.

Her body strained against itself, every muscle pulled taut. She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to never stop. Her hands slipped into his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

“Lyney!” she cried. He only sucked harder, his hands locking around her thighs, holding her open even as she tried to close them. “Lyney, please—I can’t—”

He exhaled against her clit, a puff of heat that made her moan. “You can, my love,” he said. “You can. You’ll come for me, right here, right now.”

Then his lips sealed over her again, and with a single hard pull, something inside her broke. The ground dropped out from beneath her. Sight scattered. She was drifting, untethered, caught in a haze where there was no pain, no thought—only pleasure.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. Didn’t know if time had stopped or simply slipped away. The world was blank. Quiet. The bed cushioned her, and above her she felt Lyney—his weight, his kisses, grounding her in the aftermath. Her hands moved without thought, clutching at his shoulders like a castaway clinging to driftwood.

“Lumine,” he said, voice tugging her back. “Lumine, my sweet. Mon trésor. Come back to me.”

Her vision cleared enough to see him above her, eyes gleaming, mouth wet. Embarrassment flushed hot in her chest. Was that… from her? It had to be.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. He smiled faintly, leant close enough for their breaths to mingle. “Can you think, my love? Can you remember who you are?”

She nodded weakly. Watched his tongue flick over his lips, collecting what remained. “Sweet,” he said. “You taste sweet. Makes me want more. Though I think you’re too tired for more.”

He was right. She felt wrung out, her body slack, heavy. Too drained to care about her slip rucked to her chest, her lower half bare to the night air. She could fall asleep here, in his arms, and maybe she wouldn’t even dream.

But Lyney moved with practised ease—tugging her slip back down, pulling the duvet over her, tucking her in like something fragile. His fingers ran through her hair, and she turned into his touch without meaning to, helpless in her need for warmth, for steadiness. Drawn to him like a plant straining for sunlight.

“What should I do with you?” he said. “When you look at me like this, begging me so prettily, fear still hiding in your eyes.”

She couldn’t parse his words. Exhaustion pressed her under in waves, smothering every coherent thought. Only his hand on her forehead, his voice brushing against her cheek, kept her tethered.

“You give me fragments,” he continued. “Hiding, withholding. Making me wait. But I like that, ma chère.” His palm stroked over her brow, calming, steady. “The longer the wait, the sweeter the reward.”

Her body sagged, sleep tugging at her edges. She reached weakly for him, and he caught her hand, threading their fingers together, pressing her down into the mattress.

“Sleep,” he told her. His voice was gentle, almost lulling. “Sleep, and cry for me in the morning.”

His lips brushed hers, featherlight. Barely there. “You do look so lovely when you cry.”

And that was the last thing she heard before the dark finally claimed her.

Chapter 11

“Lumine? Are you listening to me?”

Lumine blinked up, startled, into Lynette’s steady violet eyes. Her sister-in-law stood in front of her, tapping a wooden training sword against her palm, one brow arched. “You’ve been spacing out for a while.”

“Oh.” Lumine shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t just say you’re sorry.” Lynette rapped her shoulder with the flat of the blade. “If something’s on your mind, speak.”

Something on her mind? Where would she even begin? Your brother has been growing bolder, and I can’t tell if I want him to keep his distance or if I want… more.

Definitely not a conversation she intended to have with Lynette.

“It’s the solstice hunt,” she said instead, the safer choice. “I’m worried about it.”

“Oh? Why?” Lynette tilted her head, the gesture so like Lyney’s it unsettled her. “It’s the best part of winter.”

“For you, maybe.” Lumine sighed, jabbing half-heartedly at a training dummy. “I won’t be in the hunt. I’ll just sit with the other ladies and try to ignore their gossip.”

Lynette grimaced. “Right. I forgot about that. Why don’t you just come with us instead?”

“Lynette, I can barely hold a sword against a man. Beasts are another matter.”

“Beasts are easier,” Lynette said. “They’re not as devious.”

“Still.” Lumine’s sigh carried more weight than she liked.

The solstice hunt—yet another tradition she was expected to endure. Every year, nobles gathered on the western borderlands to cull game and, more importantly, monsters that threatened nearby settlements. The true prize wasn’t venison or rabbit stew but the glittering magic cores harvested from slain creatures.

“What happens if you bring back the most spoils?” she’d asked Lyney.

“Nothing,” he’d said with a shrug. “Only more burdens.”

He hadn’t elaborated, and she hadn’t pressed, distracted instead by his offhand remark that she would be required to attend as Duchess Perinheri. He’d looked almost resigned at the prospect.

Lynette, by contrast, seemed eager. Which wasn’t surprising. Lynette always came alive when she had a sword in hand.

“His Grace and the young lady nearly always win,” Desyree had whispered once. “House Perinheri takes combat seriously—more than ceremony. It shows.”

The words had brought back memories Lumine preferred buried: iridescent scales breaking the lake’s surface at the summer estate, fangs gleaming, water churning. She shuddered, pushing the serpent’s image away.

“What does the victor get?” she asked Lynette now.

“Little enough.” Lynette swung at a dummy as she crossed the room. “The honour of being at the king’s beck and call for military errands. A thankless prize.”

No wonder Lyney had called it a burden. “Doesn’t Lyney already serve that role?”

“Yes. Which is why he’d rather avoid the hunt this year. But he can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Too much attention on our house. I’ve only just returned from the front, and he’s newly married. He’d need an airtight excuse to bow out, and this time, he has none.”

“What about his daily work?”

“That doesn’t count. You can’t spurn ceremony for ‘trivial affairs’.”

“Lyney’s work isn’t trivial.”

“Not to the king.”

Lynette’s mouth tightened, vexed for her brother’s sake, so Lumine let the point drop.

“He told me I’d need to be careful while we’re there,” Lumine offered instead.

“And that’s why we’re training,” Lynette said, punctuating her reply by knocking over a dummy with the hilt of her practice sword.

“Why, though? He didn’t explain. I thought I’d just be with the other wives at the pavilion.”

“He’s overthinking. It’s because of the Snezhnayan delegation this year. They won’t join the hunt, but they’ll watch from the sidelines.”

Lumine blinked. “That’s… allowed?”

“Apparently. His Majesty’s eager to court Snzehnayan coin, so he flaunts our traditions for their benefit.”

Something about Lynette’s tone—flat, clipped—made Lumine glance at her. “You don’t believe that.”

“Of course not.” Lynette’s lip curled. “I may not follow politics as well as Lyney, but I know enough. Anyone who smiles the way Mikhail Snezhevich does is not to be trusted.”

A shiver traced down her spine. That name. “Mikhail?”

“I hear you two met.” Lynette toppled another dummy, this one right beside Lumine. The wooden blade cut the air close enough that she felt the rush of wind. “Lyney wasn’t too pleased about it.”

“He said Mikhail was a piece of work.”

“That’s an understatement. He’s one of the slipperiest among the Fatui. Reports directly to Pantalone, who oversees Snzehnaya’s coffers. I hear he’s a favourite. Cunning, ambitious… just like his master.”

“Oh.” Lumine thought of Mikhail—dark hair, darker eyes, silver tattoos curling like inked frost along his skin. That smile, assured and wolfish. “And he’ll be at the hunt?”

“Most likely. I’d bet he’s here to sniff out potential grounds for harvesting magic cores,” Lynette said. “Lyney’s keeping tabs on him.”

“Mikhail did mention being in Lyney’s shadow.”

“They hate each other,” Lynette said. “It’s well past professionalism by now. Lyney’s disrupted Mikhail’s trade monopolies more than once, and Mikhail’s made Lyney’s trips to Snezhnaya… unpleasant. At this point, it’s personal.”

That explained why Mikhail had cornered her the moment he confirmed her identity. It wasn’t flirtation. It was another way to needle Lyney.

“He’s a lot like Lyney,” she murmured.

“Don’t ever say that to my brother. You’ll give him an aneurysm.” Lynette’s mouth quirked. “But you’re not wrong. People tend to despise the enemy who mirrors their own flaws.”

“You know him personally?”

“We’ve crossed paths.” Lynette’s tone was evasive. “And I agree with Lyney—you don’t want to be alone with Mikhail. As much as my brother enjoys his games, he doesn’t mean real harm. Not most of the time, at least. I can’t say the same for Mikhail.”

“Lyney talks far too casually about murder for someone who doesn’t mean real harm.”

“Well, just stay off the wrong side of his blade,” Lynette said. “It’s not that hard. Usually.”

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you keeping me talking to get out of practice?”

“That was most certainly not my plan,” Lumine said, raising her training sword with mock dignity. “This is important, too. Otherwise, I won’t know what to look out for next week.”

Next week. The solstice hunt. Too soon. Lyney had only mentioned it a while ago, the very day after he’d…

She shut down the thought, heat rising in her cheeks. Not something to dwell on while Lynette’s sharp violet gaze was fixed on her like a knife.

“All the talking in the world won’t save you if you can’t swing properly,” Lynette said, rapping the flat of her sword against Lumine’s hand. She winced. “Chin up, back straight. I want those dummies all down within thirty seconds.”

Lumine sighed, but readied her stance. She knew this was for her own good. The more competent she became with a blade, the more peace of mind the entire household would have.

Still, as she swung at the row of dummies, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from drifting. To Lyney. To what he was doing now. To whether he’d come to her room tonight. Whether his hands would—

“Lumine!” Lynette’s bark cut through her thoughts just as her blade missed a dummy entirely.

“Sorry!” She shook her head hard, trying to drive out every distraction—most of all, Lyney.

---

Lumine woke to the dip of her mattress, the brush of warmth hovering above her.

Something soft grazed her forehead, featherlight. “Lyney?” she said, more instinct than certainty.

“Mm.” Fingers she knew—cool, deliberate—tilted her chin, coaxing her to face him. She could just make out his blurred outline in the shadows. “Thanks for the log cake,” he said. “A rare treat after a hard day.”

“I hope your vassals didn’t give you trouble,” she mumbled.

His laugh was soft, dulcet, brushing the air like velvet. “No. Not a bit.”

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, sitting up. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not really. I’ve slept less.”

The mattress dipped again as he settled behind her. Loose shirt, soft trousers—already dressed down. “You changed,” she said.

“Mm. Thought I’d at least pretend I was ready for bed. Otherwise, my wife might scold me for wasting away my health.”

“I don’t scold.”

“So you say. You’re worse than Lynette,” he teased, fingers idly trailing the length of her bare arm. “But you’re also better at keeping me away from my desk.”

His tone was light, deceptive as ever, but the words themselves made heat climb to her face. The room suddenly felt too warm. “Is that why you’re here?”

Lately, he’d been slipping into her room more often. Previously, he’d come in place of Desyree, waking her himself at dawn. That had felt harmless enough—morning was bright, forgiving; sunlight made everything seem simpler.

But since that night, his visits had changed. Midnight now. The small hours, when shadows draped the walls and the manor held its breath. He never did anything overtly improper—never—but his presence alone felt heavy. Like a promise. Like a suggestion.

She told herself it was nothing. Coincidence. That maybe he was opening up at last, that this was how he showed it: by coming to her, choosing to spend time with her, no matter the hour.

But in the darker corners of her mind, she remembered too much. His hands, his mouth, the way her body had broken beneath his touch. And she couldn’t shake the thought that this wasn’t happenstance—that he was waiting. Testing. And that one of these nights, he would push them both over the line, and whatever they had now would shatter, unrecoverable.

“I can’t be here just to see you?” His question cut through her spiralling thoughts at exactly the right moment. “I did miss you, you know.” His fingers slipped beneath the strap of her nightdress, idling there. “I was hoping you’d feel the same.”

His voice was a purr, like silk laid bare across her skin. A shiver arced down her spine—unwanted, not entirely unpleasant.

“It’s not proper,” she whispered, breath hitching when his warmth stirred against the nape of her neck.

“Not proper? We’re married.” Amusement laced his tone, sharp and sure. “No one would fault a husband for wanting more time with his wife.”

She had no answer. No excuse. Only the two of them in the dark: his nearness, his hand at her arm, his voice feathering into her ear like it meant nothing at all—and her, tense with expectations she swore she didn’t want. Half dreading, half hoping he’d push further.

How could so much have shifted in just a handful of days? Even she couldn’t fathom it.

The morning after that dreamless night—after Lyney had taught her the strange language of her own body, after he had pulled her to her first climax—she woke to one of his rare notes. He was off mediating disputes among House Perinheri’s vassals, he wrote. She didn’t see him again until evening, and when she did, he was the same as ever: bright, smiling, innocent. As if nothing had happened at all.

She was the one left flustered, avoiding his eyes, her mind tangled in memories she couldn’t banish. Even Lynette noticed her unease, though Lumine lied, claiming she was simply unwell and would turn in early.

That night, Lyney kept her longer than usual. He talked about merchants, about the solstice hunt, his voice easy, unhurried. He never reached for her, never pressed—and some part of her hated the disappointment that welled in her chest because of it. She had wanted him to. Hoped he might.

“Well,” she said at last, forcing her voice steady, “I won’t stop you from visiting me, if that’s what you want. I just don’t want your health to suffer for lack of rest.”

He laughed, low and quiet. “How thoughtful,” he murmured. “Maybe you’ve grown to care for me after all.”

“I don’t know where you got the impression that I never did.”

“Cynicism,” he said, and then his lips grazed her bare shoulder, heat lingering like a brand. “In this case, I’m glad to be wrong.”

Silence wrapped around them. She could hear nothing but his breathing, steady behind her, feel nothing but his warmth pressed along her back. A wild thought came to her—what if they simply slept like this, until morning? What if he stayed? What if they truly lived as husband and wife, not just in name?

But she smothered it. Foolish. Dangerous. What bound them wasn’t real. It was the potion, its influence twisting them into this fragile facsimile of tenderness. One day, it would vanish.

And yet—until then, perhaps she could be selfish. Because this was easier. Easier than circling each other with sharp words and sharper silences. Easier than bearing the version of him that once cut her to the quick. Here, in the hush of her room, she could almost breathe. Almost believe.

Call her a coward, but for now, she would rather play pretend.

---

The day of the solstice hunt came sooner than she would have liked.

Lumine sat with the other wives in a pavilion at the edge of the western forests, a steaming cup of tea between her hands. Around her, the ladies were already trading barbed compliments, their smiles sweet and their words sharper than any blade. For now, she managed with nods and small, agreeable murmurs, but she dreaded the moment their chatter turned her way.

Most of the hunters—men and the few women who joined the field—had already disappeared into the trees, Lyney and Lynette among them, part of the first wave to vanish into the forest’s shadows. With nothing to distract her but noblewomen’s politics, Lumine endured the back-and-forth with as much patience as she could muster.

To be fair, it was impressive to watch. These women wielded gossip like rapiers, slicing open secrets under the guise of polite chatter. Lyney had once warned her: never underestimate a duchess at tea. They can wring out more from a careless word than most courtiers can from a contract. At the time, she had laughed, but here, listening, she could almost admire the artistry.

“So, Duchess Perinheri,” one of them finally said. Lumine blinked and forced her expression into polite attentiveness. Speak of the devil. “What do you make of the Snezhnayan delegation?”

She froze for half a beat. When had they turned to that subject? Served her right for drifting out of the conversation. “The delegation?” she echoed, buying herself a moment.

The lady smiled over the rim of her teacup. “I hear House Perinheri has certain interests in Snezhnayan steel.”

Ah. So that was the angle.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Lumine answered smoothly. “Snezhnayan steel is the finest there is. No blade cuts truer.”

Tittering laughter circled the table. “Indeed, Duchess. My husband would agree—though I hear it’s not so easy to secure the delegation’s time.”

Lumine glanced towards the clearing. The grounds were quiet now, hunters gone, only servants bustling at the pavilion’s edge. “And yet they’re here, attending the hunt,” she said mildly. “I thought they were only meant to observe.”

“Some of them wandered into the forest,” another woman offered. “That diplomat—Mikhail Snezhevich—and a few of his men.”

“Mikhail Snezhevich,” echoed the first, eyes bright. “A clever one. They say his patron is none other than Pantalone.”

The name rippled across the table in hushed surprise. Lumine sipped her tea, masking her own unease. She knew little of Pantalone beyond whispers—that he held Snezhnaya’s coffers in his palm, that no merchant gained a foothold in the nation without his nod.

“I saw him with you, Duchess,” a third woman said lightly. Too lightly. “On the balcony at the prince’s birthday.”

And just like that, every eye was on her. Lumine set down her cup with care. “We didn’t speak of anything important.”

“Is that so?” the woman replied. Her tone was neutral, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise. “It did look rather… involved. He kept you there quite a while.”

Lumine let her brow crease. “Are you trying to imply something?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Simply curious. It isn’t often the delegation mingles with us, after all.”

“Mikhail asked after Lyney,” Lumine said coolly. “They’re acquainted. We crossed paths, and he used the moment to ask after my husband. Nothing more.”

“Indeed,” drawled a new voice. Smooth, accented, cutting through the pavilion’s chatter like a blade through silk.

Every woman turned.

Mikhail Snezhevich stood at the edge of their gathering, an inscrutable half-smile curving his lips. Alone—no retinue, no fellow delegates. His black furs shimmered with frost, and the sun caught on the silvery tattoos curling along his skin, making them gleam like live metal.

“I had a delightful conversation with the Duchess,” he said. “She was gracious enough to share news of my dear friend, Lyney. Is there anything else you ladies would like to know?”

The pavilion stilled. Lumine could only stare, her pulse kicking hard.

What was he doing here—alone? And where, in all the frozen woods, was the rest of the Snezhnayan delegation?

“I need a word with Duchess Perinheri,” Mikhail said smoothly, as if plucking the thought from her mind. The smile slipped from his face, leaving his expression taut. “An urgent message from your husband.”

Lumine was already rising before she could stop herself. “From Lyney?”

She wanted to scoff. Why would Lyney ever entrust Mikhail, of all people, to carry her a message? Yet curiosity—and worry—gnawed at her. The hunt was dangerous, she knew that much. Even if Lyney was seasoned, risk clung to every corner.

Mikhail inclined his head, his beautiful face twisting into a grimace. “He’s trapped. Struck the wrong creature, triggered some kind of curse.”

Her first instinct was alarm. The second, sharper, was disbelief. “Lyney? Trapped?”

“I know, I know. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Lyney Perinheri, caught by a beast’s warding? But there’s a first time for everything.”

He was lying. He had to be. Lyney wasn’t one to walk into snares—he was the snare. “Is this meant to be a joke?”

Mikhail’s grimace deepened. “If only. I wouldn’t be standing here if that spell hadn’t taken my own men with it.”

The pavilion rippled with whispers. Lumine ignored them. “Then what message?”

“He needs you,” Mikhail said simply. “To lift the wards.”

“Me? I don’t use magic.”

“Not magic. Blood.” His sigh was heavy. “Look, I’ve no time for this. Lyney will be fine whether or not those wards come down. My men won’t. And while he’d happily let them waste away, I’ve no intention of doing the same. So—will you come?”

He swept a glance across the table, unimpressed. “Bring one of them if you like. If you don’t trust me.”

Every woman recoiled when Lumine’s gaze passed over them. She hadn’t expected volunteers, anyway. What unsettled her more was how different Mikhail seemed. None of the smooth, predatory amusement of that balcony encounter—he looked almost rattled.

Maybe he spoke the truth. And if not… he had witnesses. Half the pavilion had heard him. He couldn’t risk his diplomatic immunity, not if he valued Snezhnaya’s standing here. And if there was even the slightest chance Lyney truly needed her—

“Fine.” She stepped away from the table. “Take me to him.”

Mikhail exhaled sharply, almost in relief. “Thank you.” He turned on his heel. “This way.”

She followed him from the pavilion towards the horses. His mare was a striking white, red-eyed, faintly wild. He offered her a hand up, uncharacteristically quiet. His usual silver tongue was absent, and the silence pricked at her more than his words ever could.

“How far?” she asked once mounted.

“Not far. Near the starting grounds. No one expected magical beasts that close.”

“Why were you observing Lyney?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Fair enough, given their history. “What did he strike?”

“A fae crossbreed. Looked like an ordinary stag until it started bleeding.”

“And now Lyney and your men are caught in its wards?”

“Unfortunately.” His mare trotted steady beneath them, the forest blurring past. “I only escaped because I got distracted chasing another beast on the fringe.”

“So greed saved you.”

“I’d call it curiosity,” he said dryly, though the sarcasm lacked bite.

Lumine pressed on. “What does my blood have to do with any of this?”

“Something about offerings. Sacrifice. Blood for blood.” He waved a hand, impatience edging through. “I’m no magician.”

Her stomach tightened. “And it must be my blood?”

He let out a sharp huff. “He shot the damn thing, didn’t he? Said it had to be a relation. By blood or by law. With Lynette Perinheri nowhere to be found…” His dark eyes flicked back to her. “You’re the obvious choice.”

She swallowed hard. “And what exactly am I supposed to do?”

Mikhail’s mouth curved into a thin smile. “Ask your husband.”

He yanked on the reins, bringing the mare to a halt before a frozen lake. He swung down first, then offered her his hand. His grip was firm, steady, almost too steady for someone who’d supposedly rushed here in desperation.

“There.” He pointed towards a small cave on an island in the centre of the lake.

Lumine blinked. “How did you even get there?”

“Excellent question.” His tone was edged with irritation. “One I don’t have the answer to.”

Not reassuring.

“And how are we supposed to…?”

“We walk. The ice held for me, it’ll hold for you.” He crooked his arm, waiting.

Her stomach knotted as she eyed the lake, but she accepted his arm. Step by careful step, they crossed, her boots skidding on slick patches, the cold biting deep enough that her teeth clicked together. By halfway across, her fingers were numb inside her gloves. Mikhail, by contrast, seemed impervious. “Snezhnayan,” he said simply when she muttered at his calm, one brow arched like that explained everything.

When the cave’s mouth came into view, her breath caught. It wasn’t deep, and Mikhail hadn’t lied—at least not about this. Four men stood frozen in a solid wall of ice, faces slack, caught mid-motion.

“Oh,” she whispered.

“Glad to have earned your trust,” Mikhail said, sarcasm sharpened by frost.

Her gaze darted across the frozen figures, then back to him. “Where’s Lyney? I don’t see him.”

“Not in the ice.”

“Then—?”

“Gone,” Mikhail said with a shrug. “I said he got trapped, not that he stayed that way. Broke out. Left me with this mess.” Another shrug, maddening in its carelessness. “Mumbled something about blood payment and wandered off like it’s perfectly normal to walk out of solid ice.”

Her relief came first—Lyney was alive—but fury followed quick on its heels. All this panic, all this rush, and he wasn’t even here? Had Mikhail dragged her across half a forest on a lie? Had he used Lyney’s name, his safety, to manoeuvre her into this?

“You—” she began, but before she could finish, his hand clamped around her wrist.

“Sorry, Duchess.” His voice was too brisk, too unapologetic. “But I need my men before they freeze to death. We’re Snezhnayans, not snowmen.”

She barely felt him tugging off her glove before the sharp sting of steel lanced her palm. She gasped, staring as blood welled up bright and hot, streaking her wrist, splattering onto snow like red blossoms.

Her anger flared white-hot. “How dare you—”

“I don’t like to hurt women.” His tone was almost rueful, but there was no real remorse. “Desperate times.”

Before she could spit back, the cave itself answered: a crack like glass breaking split the air, reverberating through the stone. The wall of ice fissured, groaning, even as the ground trembled under her boots.

Mikhail spat something in a tongue she didn’t recognise, the vehemence enough to make it clearly a curse. “Damn magician. Never gives the full picture.” He let her go without another glance, sprinting forward as the frozen men began to break free.

She staggered back, clutching her bleeding palm to her chest, rage and fear tangling in her throat. She wanted to run at him, to strike him for using her like this—but the floor shuddered again, and survival screamed louder. She turned towards the lake, stepping onto the ice. One step. Two.

On the third, it gave way.

Her scream ripped out as the surface cracked open and the lake swallowed her whole.

Silence. Deafening silence that pressed against her skull, smothering everything.

Then the cold. A vicious, stabbing cold that pierced through fur and wool, biting into her bones. The water pulled her down, dark and endless, and for one horrifying instant, it felt natural to yield. To shut her eyes and let it take her.

Her lungs began to seize, screaming for air. Instinct took over—her body kicked, flailed, clawed upwards through the dark water. But when she broke the murk, all she found was ice: a thick, translucent sheet, sunlight diffusing faintly through it, giving her only inches of blurred visibility.

The summer lake flashed across her mind. The serpent. She’d been in water then, too. But this was different. This wasn’t horrified awe at something massive and unknown. This was intimate. Immediate. The burn in her chest. The stab of ice in her skin. Her sodden clothes dragging her down into the deep.

She reached the frozen ceiling and tapped against it. Solid. Impenetrable. Sunlight trembled weakly through, too distant to help. She pushed along the surface, searching for a gap, every kick slower than the last, her chest aching, her lungs shrieking.

And yet, oddly, she felt calm. Detached. As though she was watching her own misfortune from afar. Was this what it meant to make peace with death? Was this how Lyney’s enemies felt when his blade slid through them and they crumpled, quiet, the last breath escaping unnoticed? She knew death wasn’t always loud or dramatic, but she hadn’t expected it to feel like this—so quiet, almost merciful.

If she let go, all the fear and uncertainty would vanish with her.

But—her mother. The thought struck her like lightning. If she drowned here, with Aether gone to the northern front, who would send the mora for medicine? Who would make sure she recovered fully?

Agony slammed back into her body, snapping her out of the lull. She twisted, flailed, refusing to surrender. Searching. Fighting. And then—there, a shimmer ahead, a brighter patch flickering beneath the ice. She swam for it, every stroke slowed by waterlogged fabric, her vision tunnelling.

Relief surged when she found it: a crack. A way out. But her heart sank at once—the hole was far too small. No way her body would fit.

Despair clawed at her edges, but she forced it back. A hole was still a hole. She could breathe through it, at least. Regain strength. Think of something. Lynette’s lessons whispered through her head—if she could just widen it, strike in the right spot—

She pressed her face to the crack. Her nose broke the surface. A breath dragged into her chest—thin, shallow, stabbing. Air nonetheless. Painfully sweet.

Clarity seeped back. She tapped the ice again, testing for weaknesses. It was all solid. Her knuckles ached. She tried anyway, uselessly, until pain forced her to stop.

Desperate, she shoved her hand through the crack, groping for anything on the surface—a stone, a branch, anything she could wield. Nothing. Only ice.

But she couldn’t give up. Not with sunlight glimmering just beyond reach, not when she was so close to breaking free. Sleep tugged at her limbs, urging her to close her eyes, to let the water cradle her down into the dark. It would be easier to surrender.

But her family would miss her. Her mother. Her brother. Lynette. And maybe even—

She thought she heard something—a crack, muffled in the water. She must have been imagining it. But then the ice around her wrist splintered, widening into a jagged gap, shards breaking loose.

And then she blinked and she was out, gasping against the air, her soaked clothes dragging her flat onto the ice. Water stung her eyes, too bright after the dimness below. She coughed, blinking hard, trying to wipe the blur from her lashes.

“Mon cœur.”

The voice floated to her like a dream, unmistakable. She shoved her wet bangs from her face and looked up. Lyney. Staring down at her, expression stripped bare—no smirk, no gleam of mischief. Blank. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or relieved, or if he felt anything at all.

“L-Lyney.” Her teeth chattered so violently she could barely form the name. The wind cut through her wet layers, and she tried to curl her arms around herself, but her limbs felt heavy, too weak. His gaze lingered on the slight, feeble movement. “Th-Thank y-you—”

He crouched, his hand pressing to her cheek. Calm, grounding. “You’re freezing,” he murmured. “I know somewhere warm.”

Then he lifted her—sodden clothes and all—and she almost screamed from the shock of it. “I-I’m h-heavy—”

“No. You’re too light.” His eyes stayed on her face, as though nothing else existed—not even the water soaking through his clothes. “You should eat more. I’ll tell the kitchen to prepare something proper when we’re home.”

She didn’t know what to say. Reassure him? Protest? Ask to walk, just to prove she could? But the thought was laughable; she had no strength left to cling to independence. And still—his face, so blank, unsettled her. Too unlike him. She tried the only thing that seemed possible. “I–I’m okay—”

“You’re not.” His voice was quiet, almost lost to the wind. But it cut through her, sharp as a blade. Something flickered in his eyes then, dark, edged with anger. “You’re not, and I won’t have you pretend you are for the sake of pride.”

Before she could respond, the world blurred. Teleportation—she recognised the ripple of it from Lynette, though Lyney’s was different. Smoother, almost gentle, brushing over her skin like silk.

And then she was on a rug-covered floor, a fire crackling bright in the hearth. Heat licked at her skin, distant still, as though she were dreaming. Her body wouldn’t stop trembling; each shiver dragged her a little closer to the flames, instinct reaching for warmth even as her mind lagged.

“W-Where are we?” she whispered.

She heard movement first: the scrape of wood, the soft clink of ceramic. Slowly, she lifted her head. Lyney was at a counter, moving as if he belonged here—opening a cupboard, taking down a cup, pouring from a kettle that already steamed. Everything about him looked unhurried, familiar.

He crossed back to her, passing her the steaming cup. The fragrance of Darjeeling rose, fragrant and hot. “No milk, unfortunately,” he said, tone clipped, dry. “You’ll have to make do.”

She blinked at him, shivering, the cup warm but her fingers still numb. “That’s not what I asked. Where are we?”

He turned away, moving back to the counter to pour a second cup for himself. Only when the kettle clinked softly back onto the stove did he reply. “One of my private shelters,” he said, lifting his own tea with unhurried grace. “I use it when I tire of the hunt.”

“You’ve never mentioned it before,” she said.

He looked back at her then, eyes unreadable. “Private,” he said evenly, returning to her side. “That’s rather the point.”

His gaze slipped down, lingering on the wet fabric clinging to her skin. “And private means I can speak plainly: those clothes need to come off. They’ll only make you colder.”

She froze, suddenly conscious. Her mind was sharper now, enough to catch the implication. Her mouth opened, only for him to cut in, soft but inexorable. “Don’t tell me you mean to keep them on. It’s nothing I haven’t already seen.”

Her throat closed. He wasn’t wrong, and that was the problem. Heat and dread tangled in her chest.

“I… I’ll need help,” she admitted at last, the words tasting bitter. The sodden layers were too heavy to manage alone.

Lyney said nothing in reply—no quip, no smile. He only came to her side and knelt, his presence filling her vision. “Turn around.”

She shifted inch by inch, her movements stiff with fatigue. And when she faced him again, she couldn’t shake the disquiet. His expression was still so quiet, so unreadable. She knew he was thinking something—Lyney was always thinking—but this time, she couldn’t even guess what.

His hands reached for her without hesitation, finding the buttons on her outermost coat. One by one, they slipped free under deft fingers, until the fur slid from her shoulders. He didn’t pause. Layer by layer, he stripped her down—jacket, fur-lined shawl, the heavy winter dress—until she sat pliant beneath his touch, following each tug and press without thought. When the last piece of fabric pooled at her ankles, only her thin slip remained, the fire’s heat whispering against chilled skin.

Lyney gathered the discarded layers, setting them neatly aside on the wooden floor before returning. He lowered himself behind her, drawing her off the rug and onto his lap. His chin rested on the curve of her shoulder, his arms caging her waist.

“You’re still cold,” he murmured, and the words made her heart stumble. “Drink more tea.”

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the cup, where she’d left it on the floor while he’d worked. She sipped, heat unfurling through her chest, though the tremors lingered.

“What were you doing out there, hm?” His voice was low, deceptively easy. “Weren’t you supposed to stay at the pavilion?”

The tone was relaxed, but his grip was not. His hand pressed at her waist, firm enough to steal her breath. Then the ghost of his lips brushed her neck. “I came back only to find my wife missing. The ladies said you followed Mikhail into the forest. Do you know how that made me feel?”

“He told me you needed help,” she whispered. “That you’d triggered some curse, and only my blood could break it.”

“Well.” A faint laugh, dark silk. “He wasn’t lying entirely. I’ll give him that.”

His fingers roved her arm, restless, sometimes lingering with a pressure just shy of pain. And her skin—dry. Had he used magic to rid her of the lake water? She shivered, uncertain.

“But still,” he said, “wandering into the woods with a strange man, chérie? Tongues will wag.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that,” she admitted. “I only thought—if you were trapped, and I could help—”

“Then you would come to save me?” His laugh was quieter this time, softer, but something in it caught—a glint of amusement that hadn’t been there before. “Touching. But unnecessary, my sweet. I’ll always find my way out, with or without you. So don’t let Mikhail make a fool of you again.”

The cadence had changed. Not gentler, not harsher, but something in between, something she couldn’t quite pin down. Before she could think on it, his hand slid over hers, prying the cup away with unhurried certainty. “This is too slow,” he said. “You need something better.”

He rose fluidly, crossing to the counter again, returning with a bottle of deep red wine. “This will warm you faster than tea,” he said, voice low, almost coaxing. “Drink with me.”

Her fingers twisted in the fabric of her slip. “I… I don’t want to drink alone,” she admitted, a little embarrassed at how small the words sounded. “I’ll get tipsy too fast.”

“Then I’ll keep pace with you.” He uncorked the bottle with casual grace, tipped it back and drank deep. The line of his throat moved as he swallowed, his violet eyes never leaving hers. When he lowered it, he brushed his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The white fabric caught a faint smear of red, and her gaze snagged on it, unable to look away.

Her heart stuttered. Still, she reached out when he offered the bottle, her hand shaking as it met his. The glass was cool, heavy. She lifted it to her lips, catching the scent—rich, bittersweet, decadent. Like him. Sweetness threaded through with something darker, sharper, almost cruel.

She drank. The wine seared down her throat, fiercer than the mild vintages she was used to at Fontaine’s courts. It made her gasp, eyes watering; made her sway, dizzy, the world tilting around her. And yet it burnt in a way that felt intoxicating, vital. It made her feel alive.

She set the bottle down with trembling fingers. “I think,” she said, voice soft, “this wine is strong.”

Lyney didn’t tease her. No sharp remark, no playful edge. Only a hum. His gaze stayed on her, steady and dark, the firelight flickering gold across his cheekbones.

Warmth coiled in her stomach. Maybe the wine. Maybe the fire. Maybe from the weighted heat of his stare. She couldn’t tell.

She shifted across the rug, a little closer to the hearth. Tried to lose herself in the flames—the crackle, the dance, the wash of heat. But her body disobeyed. Her attention kept returning to him, scattered and fraying. The world blurred at the edges, syrup-thick.

“You’re quiet,” Lyney said, silk-soft. “That usually means one of two things.”

She didn’t ask which. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

He moved nearer, not quite touching, until his shoulder brushed hers, cool fabric against bare skin. She hadn’t noticed her slip sliding down.

“Which is it this time, chérie?” he asked, almost sweet. “Contemplating… or spiralling?”

Her lips parted. No answer came.

The soft pop of the cork startled her. His hand slid over her wrist, guiding the bottle to her mouth. “Drink.”

She obeyed.

The second mouthful was heavier, biting. Heat curled down her throat, blooming in her belly, too close to other places. She exhaled, her breath fogging the rim of the bottle.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered. “I’ll get—”

“Tipsy?” he finished, brushing her hair aside, baring the nape of her neck. His touch was light, almost tender. “But I’m here. I’ll catch you. Nothing to worry about, is there?”

She tried to laugh. It caught, dissolved into silence.

The room tilted when she turned her head. He was closer than she’d realised—expression unreadable, but intent. Waiting. She knew that look: the one he wore when he was testing her, measuring how little he had to do before she came undone.

“You’re flushed,” he said. “Your skin warms first. Then your eyes glaze. Then you stop thinking.”

The backs of his knuckles traced her cheek. “You’re already halfway there.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice didn’t sound like her own.

“I know.” His hand found hers, fingers lacing. “You’re always fine. Always pretending. Always brave.” His thumb brushed her palm. “You don’t have to be, not with me.”

Her eyes shut tight. She couldn’t look at him, not with her pulse racing and his bittersweet scent wrapping around her like smoke. Too much. Too overwhelming.

And still, she didn’t pull away.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving me. From the lake.”

“Mm.” A pause, then the ghost of a kiss at her temple. “Let me do more than save you, ma chère.”

His hands moved slow, deliberate. Up her arms, over her shoulders, tracing the bare line of her collarbone. Her breath hitched. She didn’t stop him. Couldn’t tell if she even wanted to.

“You always smell so sweet,” he murmured. “Even when you’re cold. Especially then. It drives me mad.”

“Lyney…”

“Shh. Let me warm you.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her mind slipped back to that night, when his touch had unravelled her and left her shaking in the wake of pleasure she hadn’t known possible.

A part of her wanted that again. Craved it. His whispers, his touch, the illusion of being cherished. So she let him. Eyes closed as his mouth brushed the curve of her throat.

He kissed her there—soft, searching. Again and again, as though tasting her. Savouring. His hands slid lower, past her waist, leaving heat wherever they wandered.

Her breath caught when his fingers found bare skin, lingering at her knee. Warm, searing against chilled flesh.

The wine dulled her thoughts. She knew she shouldn’t let this happen, that they’d already gone too far. He didn’t truly want her; she knew that. If they crossed this line, they couldn’t go back.

But did it matter? He said he was only warming her. Only comforting her. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe he would stop here, and she wouldn’t have to think about guilt, or restraint, or whether his care for her was real or just the potion.

Then suddenly, his hands were at her waist, pulling her back onto his lap. She let out a startled yelp, eyes flying open. Lyney was watching her, violet eyes dark, unflinching, lit with something unspoken.

“So sweet,” he said. “Look at me just like that, love.”

His mouth claimed hers before she could speak. Warm, searching. The kiss deepened, greedy, and she melted helplessly, whimpering into him. His hands roamed—one pressing firm at the small of her back, the other sliding down to grip her thigh through the silk.

He tasted of wine. Rich, heavy. Dizzying. She couldn’t think past it.

When his lips left hers, they trailed lower, scattering kisses along her neck. “You’re soft,” he said, just before his teeth sank into her flesh. She cried out, clutching at him, shuddering as his tongue soothed the sting. “So breakable. Always giving yourself away. Always trying to save everyone, even at your own expense.”

Her arms wrapped tight around him, anchoring herself against the tremor in her body. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “So will you give yourself to me too, ma chère? Let me take care of you.”

She struggled for words. “I—you’re already—taking care of—”

“Yet you’re still cold.” His palm smoothed over her thigh, unbearably slow, silk dragging under his hand. “I’m worried. What should I do to help you feel better?”

His mouth had slipped lower now, brushing past her collarbone, lingering at the edge of her slip. “Should I stop here?”

She wanted to say yes. Wanted to listen to that stubborn voice in her mind. But another part of her—hungrier, reckless—ached for more. Told her that since it had already happened once, maybe…

Then his head dipped, his mouth fastening over her nipple through the slip. She gasped, hands flying to his hair, unsure whether to pull him back or hold him there.

Her thoughts scattered. Heat, his scent, the damp press of fabric, the wine on his breath—everything blurred. She squirmed in his lap and felt the hard line of him beneath her. Lyney moaned around her breast, the vibration sparking through her nerves.

She should stop. Tell him no. Climb off his lap before it went too far.

But she didn’t. Her fingers twisted in his hair—and pushed. Not much. Just enough to ask for more without saying it.

He answered. His hand rose, teasing her other breast through silk, his fingers flicking over the hardened peak until she jolted, pleasure racing to her core.

“Lyney,” she breathed, arching when he sucked harder. “Lyney—”

“Mm, chérie.” His voice rasped against the fabric, his free hand wandering idly along her knee, creeping higher by slow degrees. “Tell me. Where does it hurt? Where do you want me?”

Desperation scraped at her voice. “Y-You’re drunk.”

“Am I?” His eyes glittered. “I don’t feel drunk. Not even tipsy. I feel very lucid.” He laughed, low, and kissed her again—soft this time, deceptively chaste. “Too lucid.”

Then his palm slipped under her slip, warm against bare skin, and she shuddered, digging her nails into his shoulders to steady herself.

“Do you want me to make you feel better?” he whispered.

Impulse and conscience tore at her. She knew what she wanted. Knew she shouldn’t want it. But his mouth, his hands, his eyes—hungry, intent—made it impossible to choose right. She didn’t want to be good. She wanted to be selfish.

Would one night really damn her? Maybe Lyney wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d forgive her. They were supposed to have children anyway. And just because she said yes now didn’t mean they had to go all the way. Last time, he hadn’t.

So, slowly, she slid her hands down from his hair to his chest, gripping his shirt tight. Drew him closer, close enough to see the sweep of his lashes, to drown in violet.

Then she kissed him.

Lyney groaned, arms crushing her against him, kissing her back with such force she thought she might black out.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers, she realised she was no longer sitting but sprawled on the rug, her back pressed flat against the weave. Lyney loomed above, eyes darkened near to black. Her slip had ridden up, bunched around her hips, baring her completely. Heat flushed her cheeks, but she didn’t move to cover herself. She only watched as he lowered his head, parting her thighs, breath fanning hot over her core.

“You remember what I told you, don’t you?” His voice was velvet-soft. “What this is?”

His fingers found her, brushing that sensitive spot, and her body jolted—pleasure lashed through her like a whip. “Yes,” she gasped, fists knotting in the rug. “I remember.”

“Do you want me to touch you there?” His fingers ghosted higher, lingering at the crease of her thigh. He was patient, too patient, gaze fixed on hers as if he could wait forever.

“Yes,” she whispered, breath breaking. “Please.”

“More specific.” His smile was a blade’s edge. “Use your words.”

Her throat tightened. “P-Please… touch my clit.”

“Good girl.” His voice purred over her, just before his mouth sealed against her. His tongue swirled, tasting, teasing, and the pleasure slammed through her so fast it left her reeling. She was arching into him before she knew it, crying out as release ripped through her far too quickly, her body betraying just how easily he could undo her.

“You’re so sensitive,” he said, exhaling over her twitching core. “Barely a touch and you come undone.”

She couldn’t hear him, not through the roar in her blood. She lay dazed until his fingers circled her again—too soon, too much—and she cried out, reaching instinctively to stop him. “N-Not now—”

Too late. His fingers flicked over her clit and she shuddered, a sound leaving her throat she didn’t recognise as her own. “Lyney,” she sobbed.

“Yes, my love.” His tone was low, enticing, relentless as his fingers toyed with her, keeping her strung high. “Let me help you forget. Let me make you feel nothing but me.”

Then his mouth replaced his hand, and thought fled entirely.

She lost herself. Time blurred. She shattered again and again—twice more, maybe more than that—until she was nothing but trembling flesh, her body wrung out, her mind empty of everything except the echo of him. Boneless, undone, she could only lie there, chest heaving, nipples peaked against the cling of her slip, her core throbbing from overuse.

When his hands returned, sliding up her waist, tugging the slip over her head, she didn’t resist. She gasped when his mouth found her breast, teeth sinking in, pain chased instantly by soothing tongue. “You even taste sweet,” he said against her skin. “That’s hardly fair, chérie.”

Fairness was the last thing on her mind. She couldn’t think of anything but him—his lips, his hands, the way every touch rewrote her body until she no longer recognised herself.

Then his fingers drifted lower, finding her clit again, pressing.

“L-Lyney,” she pleaded, her voice breaking as sensation jolted up her spine. “I can’t, not again—”

“I’m not going to touch you here,” he said, smiling, violet eyes gleaming. “Not yet.”

Confusion flickered, until his mouth widened—hungry, ravenous. “I want to see how much you can take.”

And then his finger slid inside her.

Her breath caught. Strange—so foreign, to be filled where no one else had ever touched. Yet her body parted for him, drawing him deeper. Her lips parted in a whimper, weak and trembling.

“You’re tight,” he murmured, kissing her neck as she shuddered. “That might be a problem.”

She barely heard him. The feel of his finger inside her was all-consuming. When he curled it, pressing against a hidden place deep within, her vision blurred, hot tears pricking her eyes as a cry ripped from her throat.

“Here?” he asked, too intent, too knowing, watching her like prey caught in his trap. “This place?”

He pressed again, and she sobbed, torn between shrinking away and craving more. Her body was wrung out from pleasure, but some treacherous part of her—small, insistent—ached for him to keep going.

As if answering the selfish need in her chest, he slipped in another finger. She gasped at the sudden stretch, at the way her body yielded easily to him, filled in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

“You’re so wet, love,” he said. His voice carried a thread of something softer than his smile—something perilously close to affection. “Wet and ready for me.”

His fingers curled, coaxing, and she twisted against the rug, grasping for breath, for anything solid in the tide of sensation. His other hand pinned her thigh, pressing her open, keeping her still as he scissored his fingers inside her, the heel of his palm dragging mercilessly against her core.

She felt unmoored. Weightless. As if her body belonged to him more than to herself. Her cheeks were damp, her lips swollen from his kisses, the imprint of her teeth lingering where she’d bitten down to ground herself. But he gave her no chance to steady. Every curl of his fingers, every honeyed endearment unravelled her further. His words blurred, half-heard, yet the cadence of his voice wrapped around her like silk, leaving her desperate, strung taut on the edge. She couldn’t come again—her body was wrung dry—yet she craved more, needed him, needed the rasp of his breath and the rasp of his voice promising she was his.

“Are you lost?” he asked, his pace never faltering. “Don’t drift from me, my sweet. Stay.”

Then he caught her hand, drew a finger into his mouth. Bit down—hard enough to sting, hard enough that tears pricked her eyes. She moaned helplessly, and he kissed her palm, pressing her hand to his cheek. “So pretty,” he whispered, violet gaze focused, hungry. “The way you break for me.”

Something gathered inside her, terrifying in its force—pleasure, yes, but edged with something vaster, something that felt like it might shatter her. She sucked in a breath, eyes squeezed shut, teetering—

And then he withdrew. His fingers left her, and the emptiness hit like a blow. She shook, her core clenching around nothing, betrayal sharp in her throat. “Why?” she cried, raw, the word torn out of her.

Her vision cleared just in time to see him unfastening his trousers, freeing himself. Her stomach flipped, bitterness drowned by a rush of nerves. She tried to skid back across the rug, but his hand pressed flat to her navel, holding her in place with frightening ease.

His violet eyes glittered, half seduction, half threat. “Where are you going, love?”

“We—we shouldn’t,” she stammered, voice thin, unconvincing even to her own ears.

“You don’t want me to?” he asked softly. Almost tenderly. He leant down, pressed his forehead against hers. “If you tell me to stop, I will.”

But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when her body trembled from what he’d already done, not when she ached with the hollow he’d left inside her. She was swaying on the edge, desperate to fall. Her core throbbed, hot and needy, begging to be filled—with him, with anything that wouldn’t leave her empty again.

He waited. Patient. His eyes never left hers.

She swallowed. Right now, potion or not, he wanted her. And she… wanted him too. Out of loneliness, out of hunger, out of a need to hold his attention just a little longer. To cling to something that felt real, if only in this moment.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. Her voice shook.

Lyney’s smile softened. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corners of her mouth—light touches, almost reverent. “Don’t worry,” he said, steady, soothing. “I’ll be gentle.”

Her eyes closed. She nodded, fragile. He nuzzled into her shoulder, breathing her in, then trailed lower—mouth against her breast, her ribs, her stomach—scattering heat over trembling skin until he reached the ache between her thighs.

She flinched when his tongue brushed her again, fingers clawing at the rug for anchor. He laughed and drew back, catching one of her hands, guiding it to his shoulder. “Hold on to me.”

She obeyed, wrapping her other arm around his neck. He kissed her cheek, then she felt him—hard, warm—nudging against her entrance.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he said.

She nodded again, her breath caught in her throat. Lyney eased forward, just enough for the tip to breach her, her body stretching to let him in. It was strange, startling—her gasp broke into the space between them as she instinctively pressed closer, shaken by the sheer intrusion.

It didn’t hurt. Not yet. He held there, waiting, violet eyes fixed on her face, watching every flicker, every tremor. Her own eyes stung with heat as she looked back at him, caught in the scrutiny, in the weight of his silence.

“Lyney?” she asked. Barely a whisper. Barely anything.

Something in his gaze flickered, then broke. His eyes narrowed, his mouth crushed against hers—deep, claiming, stealing air and thought alike. And then, without warning, he drove into her all at once, burying himself to the hilt. The cry that tore from her throat was swallowed against his lips as pain and pleasure split through her in the same instant: the burn of being stretched wide, the unbearable fullness, the shock of a body learning what it meant to be taken.

Tears welled before she could stop them. Lyney drew back, his lips brushing over her cheeks, catching the wetness as though to kiss the tears away. “You feel so good, ma chère,” he rasped, voice low, raw, almost needy—something she had never heard from him before. “So perfect. Taking me so well, even your first time.”

She had no words, only a choked whimper as he pulled out and thrust again, and again. Each stroke dragged through her nerves, overwhelming, dizzying, a storm she couldn’t withstand. She felt like a fragile vessel on a raging sea, powerless against the waves, just struggling not to drown.

He wasn’t brutal, but he was relentless. His mouth left feverish kisses along her neck, her shoulder, even as his hips moved with steady insistence, as though he meant to carve the rhythm into her bones. Slowly, unbearably, the sting ebbed, overtaken by heat—by pleasure that pooled molten and deep, until it felt inevitable, unstoppable.

She had never known it could be like this. Her imagination—clumsy dreams, stolen fantasies—had not prepared her for the devastation of reality. For how it felt to be filled, to be wanted, to be praised in murmured endearments that she clung to like lifelines. His violet gaze. His hungry touch. The way he whispered that she was good, that he adored her, that she was his.

At some point, she realised she had wrapped herself around him—legs tight at his waist, arms around his shoulders, clinging as though he was the only thing keeping her from unravelling entirely. Perhaps he was.

“Sweet,” Lyney said against her shoulder, his teeth grazing where his lips had just kissed. His thrusts rocked into her, deep, unrelenting. Pleasure flared so deep inside she thought only he could reach it, only he could summon it from her. “You look so sweet when you cry.”

Was she crying? She hadn’t noticed—hadn’t had space for anything but him, but the haze of sensation he wove through her body. The tears slipped freely, unnoticed, as he worked her higher and higher.

His hand slid down, thumb finding her clit. The sudden spark against the fullness of him inside made her cry out, body arching, spasming in shock. He pinned her thigh, held her down, circled her mercilessly until she thought she would break apart entirely.

“Come for me,” he said, his thrusts slowing but deep, deliberate. “Come for me while I’m inside you.”

The velvet coil of his voice snapped something loose inside her. She gasped his name as her body shattered around him, and he took her through it, through every aftershock, pressing kisses down her neck and chest while she writhed beneath him. Her hands pressed weakly against his chest, a broken attempt to push him back, to beg for pause, for reprieve.

“You—you said you’d be gentle,” she sobbed, only for his fingers to close around her wrists, dragging them up and pinning them above her head, trapping her against the rug.

“I am, sweet,” he breathed, and for the first time, there was tension in his voice—taut, fraying at the edges. His hips ground into hers, his grip unyielding. “I’m already holding back so much… you don’t want to know what it’s like when I’m not gentle.”

She whimpered, but he swallowed the sound in a kiss, deep and consuming. “I’ll be gentler next time,” he promised, voice low, ragged. “Softer. I’ll give you whatever you want. But for now—this time—let me have this.”

His pace quickened. Gone was the careful precision of earlier—now he was almost reckless, each thrust edged with impatience. Her body, already frayed, still rose to meet him, caught in the inexorable rhythm. “I can’t—Lyney, not again,” she gasped, but her words died when his teeth closed on her shoulder, pain and pleasure scattering her thoughts to dust.

“Mine,” he whispered into the hollow of her throat. With a final shuddering push, he stilled inside her just as she fell apart, her wrists still pinned in his grasp, fingers flexing uselessly against the rug. Her vision blurred. She could barely think—could only feel him, heavy and unrelenting, breath ragged as he held her down, filled her, kept her.

Silence stretched in the wake of it. The room still rang with her pulse, with the echo of his breathing. He didn’t move, only pressed soft kisses along her face, her neck—light, adoring touches that jarred against the storm he’d just unleashed. Gentle pecks at her mouth, as though soothing a wound he himself had opened. Time blurred; she couldn’t tell if minutes or hours slipped by in his arms.

“Lyney,” she whispered at last, her voice faint, unsteady.

“Yes,” he murmured against her cheek, his breath warm, faintly sweet. “What do you want, mon trésor?”

“I… I can’t move,” she admitted.

“Then don’t.” His hand stroked through her damp hair, lifting a lock to his lips. “Stay here with me. Until you’re ready to face the world again.”

Her throat tightened. “I’m sore,” she said.

His mouth curved, just a fraction. “Is that so? Where?”

“Everywhere.” She winced as she tried to shift her arms. “And… between my—”

“Between your?” he prompted, gaze sharpening.

“My thighs,” she mumbled, heat rushing to her face. “I don’t know if I can walk.”

“Between your thighs,” he echoed, and rolled his hips into hers, slow, deliberate. She yelped, the sound high and startled. “Careful, love. Are you trying to seduce me into another round? Because you’re doing a very good job.”

“N-No! I’m not!” She reached up, fingers brushing his lips in a nervous plea. His eyes narrowed, catching her like a snare. “I-I just need to rest! Please,” she added, her voice going small.

Lyney studied her for a moment longer, then sighed. He rolled off her only to tug her close again, her back to his chest, his arm heavy around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder as he pressed a lazy kiss to the side of her neck. “At least you’re warm now,” he said. “Much better than when I pulled you from the lake.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, the aftershocks still thrumming through her. The exertion, the flood of sensation—it was all too much. Weariness seeped in at the edges, pulling her down. Safe, she thought, though she knew she shouldn’t feel it. Safe, here in his arms.

“I’m sleepy,” she said, muffling a yawn.

Another kiss at her nape, lingering. “Then sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

His voice wrapped around her like a tether, coaxing her under. Her eyes fluttered shut. The last thing she felt was his arms tightening, his breath warm against her bare shoulder, before the dark claimed her.

Chapter 12

He looked at her differently now.

She couldn’t explain it—couldn’t name what had shifted—but she felt it. His gaze lingered too long; his touch had lost its deliberation and turned careless instead. Not plotting, not needling, not trying to worm beneath her skin. He touched her as if she already belonged to him, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

After that day—after she had fallen asleep with him—she woke to find them still in the cabin, the fire crackling low, his arms looped around her. Not tight, but not letting go either. He stroked her hair while she lay still, eyes shut, feigning sleep. Not knowing what to say. Not wanting to think about the ache between her thighs, the sticky reminders drying on her skin, the faint sting of teeth marks where his mouth had been, or how his scent clung to her as if it had seeped into blood and bone.

It was quiet for a long time. Then his lips brushed her neck, and his voice came soft, amused: “I wonder how long you plan to keep pretending.”

Her eyes flew open. She turned to him, heart lurching. He was already watching, half-lidded eyes and a smile tugging faintly at his lips.

“You’ve been asleep for a while,” he said, tone easy, conversational—as though it was perfectly normal for her to wake naked in his arms, her body marked with his touch. “I was starting to worry.”

The hand resting across her back began to move, tracing her spine. She tried to still the shiver that rose; failed. “Are you feeling better?”

Her cheeks heated. She had no words, no voice steady enough for speech, so she gave the smallest nod.

“That’s good.” His fingers brushed her cheek, voice soft as down. “I can’t have my pretty wife breaking so soon.”

The words chilled her. She stared at him, struck dumb, while he only smiled and drew her closer—bare skin to bare skin, as if he hadn’t just spoken something that sounded more threat than tenderness. “Let’s stay here a little longer,” he murmured into her hair. “I like the quiet.”

Her throat worked. She dredged up her voice at last. “Wouldn’t the others be looking for us?”

“The others?” His fingers traced idle lines over her back, each brush raising warmth that strayed too close to pleasure. Her breath hitched.

“Won’t Lynette be searching?”

“Mm. No, she won’t.” His laugh was silken against her ear. “She knows I can manage the two of us.”

There was no ground to stand on in the face of such casual certainty. So she gave up resisting, leant into his chest, and let herself breathe. Indulged in the moment. Pretended his tenderness was real, not borrowed from the haze of magic.

They didn’t leave the cabin until twilight. By then her clothes were dry, and after they both dressed, he took her hand and returned them to the manor—no stop at the pavilion, no explanation to anyone. Just straight back to the Perinheri estate as if nothing had happened.

She found Lynette in the dining hall. Lyney had been pulled elsewhere by the butler for some urgent matter; Lumine had come down hoping to scavenge a meal, her stomach growling. It was close enough to dinnertime that she thought she could try her luck rather than trouble the kitchen.

Lynette sat alone, nibbling at a slice of cake while reading. She looked up when Lumine entered, blinked once, then closed her book. “You were gone for some time,” she said, brisk as ever. “I hope you didn’t run into trouble.”

Trouble. The word made Lumine’s mind flash with Mikhail, with the ice, with Lyney’s arms around her afterwards. She prayed her face wasn’t burning. “I didn’t. I was with Lyney.”

Lynette studied her in silence. Her eyes skimmed over Lumine’s figure once, twice, lingering long enough to make her stomach twist with something like guilt. Finally, Lynette pushed another plate across the table: a sandwich, untouched. “You should eat this. You look like you need it.”

Lumine murmured thanks and reached for the plate, but Lynette’s voice stopped her. “Perhaps not here, tonight.”

She looked up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Lynette’s gaze flicked down her torso again before snapping back up. Her tone stayed prim, but her words were sharp: “Trust me. Take it to your room. Unless you want the staff whispering around you come morning.”

Confused but unwilling to argue, Lumine nodded. “Have a good evening, Lynette.”

“You too,” Lynette called, and if there was a flicker of hesitation in her voice, Lumine almost missed it.

She hurried upstairs with her plate, slipped into her room, and set her prize on the vanity, only to freeze when the mirror caught her eye.

Her breath hitched.

Across her neck, her chest, every inch of visible skin her dress did not hide, the marks bloomed. Purpling bruises, stark against pale flesh. Some shaped like flowers, others like teeth. She looked mauled, branded—like prey that had been claimed.

Her mind flashed back to the cabin—the way Lyney had kissed her, held her, bitten into her like he couldn’t help himself. Her hand flew to her neck, clapping over one of the worst bruises. Her knees wavered, threatening to buckle.

Embarrassment prickled hot under her skin. How was she supposed to cover these? How long until they faded? Would she have to swaddle herself in layers for the next week just to keep them hidden?

But even as those thoughts rushed through her, heat swept her body, dizzying, and she gripped the edge of her vanity for balance. Looking at the marks only summoned him again—his hands, his mouth, the violet burn of his gaze, the way he had filled her completely.

The space between her thighs felt too empty. She turned from the mirror at once, ashamed and thrilled in equal measure by her body’s betrayal. She remembered his grip, just shy of too tight, like he feared she’d slip away.

Shoving the thought down, Lumine began to strip, grateful for the distraction of movement. Anything to keep her mind from wandering.

She had just shed her inner slip when a knock sounded, Desyree’s voice floating through the door. “My lady. His Grace said you must run a warm bath immediately. May I come in?”

Relief shot through her. She cracked the door open, but Desyree’s eyes widened at the sight of her, and she slipped inside at once, closing the door firmly. “My goodness, my lady,” she gasped. “What happened to you?”

Lumine looked down and realised the truth—beneath her clothes, the bruises were worse. Waist, thighs, arms, everywhere. She looked ravaged. “N-Nothing,” she stammered. “What did Lyney tell you?”

“He said you fell into a lake again,” Desyree replied. “That you’re fine now, but a warm bath would help.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

Desyree tilted her head, then shook it. “He seemed distracted. Something about the Snezhnayan delegation—apparently, His Majesty summoned him to the palace to smooth things over.”

Of course.

Lumine hesitated, guilt and shame clawing inside her. To admit the truth felt impossible, almost sacrilegious. They had been at the solstice hunt, a day for ceremony and spectacle—and instead she had disappeared into secrecy, into sin. That alone was shame enough.

But deeper still, and far worse, was the truth she could never confess: she had told herself not to give in, not to take advantage of him while the potion still bound him to her. Again and again, she had sworn she wouldn’t. And yet when the moment came, she had yielded anyway. Wanted it. Still wanted it.

But there was no innocent explanation. No monster had done this to her. No excuse would hold.

So she swallowed, cheeks burning, and beckoned Desyree closer. “We… consummated our marriage,” she mumbled.

The maid’s gasp was loud enough to rattle the walls. “Truly?”

Lumine nodded, wishing she could disappear. Desyree seized her hands, clasping them tightly, eyes shining. “That’s wonderful news, my lady! Now you’re truly the mistress of House Perinheri. No one will dare question you again.”

Guilt twisted deeper. But she only pressed her lips together and let Desyree fuss over her, the maid’s embarrassment plain as she glanced over the bruises with reluctant curiosity.

“I’ll run your bath,” Desyree said at last. “And for the next few days, we’ll plan outfits to hide these… markings.”

Lumine nodded, throat tight. When Desyree went into the bathroom, she sagged onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight.

She had made a mistake. She shouldn’t have given in. Her conscience hissed that she’d sinned, that she had taken from Lyney what wasn’t rightfully hers, that there could be no atonement.

And yet—desire smouldered low, hot and wicked. The sight of the bruises made her ache. Made her want. And the wanting dragged her closer to that edge, to the thought that maybe it wasn’t so terrible if it happened again. He had wanted it too… hadn’t he?

She bit her lip, glanced at the vanity, and quickly looked away.

Desyree’s voice floated out, mercifully breaking her spiral. “Would you like a particular oil blend, my lady?”

Lumine rose, thankful for the distraction. The moral battle could wait. Tonight, she was tired. Tonight, she would rest.

She passed the mirror on her way to the bath. Bite marks caught her eye, and memory rushed up with them—his heat, his voice, the weight of him inside her. She sucked in a breath and forced her gaze away, ignoring the shameful throb that answered.

Not now. Now was not the time.

---

When she came down for breakfast, Lyney was already there.

She hadn’t seen him again after the cabin—the king’s troubles had occupied him, and she’d slipped to bed after leaving the usual tray and note in his room. But now he was here, bright and early, seated at the head of the table as though nothing was amiss. Lynette was absent.

Lumine halted in the doorway, torn between slipping into her seat and turning tail and fleeing. The latter was sorely tempting. But then Lyney’s eyes lifted, caught hers, and she knew escape was no longer an option.

Forcing her feet to move, she crossed to her chair. A servant pulled it out; she sat stiffly, keenly aware of the smile tugging at his mouth, of the way his gaze lingered on her face before dipping lower, skimming her collar, then flicking back up.

She and Desyree had done their best to conceal the marks, but powder only went so far, and she didn’t have the will to paint herself for breakfast. A few bruises still peeked out: shadows beneath her collar, near her sleeve. Under Lyney’s scrutiny, the dining hall felt suddenly too warm.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, buttering a slice of toast. He placed it neatly on her plate, his attention fixed wholly on her.

She knew what it meant to be under his scrutiny. Lyney’s focus was like a spotlight: sharp, unforgiving, leaving no space to hide. Normally, it carried the threat of danger. But this time, her unease came less from that and more from self-consciousness.

Because she had dreamt. Again. Of his mouth, his hands, the way pain had bled into pleasure until she was marked inside and out. She woke aching, sore, breathless with memory. Even now, the brush of fabric against her skin felt stifling. But she refused to behave as though anything had changed. It had been one night. One mistake. Surely that wasn’t enough to alter the world.

“I slept fine,” she managed, biting into the toast he had placed before her. The words tasted thin. Lyney watched her all the while, amusement softening his expression—softening, but not harmlessly. There was hunger in that look, and it unsettled her.

“That’s good,” he said lightly, before sighing. “There was so much to settle after the solstice hunt. I half-worried I wouldn’t make it home before sunrise.”

“What time did you come back?”

“Oh, close to four. Nothing unusual.”

She lowered her toast, reaching instead for her cup of Darjeeling. His gaze followed every movement, sharp and unblinking. It felt like he wanted to peel back her thoughts, see everything she was trying to hide. She shivered, looking down at her tea. “What kept you so long?”

“Sorting out Mikhail’s displeasure. And since I vanished midway through, a few magic cores were unclaimed. The king insisted I fetch them, so I went after midnight—the monsters are livelier then. More distracting.”

“You went back there?”

He nodded. “I wanted to tidy the cabin anyway.”

The word cabin made heat prickle her cheeks. She ducked her gaze, praying it wasn’t obvious. “I hope you managed some rest.”

“Oh, I did. The milk helped.” His tone was pleasant, unhurried. “I always sleep better after anything you give me.”

Her throat tightened. When she risked another glance at him, his smile was still there, but the hunger threaded deeper now, glinting at the edges of his violet eyes. Her thighs pressed together beneath the table of their own accord.

She cleared her throat. “What’s your schedule today?”

“Surprisingly light.” He leant back, easy as ever. “We could even go out. Just the two of us. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

As he spoke, his hand stretched across the table to brush hers. She startled but didn’t draw away. His fingers stroked idly over her knuckles, a gesture almost innocuous if not for the gleam of his smile. “I’d begun to fear you might think me neglectful.”

“Why would I?” The words tumbled out, unsteady, her pulse drumming loud in her ears. “You’re busy. And besides, yesterday we already—”

She cut herself off too late. Her face burnt. Lyney’s thumb traced a slow circle across her hand, and then he lifted it, her sleeve falling back to bare her wrist. A bruise bloomed there, light but undeniable. The imprint of his grip.

“Yesterday we already?” he said. The earlier amusement had sharpened into something familiar now, something closer to seduction. Like he knew precisely what she was thinking, what she wanted, and was bent on coaxing the confession from her lips.

Lyney Perinheri was dangerous. Too aware of his own beauty, too fluent in the art of cadence and tone. He wielded his voice like a blade—sharp enough to slice past her defences, to catch her breath in her throat.

“We—we already…” The words faltered. She didn’t want to name it here, not in the soft innocence of morning. Yet refusing to say anything left a gap for him to slip through, and Lyney never let an opening go to waste. “We already spent a lot of time together,” she finished lamely.

He hummed, clearly pleased. “We did, didn’t we?” His grip shifted, tugging her hand higher. Her pulse jumped as his lips grazed her skin, brushed over the shadows on her wrist. “You cried so prettily for me,” he murmured, voice dipping low, intimate. “I adore seeing you unravel, mon trésor. You don’t show that side to anyone else, do you?”

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She had no idea how to answer him—how to meet words so bare, so brazen. The light through the windows was gentle, the hour still hushed with morning drowsiness, servants moving discreetly at the edges of the hall. It should have been a quiet, ordinary moment. But his voice cut against it all, too open, too much, as though the softness of the hour only made his boldness sharper.

Thankfully, he didn’t demand an answer. Instead, he kissed the bruise—sweet, almost chaste, the opposite of the man who’d left it there. Then he let her go. “If you’re free today,” he said, slipping back into ease as though nothing had passed between them, “come with me. I have a few errands to run.”

She blinked. “Errands?”

“Nothing serious,” he said breezily. “A quick meeting, a merchant to visit. Afterwards, we can do whatever you’d like.”

She hesitated. He’d never asked her along for business before. Leisure, yes; never errands, especially given the nature of his work.

Still, she had no reason to refuse. Her afternoon was free of invitations, and—if she was honest with herself—part of her wanted to go. Wanted to be with him, even if it often felt like walking a tightrope. She enjoyed his company; Lyney could be disarmingly pleasant, endlessly charming, when he chose to be.

She liked being his wife, too, at least in public. He was always attentive, always ready with some gesture that made them look the picture of devotion. Whether that attentiveness was genuine or nothing more than his performance as the perfect husband… she still couldn’t be sure. By now, she’d taught herself not to dwell on the distinction.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Lovely.” His smile curved, and before she could brace herself, his hand brushed her cheek, sweeping a lock of hair behind her ear. The touch lingered, too long to be proper.

And then, right there in front of the staff, he kissed her full on the mouth. She nearly dropped her tea. When he drew back, his eyes were half-lidded, and he licked his lips as though savouring her. “Sweet,” he said. “You always taste sweet, my love.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he rose smoothly to his feet. “Let me finish a few things this morning. I’ll see you when you’re ready.” He pressed another kiss to the top of her head and left the hall.

Lumine sat frozen, staring down into her teacup, her reflection quivering in the dark surface. Her fingers twisted in her dress, the other still clutched around porcelain. Her heart thudded, too loud, too fast.

She wasn’t sure how much longer it could keep up with him.

---

Lyney’s so-called “quick meeting” turned out to be a council with his vassals.

From the moment they stepped into the stone building on the fringes of the Perinheri lands—a part of the estate she’d never seen before—Lumine felt out of place. The halls were dim, secluded, and it was clear the location had been chosen for discretion.

“Am I really supposed to be here?” she whispered, her arm looped through his as he guided her down the corridor towards the meeting chamber. Nerves pooled cold in her chest.

Yes, she was his wife. Yes, that made her Duchess Perinheri. But she knew where the real power lay. It wasn’t with her. Lyney made the decisions; she had little say in matters of land, trade, or reputation. She had no mandate to be walking into a room of his vassals.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Lyney said lightly. “You’re my wife. Anywhere I go, you can follow—at least for small things like these.”

“I’ve never even met most of them.”

“Then today will be a fine opportunity.” His smile sharpened. “They should know who the mistress of the estate is. They’ll have to answer to you one day.”

That gave her pause. “They… have to?”

“Someone has to lead if I’m gone for long stretches, no?”

It made sense, but her doubt lingered. “I thought that person would be Lynette,” she admitted.

“That would’ve been the case if I’d remained unmarried. But I didn’t, chérie.” He angled his head towards her, smile and violet gaze pressing down with quiet intensity. “Does something trouble you?”

How could she explain? That she still felt like an impostor? That though she wore the title and practised the courtesies, beneath it all, she was only pretending—clinging to etiquette and rumour-trading, trying to master the rhythms of household accounts and staff approvals, all while guilt festered under the surface. Guilt for the things she’d done in secret. For blackmail. For the potion. For sins Lyney could never forgive if he knew.

“Not really,” she settled on at last. “Just… it’s my first time at a meeting like this. I don’t know what to expect.”

“Expect nothing,” Lyney said smoothly. “A gathering of old men talking themselves in circles. Hardly the highlight of my day.”

She managed a thin smile. “And what would be the highlight, then?”

“You, of course.” He said it with such ease her heart stuttered. “Who else could hold my attention?”

Her stomach flipped. It was too casual, too natural, as though he truly meant it. She didn’t dare linger on the thought; the moment she examined it, it would become unbearably real. So she looked away, her voice quiet. “You have such a glib tongue.”

“Don’t say that. Every word is true.”

She didn’t answer, and he laughed, slipping her arm free only to wrap his hand around her waist instead, guiding her closer as they neared the chamber doors. “You don’t need to speak if you’d rather not. But even if you do, nothing you say will harm us. So set your mind at ease.”

She startled. How did he always manage to strike so close to her private fears? Before she could dwell, he pushed open the doors, and they stepped into a high-ceilinged room where seven men already waited at a round table.

Lyney glided to his seat, his usual one, she guessed. She trailed behind, the weight of seven pairs of eyes following her every step.

“Bring another chair,” Lyney said easily. “My wife joins us today.”

There was a pause—brief, but heavy—before two of the men at the table shifted, scraping a chair loose from the empty place a few seats down. They dragged it over, the sound harsh against the stone floor, and set it beside Lyney.

He pulled it out for her himself, and she sat, spine stiff, forcing a polite smile as the vassals settled again, though their glances still flitted towards her. Lyney leant forward, elbows braced against the table. “So,” he drawled, “what urgent matters pulled us here today?”

Silence. Seven men shifted uneasily. The space left bare where her chair had once been stood out to her now, a gap at the round table. Whoever usually sat there hadn’t appeared.

Lyney’s smile widened, sharp as a blade. “No one? Then why call me here at all?”

One of the men cleared his throat. “It was Ambra’s request.”

“Ambra,” Lyney repeated, his tone mild, though his eyes gleamed. “And yet… he isn’t here. Should I take that as permission to go home?”

Lumine blinked. Count Ambra—the very vassal Lyney had sought during the crown prince’s birthday ball. He was the one who had asked for this meeting, yet he hadn’t come? All the stranger, given Lyney had suggested Ambra was doing everything possible to avoid him.

“I do have something I want to discuss,” another man said at last, this one a little older than the rest.

“Go on then, Giovanni.” Lyney leant his chin into his palm. “We don’t have all day.”

Giovanni hesitated. His gaze slid conspicuously towards Lumine. “I’m not sure if it’s fit for the delicate of heart.”

Lumine stiffened. She wasn’t sure if she ought to feel insulted or if she should simply take the comment at face value. But Lyney spared her the trouble of deciding, his smile curling faintly as he tipped his head. “Why? Is it so shattering that you think my wife cannot handle it?”

“No,” Giovanni said quickly, his eyes darting away. “Nothing like that.”

“Then speak freely.”

“It concerns Snezhnaya,” Giovanni said at last. “The Fatui are pressing deeper into Fontaine. There’s interest in Elynas, ever since an adventurer claimed to find a mine of magic cores there.”

Lyney’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed playful. “So, Mikhail has finally set his greedy eyes on Elynas? I’m surprised he didn’t move sooner.”

“It took him some time to reconvene his forces,” Giovanni said. “He wasn’t happy after you eliminated one of his better men.”

Lyney gave a languid shrug. “Then he shouldn’t have come to my manor and tried to steal my wife.”

The words landed so lightly they might have been a joke, but Lumine blinked, startled. The spy in Lyney’s room. The sword in his stomach. The blood soaking the carpet. She turned her head to him, but he only smiled back at her—picture-perfect innocence.

“Still,” Lyney went on, almost breezy, “that’s useful news. Better than him sulking all day in the Hotel Debord. Quite a waste of resources, really.”

“Then… would you still have my house liaise with him, Duke?” Giovanni asked, his voice tentative.

“It’s fine. You can stand down for now.” Lyney lounged back, studying him. “I take it that means you’d like some kind of reward for sticking your neck out.”

Giovanni’s lips pressed tight together, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I dare not presume.”

“Mm. But I dislike being stingy.” Lyney’s smile grew thin. “Your youngest was in contact with Ambra, wasn’t he?”

The colour drained from Giovanni’s face. He gave a stiff nod.

Lyney’s voice turned silken. “Then I’ll see he returns home in one piece. That’s as much as I can promise.”

“He didn’t mean to—” Giovanni began.

“Mean to what?” Lyney’s tone sharpened, just a fraction. “Get mixed up in the wrong company? That’s not my business. He should have known better.”

Giovanni dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, his hand trembling. Lumine’s chest tightened. She could guess enough from the edges of the conversation: Giovanni’s son had stumbled into Count Ambra’s orbit, and now the boy was in danger.

On instinct, she reached out and rested her hand on Lyney’s lap. He stilled, gaze slanting to her.

“What happened to Count Ambra?” she asked softly.

The room seemed to freeze. For a long moment, no one breathed. Then Lyney exhaled, almost indulgent. He took her hand, brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, ma chère. He tried something daring and suffered the consequences, that’s all.”

It didn’t feel so simple. The way every man at the table kept their eyes down told her otherwise. All except Giovanni, who was watching her—not quite hope in his gaze, but close.

“Not everyone wants to make mistakes,” she said quietly.

Lyney threaded his fingers through hers, drawing her hand to his chest. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her palm. “Are you trying to plead clemency for Giovanni’s son?” His tone was mild, but his eyes glittered. “You’ve never even met him.”

“Never?”

“I’m quite sure.” His smile was cool. “The boy only just returned from the north, and immediately let himself be swept into promises of grandeur. Count Ambra has nerve, plotting to overthrow House Perinheri.”

A chill traced down her spine. He spoke so simply, so matter-of-factly, as though insurgency was something he expected. Something he dealt with often.

“With that in mind,” he said, his tone brightening almost playfully, “do you still think he deserves my clemency, love?”

“Y-Your Grace,” Giovanni stammered. “He didn’t know any better.”

Lyney leant back, the very picture of languid ease. “I’m not here to do charity. I won’t guide children if they stray. That’s their parents’ duty. Mine is to keep order.” His smile gleamed. “And to remind those who forget their place.”

Lumine drew close, whispering, “What did he do?”

Lyney’s eyes flicked to hers, unblinking. “Intercepted some of my messages. Passed along my movements to Ambra.”

“He didn’t know Ambra was plotting treachery,” Giovanni protested. “He thought he was helping a friend of the house—”

“And never stopped to wonder why another vassal was so keen on tracking me?” Lyney’s voice dropped, cold and sharp, making Lumine flinch. “If I left him alone, he’d have gotten himself killed by someone else. Better that I deal with him now.” His smile was a blade’s edge. “You should be grateful the punishment ends with your son. If I’d found your hand in this, Giovanni, I’d be dealing with your entire house.”

The words cut through the chamber, and Lumine felt her stomach twist. She watched Giovanni lower his gaze to the table, shoulders sagging. Whatever fight he’d had left seemed gone. Pity stirred in her chest.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t understand Lyney’s position. Betrayal from a vassal was one of the gravest offences among the nobility; by sparing Giovanni’s household, he had already been merciful. By Fontainian law, an entire family might be executed for one traitor.

But sympathy wasn’t so easily silenced. If she had been the one to make some foolish mistake—thinking she was helping a friend, only to discover too late she’d stumbled into something larger—her mother would have done anything to protect her. That was what parents did.

She set her hand on Lyney’s knee beneath the table, squeezing gently. His eyes flicked to her, something unreadable flashing across his expression before vanishing. “You could send him north again,” she suggested quietly. “There are never enough soldiers on the front. That’s why the war drags. Better to use a healthy young man than waste him.”

Lyney tilted his head, studying her. “You think that’s punishment enough for one who conspired against his master?”

“He didn’t mean to,” she said, her heart thudding. “And if you’re set on discarding him, at least make it useful. In exile, he still serves you. Dead, he serves no one.”

Lyney hummed, noncommittal. “Alive, he could make trouble again. I dislike liabilities.”

“What trouble can he make as a foot soldier in the north?” she countered, glancing towards Giovanni. “At best, he defends Fontaine. At worst, he dies in battle. Either way, his life still has some value. Don’t throw it away.”

The chamber hushed. All eyes fixed on Lyney. Lumine held her breath, braced for him to rebuke her, to remind her she was overstepping.

Instead, he sighed. His hand slid down to cover hers, drawing it higher onto his thigh. His grip closed firm, warm, deliberate. “Since my wife asks it,” he said at last, “I’ll grant her request. Send your son back to the northern front. Fresh blood will do their morale good.”

Giovanni inhaled sharply. “Yes, Your Grace.” His eyes flicked to Lumine, gratitude shining through his weariness. “I’ll see it done.”

“I’ll release him in a few days,” Lyney added, his thumb stroking slow circles over her knuckles. “You can expect him then.”

Giovanni bowed his head. The tension in the room loosened, though not completely. One by one, the other vassals gave their reports, small matters of land and trade. Lyney listened with that same air of languid uninterest, but Lumine knew he missed nothing. His grip never left her hand, steady beneath the table—never crushing, but never loosening enough to let her slip away either.

The meeting was short, just as he’d promised. Yet when they finally rose, she felt older, worn down by the weight of it.

“There’s something on your mind,” Lyney said as they left the chamber. His arm was looped around her waist, guiding her as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Do you think me cruel?”

She faltered. Did she?

“I know you’re maintaining order,” she said slowly. “And that showing too much sympathy could weaken your standing.”

“Yet you interceded for another man’s son.” His voice was mild, but his eyes glinted with interest.

“I didn’t want to see a parent lose their child,” she said.

Lyney’s smile curved. “And if I’d denied you?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but his gaze was too intent for it to be a joke.

“Then I’d have said no more,” she said. “It’s your right as Duke. I trust you considered more than I know.”

“Mm. Perhaps it would have been wiser if you’d stayed silent from the start,” he mused. “Now the others will look to you. They’ll think you can sway me.”

Her lips pressed thin. “You did say I could speak freely.”

That earned a low laugh. “That I did.”

They walked in silence for a while, his hand still firm at her waist, pulling her fractionally closer with each step. The intimacy of it unsettled her—the ease with which he carried her along as though she was an extension of himself.

“The spy who broke into the manor,” she asked suddenly. “The one from months ago. He was sent by Mikhail?”

Lyney glanced at her. “Why the sudden interest?”

His voice was edged now, sharper than when they’d spoken of Giovanni’s son. She blinked at the sudden change. “Well… Desyree told me that raid was by an exiled noble house. Not the Snzehnayans.”

“Ah.” His arm tightened at her waist, just slightly. “That was the initial belief. But further investigation showed other hands at work.”

“Mikhail?”

“You know,” Lyney said, his tone deceptively light, “I don’t like the way you say his name.”

Her breath caught as he turned to her, fingers brushing her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I know you mean nothing by it,” he murmured. “But it bothers me all the same. So perhaps let’s stop talking about him.”

Her pulse stumbled. She couldn’t tell if it was unease at how easily his mood shifted, or something more dangerous—the way her heart raced, the way her skin prickled under his touch.

“I don’t feel anything towards him,” she managed. “I was only curious.”

“There’s nothing to be curious about, chérie,” Lyney said smoothly. “What does it matter who sent the spy? He’s dead now.”

“But if it was him, that means Mikhail was targeting me even before we—”

His fingers caught her chin, tilting her face up, and his mouth was on hers before she could finish. She startled at the sudden press of warmth, the insistent hunger of his lips. His arm locked her closer, crushing the space between them, and thought fractured, splintered into sensation.

A corner of her mind knew they were still inside the building, knew a vassal could emerge at any moment and see them like this. But the rest of her was lost in him—in the sweetness of his kiss, the force of it, the way he kissed her as though devouring her.

Her lungs burnt. She tore her mouth away, gasping for air, dizzy with the heat of it. Lyney watched her with hooded eyes, hunger laid bare.

“W-What was that for?” she choked.

“I told you,” he said evenly. “I don’t like hearing his name from your lips.”

“So you kissed me to silence me?”

“Perhaps.” His smile curved, crooked. “Or perhaps I just missed how sweet you taste. Must I have a reason to kiss my wife?”

She wanted to retreat, to put space between them, but his hand was firm at her waist, pinning her in place. She could only look back at him, her heart caught in her throat, caught by the gleam in his violet eyes.

“Shall we leave?” he asked softly, silken. “We’ve a long day ahead.”

And what else could she do but nod? She followed him, acutely aware of the weight of his arm holding her close, wondering if she’d ever truly understand what lay behind that beautiful, inscrutable gaze.

---

When they reached home, they went their separate ways—at least, at first.

Later, as she was tucking the vial of potion into her vanity—having poured the customary few drops into his drink, just as she always did—the door swung open. She flinched, heart leaping, hand jerking away from the drawer.

Lyney.

He stood at the threshold, head tipped slightly, violet eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Why does my dear wife look at me that way?” he asked. “As though you’ve seen a ghost.”

She forced herself to breathe. “Nothing,” she said evenly, grateful that her voice didn’t tremble. “You just startled me.”

Thank the archons he hadn’t come in a second sooner. She had no idea how she would’ve explained herself.

He moved further into the room, unhurried, the picture of ease in a loose white shirt and soft trousers. “Is that my snack for tonight?” he asked, gaze sliding towards the vanity.

She nodded mutely. A plate of chocolate biscuits sat beside the usual cup of milk. Lyney smiled, picked up the cup, and drank it down in one smooth swallow. “I must say,” he murmured, “this has become a habit. Perhaps even a crutch. The thought of going to bed without my milk feels… uncomfortable.”

She tried not to read into that. Tried not to think of what the words might imply. “It must be all the sleep tincture Lynette fed you,” she said.

“Ah, no. She stopped spiking my drinks a while ago.”

She blinked. “You could tell?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice what’s changing inside my own body, chérie?”

His tone was light, teasing, but something beneath it made her pulse stumble. He couldn’t know. If he did, surely he would’ve said something—surely he’d confront her outright.

“I heard of that happening before,” she said quickly, scrambling for composure. “It’s called the placebo effect. When you believe something is supposed to help you, so your body responds even if there’s nothing in it.”

“Mm, but that requires belief, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling faintly. “And I know perfectly well my drink is free of any unwanted additions. So your theory doesn’t quite hold.”

Her throat went dry. His smile lingered, just a little too sharp.

“Maybe it’s simply the effect of ritual,” he went on softly. “The comfort of knowing my darling wife cares for me in such little, thoughtful ways.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak. The air felt taut, fragile, like a string pulled too tight. To distract herself—to break that tension—she reached for a biscuit and held it out. “Do you want it?” she asked, voice thin.

His gaze lifted to hers, a spark of something wicked in his eyes. “If you’re offering.”

He caught her wrist and tugged it up, eating the biscuit straight from her hand. Then his free arm slipped around her waist, drawing her in.

“But I think I want something else,” he said against her skin, his breath warm at the curve of her neck.

Her pulse roared. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, every nerve drawn taut by his closeness. “I—um—”

“Hm?” His lips brushed her throat. He nudged her backwards until her hip hit the edge of the vanity. “What’s the matter?”

“The biscuits…”

“I’ll eat them later.”

He lifted her easily onto the vanity, stepping between her legs to close the space between them. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, brushed over her lips. She shivered, hands flying up to brace against his shoulders. “I don’t think—this isn’t a good idea,” she stammered.

“And why not?”

“Because—” Her voice caught. She had nothing convincing to say, not with his gaze devouring her so intently. “Because we’ve had a long day.”

“Is that so?” His mouth ghosted along her collarbone, over one of the marks he’d left. “We didn’t do much.”

He wasn’t wrong. After the meeting, she’d accompanied him to a brief appointment with a merchant—something about perfume—then to an early dinner, a short walk, and finally home. Her hair was still slightly damp from her bath; warmth clung to her skin.

“Aren’t you tired?” she whispered, nails catching in his shirt. She didn’t know if she meant to push him away or hold him closer. “You didn’t get much sleep last night…”

“How could I sleep,” he said, “when I’m still so hungry?”

His tone was light, but the look he gave her wasn’t. It was sharp and gleaming and full of dark amusement, as if she were something fragile and delicious, a gift meant to be unwrapped slowly.

And it terrified her, how used she was becoming to it.

His lips brushed lower, into the hollow of her throat. Instinct jolted through her; she pressed both palms against his chest, shoving lightly. Lyney drew back, blinking, the picture of lazy patience. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she blurted, her heartbeat a frantic flutter. Her mouth moved before her thoughts caught up. “I was just wondering why you were here.”

That made him pause. He tilted his head, studying her in that feline way of his. Then, softly: “You never had an issue with me coming to your room before.”

The words were light—innocent, even—but they dried her mouth all the same. She scrambled for an answer. “You usually don’t come at this hour,” she said lamely. “You’re usually… busy.”

“But I’m not busy tonight.”

He reached for one of her hands, where it still rested against his chest, lifting it to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her palm. “So I thought I’d see my pretty wife.” His lips brushed over her hand, featherlight. “It’s rare I catch you like this—fresh, sleepy, sweet. Fussing over my midnight snack.”

Something in her gut twisted. He wanted something; she could feel it. The same quiet alarms she’d learnt to heed rang in the back of her mind. Yet her body betrayed her—the memory of his touch still lived in her bones. Her breath hitched. Against her palm, she felt his mouth curve into a smile.

“Or does my sweet wife mean to deny me?” he murmured, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “I understand if you’re tired. I’d never want to put you in a difficult position.”

His other hand slid to her leg. She gasped. His touch was warm, certain, unhurried, fingers tracing slow paths along her skin, gliding beneath the hem of her nightdress.

“What do you think, my love?” he asked idly, his thumb stroking slow circles against her thigh. Her breath caught, unsteady. The single hand she kept on his chest might as well have been a paper wall between them—useless, fragile, already giving way.

She tried to speak. The sound that escaped was small, breathy, nothing like a word.

He laughed quietly, pressing her palm harder to his cheek. “Or are you asking me to choose for you?”

Dangerous. This was dangerous.

She couldn’t give in again. Not after everything. Not even if part of her wanted to. Not even if he looked at her like that.

“N-No,” she managed, pulling her hand free. “I can’t. Not again. Not so soon.”

“Why not?” His mouth curved—sharp, amused. “Are you embarrassed, chérie?”

Heat burnt her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Looking away meant yielding, and he would see it as permission. “I’m tired,” she said finally.

For a long moment, he simply watched her. She felt trapped—perched on the vanity, hem of her nightdress bunched around her thighs, the wall at her back, and him before her. Then, at last, he sighed and leant forward, his forehead coming to rest against her shoulder.

“It’s hard to deny you,” he said. “As much as I’d like to hold you again… perhaps not tonight.”

He drew back, and air rushed into her lungs. When he offered his hand, she took it, sliding off the vanity. Her knees wobbled under her, the weight of tension still heavy in her limbs.

Before she could steady herself, he swept her into his arms. She let out a startled sound as he carried her to the bed.

“Lyney—”

He set her down gently, then climbed in beside her, drawing the duvet over them both as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m sleeping here tonight,” he said, turning to face her. His eyes gleamed in the half-light. “Or do you not want me to, sweet?”

She hesitated. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to her room, but it was the first time he’d stayed. And truth be told, she didn’t mind. Not if he only meant to sleep. The thought of sharing a bed—quiet, ordinary—felt almost comforting.

So she shifted closer. Just a little. His scent wrapped around her, familiar and warm.

He smiled and slung an arm around her waist, pulling her in until her forehead rested against his chest. She stilled, swallowing hard.

“Not going to try and kick me out?” he asked, fingers splayed against the small of her back, his other hand threading lazily through her hair.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Isn’t it a little early for bed, though?”

“Maybe,” he said, tucking her under his chin. “But I want to rest for a while.”

She relaxed despite herself, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his chest, by the slow drag of his fingers through her hair.

“I’ll eat the biscuits later,” he said. “I imagine they’re weighing on your conscience.”

“We shouldn’t waste food,” she mumbled against his shirt.

“Of course not,” he said. “We shouldn’t waste what’s right in front of us.”

The words were light, but the undercurrent made her throat tighten. She chose not to answer. Closed her eyes instead, focusing on his warmth, on the slow rhythm of his heartbeat.

For once, he was still. Gentle. Safe. When they were like this, she could almost believe they were something real.

They didn’t speak again. She drifted off like that, his arm around her, his breath steady against her hair. And when she woke the next morning, he was still there—his blond hair mussed, his lips parted in sleep.

It was strange, seeing him so unguarded. Strange. But not unpleasant.

---

After that, Lyney began coming to her room every night.

He didn’t sleep in his own anymore.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the change. It wasn’t that she minded, not exactly—it was just different. Dangerous in a way that seemed harmless if you didn’t look too closely.

It shouldn’t have been strange for husband and wife to share a chamber. She knew that. And it wasn’t as if she was so uncomfortable with him that she couldn’t bear his presence.

But ever since that day in the cabin, Lyney had changed.

She didn’t know how to navigate him now, how to move through the deepening physicality of their relationship. He’d always been publicly affectionate—charming, attentive, the perfect husband before an audience—but that affection hadn’t always carried into the domestic sphere. He could be courteous, even kind, but he wasn’t always tender.

Now, though, he was sweet.

And he touched her. Constantly. A hand at her waist, lips brushing the back of her knuckles, his gaze following her every time she rose from his side. And it wasn’t just for show. He did it even when no one was watching.

She could manage him by day. It was too easy then to let herself sink into the warmth of his attention, too easy to forget how fragile the foundation of it all was, even if she knew she couldn’t rely on a love conjured through magic forever.

But night was harder.

Night was when Lyney slipped into her room and shed all pretence of being a gentleman.

She had learnt to prepare in advance—measuring out drops of potion while he was asleep or occupied, tucking them into miniature vials or trinkets she could open and pour into his nightly milk before he noticed. But the more difficult part was staying alert. Because if she ever let her guard down, if she ever stopped watching her own heart, she knew she might give in again.

And Lyney made giving in look so terribly easy. So natural. So tempting.

He knew her body too well now. Her breath, her pulse, the way she trembled when his voice dropped low and close to her ear. She was growing used to him—to his scent, his touch, the way he kissed her like she was something to be consumed.

He didn’t hide what he wanted, either. He watched her openly, with the slow, predatory patience of a cat studying its prey. He never pressed further than she allowed, but each night, she felt herself slipping a little more, sliding down a slope she wasn’t sure she could climb back up.

By day, he was the picture of devotion. The perfect husband. He accompanied her to every event, stayed close to her side, murmured endearments in public. He brought her gifts, smiled at her like she hung the stars. Society whispered about how much Duke Perinheri adored his wife, how utterly devoted he was.

Desyree repeated these rumours with unguarded delight. Lumine only smiled, because what else could she do?

When they were alone, though—when the world’s noise fell away—Lyney’s gentleness became something else. Still sweet, still loving, but laced with patience that felt dangerous. His hands burnt where they touched. His mouth coaxed rather than demanded, soft and persistent, as though he meant to make her open to him again by tenderness alone.

And the terrifying thing was: he wasn’t wrong.

She could feel herself teetering, peering down the edge of her own undoing and seeing him smiling up at her from the abyss, arms open, waiting.

Would it really be so terrible to fall?

She caught herself thinking that more often than she cared to admit. It frightened her how natural the thought was starting to feel.

So, before she could lose herself completely, she decided to act. To reassert control. One evening, she went to his room. She told herself it was to talk, to redraw boundaries in this careful performance they called marriage.

It was self-preservation more than anything else. A way to remind herself that she could still keep him at arm’s length if she chose to. Because if there was one thing she knew about Lyney, it was that he never surrendered a bargain once it was struck.

She knocked on his door, half-expecting no answer. To her surprise, his voice came through, smooth, unhurried.

When she entered, he was lounging in bed, a book in hand. Not at his desk for once. He looked up, his expression brightening. “Mon cœur,” he greeted. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She hesitated. He looked maddeningly at ease—hair loose, shirt open to the throat, golden in the lamplight. There was always something unfair about how beautiful he was, how easily he wielded that beauty like another weapon.

“I wanted to talk,” she said.

“Oh?” His smile deepened, slow and knowing. He held out his arms. “Then come here, and talk comfortably with me.”

She lingered in the doorway, torn between sense and want. Going closer meant danger—it always did—but he looked so unthreatening now. So soft, so inviting.

Maybe nothing would happen. Maybe this could be a simple conversation. He was her husband, after all. And she did like being near him. There wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

She swallowed and closed the door behind her, stepping forward one careful pace at a time.

Lyney’s eyes tracked her every movement, unreadable. When she reached the bed, he leant forward, caught her wrists, and drew her gently down until she was seated across his lap.

“So?” he asked, tipping his head back to meet her gaze. “What does my darling wife wish to discuss?”

He said it so easily, the endearments slipping from his tongue like honey—sweet, effortless, dangerously inviting. Her throat felt dry.

“I wanted to talk about us,” she managed.

He hummed. “What about us?” His hands moved with languid certainty, guiding her arms up around his neck. His lashes dipped, shadowing his expression; that half-lidded gaze sent a warning through her nerves.

“Back when we got married,” she said, “we agreed, didn’t we? That we wouldn’t… pretend. Not unless it was necessary.”

“Mm.” His breath brushed her lips, warm, faintly sweet. Her pulse stuttered.

“I was thinking,” she went on, voice wavering, “that it must be exhausting to—to keep it up. To act this way when we’re alone.”

“What do you mean, this way?” His fingers skimmed up her back, deliberate and unhurried, the heat of his touch burning through thin silk.

“This,” she said, glancing down between them. Her, balanced in his lap; his hands on her body as though they belonged there. “You—we don’t need to do so much.”

He smiled, the curve of his mouth sharp enough to cut. “Interesting. You keep saying so much. Personally, I think we’re not doing nearly enough.”

Her stomach twisted. She knew that look in his eyes, had learnt it too well. The last time she saw it, he had pressed her into her mattress and kissed her until she forgot her own name. She’d nearly given in then, nearly let him have her again, but stopped herself at the edge of surrender.

It had been a narrow escape.

“It’s vexing sometimes,” Lyney continued. “Makes me feel like you’re toying with my feelings.”

“I’m not,” she protested. “I just don’t know if it’s right to keep—keep walking this line.”

“I’m not the one walking it.” His voice was velvet and threat all at once. Then his mouth found her neck, his lips closing over delicate skin. She gasped as he sucked another bruise into her throat.

He liked to leave marks. She’d learnt that much. Small, possessive reminders she covered every morning with careful layers of powder.

But she couldn’t lose herself again. Not tonight. Not when she’d come here to draw boundaries, not to blur them further.

She pulled back. Lyney let out a quiet sound of displeasure—almost a growl—before he caught himself and shifted tone entirely. “What’s wrong, love?” he asked, soft again, all feigned innocence.

“It’s a serious conversation,” she said, her heart hammering. “I don’t want to get distracted.”

He tilted his head, studying her. His fingers twitched against her spine, tugging her closer. “Why the sudden need for seriousness?” he asked, voice low, edged with something she couldn’t name.

“I just thought it was opportune,” she said weakly, biting her lip.

His gaze flicked down to her mouth, then back up. “Opportune,” he echoed, quiet amusement threading through the word.

She pressed on, desperate to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—else. “We should be clear,” she said. “About the roles we’re supposed to play in this marriage. Otherwise, things might get confusing.”

“What role do you think you’re meant to play, then?” he asked, silken, as his thumb traced lazy circles on her hip.

Her breath caught. “To manage the household,” she said. “Keep things running. That’s what you said.”

“Mm.” His grip tightened at her waist—firm enough that she knew she’d see the imprint of his fingers later. “What else?”

“That’s all you said.”

“Ah, my sweet,” he said, his smile deepening. “That’s not the only duty of a duchess.”

Before she could react, he moved, rolling her effortlessly onto her back. She gasped, her wrists caught in his hands and pinned to the mattress, his face hovering above hers.

“Isn’t another one of your duties,” he breathed, voice almost tender, “to give me an heir?”

She went still. For a heartbeat, she could only stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I—you’re not being serious,” she said at last, voice thin.

“Oh, but I am.” His tone was maddeningly calm. “Who else would, love? I’ve no intention of taking a mistress, if that’s what you were about to suggest.”

“I wasn’t,” she said quickly. “I just didn’t think—” Her words stumbled. “I didn’t think it would come up so soon.”

“Mm.” His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable sliding through them before he leant down again, fingers tightening around her wrists—gentle, but unyielding. “Well,” he said, “I hadn’t planned to bring it up until we were both ready. But since you wanted to talk about duties and responsibilities…”

“I-It was just a talk!” she squeaked, squirming a little beneath his hold. “I only meant—I didn’t want there to be any mistaken impressions!”

His mouth curved faintly. “And what mistaken impressions do you think I have, hm?”

“Nothing,” she blurted. “Nothing. I wasn’t thinking straight.” Her breathing came fast, shallow. He was still watching her—too closely, too intently—and she couldn’t read the expression behind his eyes. “Will you let me go?” she asked finally, voice small, fragile as thread.

He regarded her in silence for a moment, as though weighing the request. Then he loosened his grip. She sat up quickly, retreating a few inches across the mattress, desperate for distance.

“I’m a little hurt, actually,” he said after a pause. “That you’d want to redefine our relationship.”

“I wasn’t trying to change anything,” she mumbled. “I just wanted… clarity.”

“Clarity,” he repeated, thoughtful. “And here I thought our arrangement was perfectly clear. We’re husband and wife, and not just in name.” He studied her as he reached out, knuckles brushing lightly along her jaw. She shivered at the touch but didn’t pull away. “Especially after that day,” he added softly. “In the eyes of the law, you’re mine as much as I’m yours. How much more clarity could you possibly need?”

Her cheeks burnt at the reminder—his voice gone quieter, tinged with something almost wistful. She forced herself not to linger on it, not to mistake tenderness for sincerity. “But you don’t really…” she started, only to falter halfway.

How could she even begin to explain? How could she tell him, still under the potion’s thrall, that what he felt wasn’t real—that it wasn’t love, but something she had taken from him? Any words she tried to form would sound absurd, cruel even. Pointless.

“Nothing,” she whispered at last. “It’s nothing.”

He watched her for a long, searching beat. Then his expression brightened, smooth and easy again. He reached for her and drew her in with sudden force, wrapping his arms around her until her breath hitched. “Then stay,” he murmured against her ear, voice velvet and coaxing. “I’ve missed you. I want you here. You don’t mind, do you?”

It was hard to say no when he sounded like that—when he looked at her as though she was the only thing in the world worth keeping. And what difference did it make, really, when he already spent every night in her bed?

So she nodded. He smiled, relaxing, his hold softening just enough to let her breathe.

In the back of her mind, she knew she had to stop this soon. Before she broke her own heart. Before the potion wore off and Lyney returned to who he’d been—sometimes warm, sometimes cold, always unknowable, and far beyond her reach.

But for now… she could let herself pretend. Just for one more night.

Chapter 13

The room is dark.

Silent, except for her own breathing—quick, shallow, almost frantic in the hush. Lyney is here. He’s always here now: in her space, in her head, threaded through her blood and bone like a second pulse.

Night carries its own dangers, most of them summoned by her husband, his gentle insistence grinding steadily against the fragile edge of her will.

And always there’s that small, treacherous voice in the back of her mind, coaxing her: you’ve already let him in once, you can let him in again. It slips into her dreams, whispering how easy it would be to surrender, to pretend she’s his wife in every sense that matters.

But call her foolish, call her stubborn—she knows she’s already given too much. Knows that each kiss, each touch, each fevered dream is another concession, another inch lost to becoming someone she doesn’t want to be. She refuses to lose herself completely. Hasn’t she hurt herself enough already?

Yet her body’s responses betray her. Logic shrinks in the face of sensation, and Lyney knows it. He knows exactly how to make her tremble, how to make her cling and gasp his name like he’s offering her salvation.

He’s doing it now. Fingers drifting down her side, tracing the curve of her body through her thickest nightdress—her last, stubborn barrier, her attempt at control. It barely matters. His touch burns through cotton anyway. She shivers in his grip, on the verge of falling apart from something so light, so seemingly innocent.

He isn’t even touching bare skin—only dragging patterns across her body, cotton rasping against her navel, his arm firm around her waist—and still she thinks she might go insane.

“Lyney,” she whispers. She wants to catch his wrist, hold him still, carve out an instant of reprieve. But the last time she touched him like that, he took it as an invitation—turned her around, kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, until she nearly begged him to take her again, the ache between her thighs a gnawing, relentless need.

She isn’t sure she can pull away a second time.

He hums, soft, drowsy. “Yes, mon amour?”

“You haven’t stopped touching me.”

He grazes his lips along the back of her neck. She feels him smile against her skin.

“Mm. Do you want me to stop, then?”

She opens her mouth to say yes, but it’s too dry; nothing comes out. If she says the wrong thing, she knows she might end up in a more compromising position—but she isn’t even sure she wants to avoid that. What does she want?

“It’s distracting,” she manages at last, fingers twisting in his pillow, trying to ground herself, to feel something that isn’t just the warmth of his hands or the softness of his mouth.

“Is that so?” His hand keeps moving, sliding lower, past her navel, inching towards the space between her legs. Even though the cotton, the jolt of it makes her bite back a whimper and bury her face in the pillow.

“If you keep doing that,” she breathes after a moment, “I won’t be able to sleep.”

“I can think of better things to do than sleep, chérie.” His voice threads like silk into her ear. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Perhaps you’d like to indulge your poor husband.”

She gasps when his mouth presses into the curve of her neck, the thrill in her body sparked as much by his touch as by hearing him say so plainly what he wants.

Lyney is rarely direct. He likes to dance around his desires, make her guess, make her suspect. For him to name it outright—without masks or games—sends her stomach flipping.

Her thighs press together involuntarily. His fingers pluck at the hem of her nightdress, ghosting over the bare edge of her skin.

“Hm?” he prompts when she doesn’t answer.

She can’t trust her voice not to break. He laughs quietly, seductively, and something flickers inside her—a flash of instinct she barely recognises.

“Is this what you like, sweet?” he says. “Making me suffer. Hearing me beg. Do you enjoy torturing your husband?”

“I-I never did anything like that,” she says, finally regaining her voice, thin and trembling in the dark.

He presses closer, and now she can feel him—feel the line of his desire flush against her back. Heat floods her face, and she’s thankful for the darkness hiding her expression. Here, amid the velvet of night, no one can see. No one will know but her and Lyney.

“You say that,” he murmurs into her ear. She bites her lip hard, stifling a moan. “You say that, but you know, don’t you? Every time you deny me like this—”

He rolls his hips against her, hardness sliding between her thighs, and she yelps, the sound spilling out despite herself.

“—it only makes me want more.”

Her grip tightens on the pillow. She tries to shift, to carve out an inch of space, but his arm only tightens, pinning her firmly against him, leaving her no escape.

“You shouldn’t have let me touch you at all, love,” he says, “if you weren’t going to give me another taste.”

Her tongue feels glued to the roof of her mouth. She wants to speak, but her mind is a blur—a tangle of instincts and unspoken desires knotted with the desperate need to protect herself from hurt.

What is there to say when he speaks so plainly? His directness leaves her nowhere to hide. She’s used to his evasions, to the games of words and meaning she can at least try to parry. This—this raw straightforwardness—she doesn’t know how to counter. She doesn’t know how to handle it at all.

And in her silence, Lyney moves closer. His fingers slide beneath the hem of her nightdress, sliding between her legs. She draws a sharp breath when his palm cups her core.

“Already wet,” he purrs, and her throat seizes as she swallows. “So why do you keep running from me, hm?”

She has no answer. Can’t muster a coherent thought once his fingers begin to move, circling her clit, drawing pleasure through her like a bowstring pulled taut.

His mouth travels down her neck, across the curve of her shoulder, his touch relentless, granting no reprieve. She unravels embarrassingly fast, hips rocking back into his hand as he coaxes her higher. When he turns her head to kiss her, she doesn’t even resist, parting her lips greedily to let him take.

Because deep down, she wants to be taken. Wants to belong to him fully—not just because she blackmailed him into marriage, not just because she needs him for her mother.

“Lyney,” she cries, turning in his arms, the aftershocks of release stripping away logic and self-preservation. He meets her, pulls her in, and she feels him between her thighs now—her nightdress bunched up around her waist, the hard tip of him gliding through her wetness.

It would be so easy. To wrap herself around him. To offer herself up willingly.

“I’ll make you feel good,” he says, voice hoarse and ragged, and she shudders, slinging an arm around his neck, her free hand sliding down between her legs. She can feel him, heavy and hot against her palm.

“I want you, Lyney,” she breathes. “I want you.”

“Then you can have me, mon trésor.” He leans in, kissing her deep, hungry, consuming. She feels as though she might melt, might collapse into him entirely. Right now she can only think of how empty she is and how much she wants him to fill her, to make her mind blank with nothing but him.

Gingerly, she wraps her fingers around him. He inhales against her mouth, surprised, but before he can speak she guides him to her, hooks one leg around his hip, opens herself to him, nudging the tip of him against her entrance.

Lyney goes very still. She swallows, her arm tightening around his neck. “Take me,” she whispers, unthinking, the words spilling out like instinct. “I want you inside me. Please.”

He groans—a sound breathless, wanting—and the noise makes her belly tighten, her core clench around nothing. “My pretty, dainty wife,” he murmurs. “How can I say no when you beg so sweetly?”

Then, without another word, he pushes forward and she cries out, falling into him as he sinks deep inside, filling her until every other thought scatters.

He captures her mouth as he moves, and she clings to him like driftwood, like she’s drowning at sea. His grip tightens—one hand firm at her waist, the other threading through her fingers, holding her as though he’ll never let her go.

It feels like he’s carving himself into her. Like he’s trying to make her body remember him. His rhythm is steady, relentless; his eyes fix on her face, studying every reaction. She’s swept up in the intensity, the pleasure, the way he whispers filth in a voice so soft it sounds like devotion.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks, burying himself to the hilt inside her. She whimpers, her fingers scrabbling at his back. “You like being mine. Being taken by me. Gods, it’s like you were made for me,” he continues, voice rough with want. “So soft and perfect. I could stay inside you forever.”

She inhales sharply, clenching around him at the praise, and he laughs—a shaky, delighted sound. “You like that, love?” he murmurs, nipping at her ear. “Like it when I call you mine?”

“Yes,” she sobs. “Yes, Lyney—ah, I want you. I want you. So please—”

Her pleas break off as he rolls his hips again, knocking the breath out of her lungs. He’s all the way in, deep and sure, and she thinks she might lose her mind—lose herself—dissolve into him and become nothing but sensation.

“You want me?” he asks, kissing the corner of her mouth, his lips gliding up to catch the tears streaking her cheeks. “What should you tell me, then?”

The answer rises to her lips, pure instinct rather than thought. She wraps her legs around his hips, pressing herself as close as she can. Leans up, trembling but trying, and slants her mouth against his throat.

“I-I love you, Lyney,” she moans, the confession torn from her like a wound. “I love you, so take me—harder, please.”

He hisses, and his next thrust is hard enough to slide her up the bed, nearly into the headboard. He’s relentless now, single-minded, almost violent in his intensity. The pleasure inside her builds molten and bright, threatening to spill over; she feels herself swaying, teetering, about to fall.

She thinks he might break her apart. Remake her in his image. And she won’t even protest, because it’s easier to drift, to drown, to give herself to him entirely.

Then he kisses her, and she gasps into his mouth. His hips snap forward again, driving so deep she swears she sees stars—

Lumine jerks upright, heart hammering, fingers twisted in the duvet as she blinks at the ceiling. The room is dark and still, the bed vast. It smells like Lyney, but it’s cold and empty. He isn’t here tonight. Working late, her sluggish mind supplies. Something about civil unrest; summoned by the crown prince after dinner.

Her body aches, pulsing, wanting something she doesn’t dare to name. Her breath comes soft, broken. Against her better judgement she reaches down between her legs, finding herself already wet, dripping for him. She can still feel the ghost of him inside her, filling her, stilling, spilling. Her core clenches, demanding.

Demanding him.

Her breath hitches, and she slips her fingers inside herself, curling, trying to find the angle he had, once. Trying to recreate the lights he’d made burst behind her eyelids. It should feel pathetic—alone in his bed, surrounded by his scent, rutting into her own hand as she chases the high her dream denied her—but she doesn’t. She can’t, not when she’s still pleasure-drunk on the thought of him, burning with desire.

It isn’t the same. Her fingers are slimmer than his; she can’t reach as deep, can’t hit the same spots. But it makes her feel a little less empty. She turns her head, mindlessly seeking his pillow, burying her face into the fabric. Inhales his bittersweet scent, feels it settle in her lungs, soothing and scorching at once.

“L-Lyney,” she breathes, trembling. She thinks of his violet eyes glinting in the dark, the soft amusement in his smile, the way he’d pin her down and take her over and over so long as she just asked. She bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut. “Ah—Lyney. Want you. Need you—”

In her mind’s eye, he’s inside her again, moaning as he buries himself to the hilt, marking her as his. That’s the thought that tips her over, her core fluttering weakly around her fingers as she comes—nowhere near as earth-shattering as with him, but enough to quiet the ache, enough to keep her from burning alive with tension.

Slightly satiated, she collapses back, curling into herself. Her heart still races. Her mind is full of him. It’s so lonely, she thinks, lying in this vast bed alone. She misses him, no matter how much she doesn’t want to admit it. Misses his touch, the way he draws her close, tucks her under his chin, calls her his. His wife, his darling, his everything.

A soft whimper escapes her. She slides her damp fingers into her mouth, tasting herself, tasting the ghost of him. Buries her face in the pillow and wills herself to sleep, hoping that when she opens her eyes again, he’ll be there.

---

“You’re on edge,” Lynette says.

Lumine blinks at her. Tries to laugh; it comes out strangled. “Why do you say that?”

They’re at the training grounds again. Lynette watches from the sidelines as Lumine strikes the dummy over and over. Admittedly, the poor thing looks worse for wear—she won’t deny she’s been taking out some of her frustration on inanimate objects.

But it’s not obvious. Right? At least, she hopes it isn’t. She’s been keeping a perfectly good grip on her emotions. Not even Lyney’s noticed. She thinks. She hopes.

“Something happened between you and Lyney?” Lynette asks, ignoring her attempted deflection.

Lumine winces. “Why do you always assume it’s about Lyney?” she says, aiming for a playful grumble but landing somewhere closer to defensive. Lynette’s eyes narrow, catching the shift in tone. Lumine recalibrates. “I mean—it’s not as though my life revolves around him…”

“That’s true,” Lynette agrees mildly. “But he’s very often the cause of your emotional distress. It’s usually a good first guess.”

Lumine deflates, unable to maintain the pretence under that level gaze. “It’s not that something happened,” she mutters.

“Then?”

She casts Lynette a sidelong glance. “Do you really want to hear about your brother’s marital issues?”

Lynette pauses, blinking, as if the thought only now occurs to her. Then she shrugs. “Might as well. If you need advice on handling Lyney… I don’t suppose there’s anyone else in the household better positioned to help you.”

She isn’t wrong. Lumine worries her lip, then lowers her arm, the training sword dangling loosely at her side. “I worry about his health.”

“That’s sudden,” Lynette says, brow lifting. “And unexpected. Why this concern? He’s the same as ever, isn’t he?”

“He’s been coming home so late recently,” Lumine says quietly. “I don’t think it’s good for him.”

“His late nights are nothing new.”

“I know. But he’s—” She stops, unsure how to phrase it. Because deep down she knows it isn’t about his health. Not entirely.

Unease has been gnawing at her. A few days ago, when she reached for the vial, she noticed it—running low. The potion. Still enough for a few weeks at best, but beyond that—

What then? Should she go back to the market, try to find the same old woman who gave it to her months ago? The thought weighs on her conscience. She’s always known this has to end; the potion isn’t infinite, and she can’t keep spiking his drinks forever. She already feels guilty enough.

But her heart keeps wavering. Keeps wanting more—more of his affection, more of the ease with which he treats her now. She’s terrified of what might happen once she stops. Terrified of how quickly his treatment of her might change.

The uncertainty presses on her like a weight. Combined with his recent distance—intentional or not—it leaves her tense, walking on eggshells with every person in the household, every interaction.

It isn’t that she wants to be paranoid. But she can’t help it. The less potion remains, the more she’s reminded that she doesn’t belong here. Not really. She’s an intruder who clawed her way into the Perinheri estate with blackmail born of desperation, and now, on top of that, she’s been trying to sway Lyney with a substance she barely understands.

She can’t help imagining how the staff would look at her if they knew. How Lynette would look at her. How Lyney himself would.

But she can’t tell Lynette that now, can she?

“It’s not good for him,” she says instead. “Or me.”

“Because you feel lonely?”

She sputters, caught off guard by Lynette’s bluntness. Lynette simply offers a handkerchief when her eyes begin to water.

“Why do you say that?” she manages, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

“Simple deduction,” Lynette says. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together. And now you’re not. Then there’s the way my brother looks at you—like you’re the only thing he sees.” She pauses. “I can’t remember him ever being so… ruled by his emotions. It’s mildly unsettling.”

Lumine doesn’t know what to make of that. “Well.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” Lynette continues. “It’s just strange. I’ve never seen him like this. But he does seem more satisfied. It’s rather nice, having someone else to drag him away from his work when he’s drowning.”

“But he’s back to drowning again.”

“It comes with the seasons.” Lynette shrugs. “Early spring. The start of the new year. That’s when Lyney’s workload picks up again after winter’s lull. I’m sure he doesn’t want to be away from the manor any more than you do.”

Lumine bites her lip. Unease still stirs in her heart. But that isn’t Lynette’s fault. Her discomfort isn’t something anyone else can soothe—not really. “I’ve been thinking lately,” she says.

“About?”

“This.” She gestures at the training grounds, then at herself. “Thinking about striking out. To go and see the world.”

Lynette stares at her for a long moment, as if she’s trying to make sense of the words. Lumine can understand the pause—she can hardly believe she’s said it herself.

“You want to… see the world?” Lynette finally asks.

“Yes. Now that I can at least protect myself a little,” she says, lifting her wooden sword. Lynette’s lessons have paid off, somewhat. Just the other day, she and Desyree had been strolling through a rural stretch of Fontaine, wanting to escape the bustle of the city while Lyney was caught up in work. Two robbers had cornered them, and somehow, Lumine managed to put one in a headlock while Desyree chased off the other. If you asked her now how she did it, she couldn’t say—but it happened all the same, much to Lynette’s pride and her own dazed disbelief.

“That doesn’t mean you’re ready to travel far on your own,” Lynette says. “I don’t think Lyney would agree.”

“I know.”

Violet eyes narrow. “So you’re saying that…?”

“That I don’t want him to know.”

Silence falls. Her heart beats fast, loud in her chest. She twists her fingers in the fabric of her trousers, praying she’s placing her trust in the right person.

For the past week—ever since she realised the potion was running out—she’s been thinking. Turning options over and over in her mind until they fray at the edges. She could keep drugging him, if she somehow found more, but her conscience baulks at the thought. Or she could confess—risk punishment, rejection, exile. Her mother is well enough now, mostly recovered; the mora Lumine has sent should see her through the rest of her treatment. So at least that part of her duty is done.

But the idea of facing Lyney’s reaction—his disappointment, his anger—terrifies her.

And so she’s been leaning towards the coward’s choice. Running away.

She can’t bear the thought of seeing his expression when the truth comes out. Can’t stand to watch the household turn cold around her. Maybe it’s selfish, but she wants to be gone before that can happen. So she’s been preparing, quietly: stashing away mora, packing a small pouch of necessities, researching places far enough that no one would think to look.

There’s one village she’s considered most seriously—a small, forgotten place along the border between Fontaine and Sumeru. Too remote for most travellers. Nestled against a mountain range where the air turns dry and cold. It would do. A place to disappear.

But she can’t get there alone. Not without attracting attention. Not without help from someone who knows the routes, the gates, the people. And the only person in the manor whose networks can rival Lyney’s—whose discretion she can possibly rely on—is Lynette.

“Why?” Lynette finally asks. “Aren’t you happy enough here?”

Lumine feels a pang of guilt. Because on some level, she knows Lynette knows. That when she speaks of striking out, she doesn’t intend to return. Lynette knows her well—perhaps too well. They spend too much time together; their bodies have learnt the same rhythms through training, the same silences. And when Lynette looks at her now, eyes sharp but voice soft, Lumine feels a twinge of something like heartbreak.

“I…” She bites her lip, turning slightly away to gather herself. “It’s not that I’m unhappy.”

“Then it’s loneliness?” Lynette presses—rare for her. “If that’s the reason, I can speak to Lyney. Or we can both talk to him. Don’t run just because he’s buried in his work again.”

Lumine shakes her head. “It’s not about Lyney,” she lies. “Truly. I just want to—I’ve never gone beyond Fontaine before. I grew up in a tiny town. I just want to know what other places are like, that’s all.” She lifts her gaze again, steadier now. “That’s why you went to the northern front, isn’t it? To experience something new.”

Lynette doesn’t answer immediately, but Lumine can tell she’s hit a nerve. They’ve skirted around this before—the suffocation of the manor, the burden of expectation, the quiet yearning for freedom. Lumine knows exactly what strings to pull, and guilt twists through her even as she does it.

Finally, Lynette sighs. “I don’t want to question you,” she says. “And I do want to make you happy, if that’s your wish. How long will you be gone? Where do you plan to go?”

“Not long,” Lumine says—another lie, though it slips out easily now. “And not too far. Maybe just to Sumeru. I’ve always wanted to see the roses there.”

“The ones you had the gardener plant?”

She nods. “I wonder what they look like in their natural habitat.”

Something wistful flickers in Lynette’s eyes. “I wonder too.”

A beat of silence passes before she clears her throat. “I can’t do anything that goes behind Lyney’s back,” she says. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this conversation. But…” She hesitates, then exhales. “Tomorrow, come to the training grounds again. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Lumine opens her mouth, but Lynette’s expression turns sharp, warning.

“I don’t remember what we were talking about,” Lynette says suddenly, louder than before. “But it’s probably nothing important. We should get back to training.”

Lumine understands. She nods, picks up her sword, and resumes her strikes. Lynette barks corrections, her tone steady, neutral.

Lumine’s heart, however, is anything but. It thrums in her chest, wild and terrified, each swing ringing like the toll of a bell. Is she really going to do this?

It doesn’t feel real—not yet. But then she thinks of the near-empty vial hidden in her vanity, of how little time she has left, and she bites her lip.

No time to think. No time to doubt. She can only move forward now. And she won’t look back.

---

She wakes to the weight of his arms around her, his scent drifting through the air—bittersweet and heady, like something she shouldn’t want but does anyway.

She turns her head and stiffens when she realises his eyes are open. He’s watching her. Not asleep at all.

“Good morning,” he whispers when he sees her shift. She can’t quite make out his face in the dimness, but she can hear the smile in his voice.

“What time is it?” Her own voice is thick with sleep.

“A little past five,” he says, his mouth brushing her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

“Not yet,” she says, rolling over to face him fully. She inches closer and he folds her easily into his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy,” he admits, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The simple gesture makes her breath catch. “And I’m sorry if you’ve felt neglected. That wasn’t my intention.”

His voice is quiet, almost unguarded—the closest to sincerity she’s ever heard from him. Or maybe that’s what she chooses to believe.

Impulse seizes her. Before she can think better of it, she asks softly, “Do you really have to keep working?” Her fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt.

He doesn’t answer, only watches her, waiting. Encouraging her to continue. She swallows. “I… I don’t like the manor when you’re not here,” she whispers.

For a beat, there’s only silence. Then he sighs and pulls her closer until her cheek rests against his shoulder. His skin is still cool through his shirt—he must have only just returned. She breathes him in, soothed and unsettled all at once.

“What should I do with you?” he asks, stroking her hair. “You put me in a difficult position, chérie.”

“How so?” she asks, feigning ignorance.

He laughs—low, throaty. Almost seductive. She doesn’t know if he means it that way, but her body reacts regardless, a shiver skating down her spine. “It’s hard to tell my wife no when she asks so earnestly,” he says. “But the king doesn’t take rejection well either.”

“What does he even have you doing?” she presses, frowning. “He’s always summoning you, like he has no other subordinates.”

“Well, he has none as good as me,” Lyney says lightly.

“That’s not the point.”

“Ah, my little dove has grown talons,” he murmurs. She freezes, worried she’s gone too far. But he doesn’t seem upset—if anything, he sounds faintly pleased by her irritation. “You want me to stay with you so badly, mon amour?”

The casual endearment makes her chest feel tight. She hesitates, weighing her options—the right answer, where she plays the patient, understanding wife and tells him to go if he must, versus the selfish one, where she clings to him because there aren’t many days left before the potion runs out and this fragile, liminal dream between them shatters.

His fingers trace a slow line down her spine, idle, waiting. He smells like bittersweet florals and a hint of musk. He presses a kiss to her forehead, and that small act tips her over the edge. She doesn’t want to be kind. She doesn’t want to be selfless.

If she’s already crossed so many lines, what’s one more?

“Stay with me,” she says, clutching his shirt. “I want you to stay, Lyney. I’m so lonely in the manor. I don’t know what to do without you.”

Honest words. Things she never thought she’d say to him. She half wonders if she’s dreaming.

Lyney doesn’t move. For a moment, she wonders if he’s shocked by her confession—maybe even appalled. Those aren’t words befitting of a duchess. She’s supposed to be generous, understanding, patient. He already bears enough burdens; she shouldn’t be one of them.

But then he laughs—soft, breathless—and leans in to kiss her. His mouth is warm, hungry, wanting. She melts into him, meeting him in the dark. It’s all familiar now: the way he holds her like he means to claim her, the small bites along her skin as if to brand her, the way his fingers weave through hers until she can’t tell where she ends and he begins.

Tonight, though, there’s no fear. No hesitation. She wants him, simply and entirely, and once she surrenders to that thought, the rest comes easy.

When he finally pulls away, his breathing is unsteady, ragged, like he’s run a race. She’s half-sprawled across the bed, dizzy with warmth, leaning into his palm when it cups her cheek. His thumb strokes lazily across her skin.

“All right then,” he says. “I’ll clear my schedule. The king and crown prince can survive without me for a few days.”

“Really?” she asks, catching his hand and nuzzling against it. He tenses slightly at the gesture. “I’d hate to cause trouble.”

“Then you should have thought of that before saying something so provocative,” he teases, but there’s no rebuke in his tone.

She smiles and presses a kiss to his palm. “You won’t change your mind?”

He doesn’t answer at once. His thumb drifts lower, tracing the curve of her lip. When she parts her mouth, he leans in and kisses her—brief, sweet, deliberate.

“I wonder what happened to my wife,” he murmurs, his voice low, “to make her so bold with her requests tonight.”

“I just missed you.”

“Then perhaps I should stay away longer,” he says lightly, another kiss ghosting her mouth. “If distance makes you this affectionate, I might grow fond of your loneliness.”

“If you stay away too long,” she says, unthinking, “I’ll die of a broken heart.”

He stills. Then his fingers catch her chin, tilting her face up towards him. She can feel the weight of his gaze even in the dark.

“Is that so?” he breathes. “You’d die of a broken heart?”

“You don’t believe I love you?”

Her drowsiness, her secret resolve to leave, it all makes her reckless. She’s saying things she knows she shouldn’t, but the way he reacts—the faint edge in his voice—makes her want to push. What does she have left to lose?

He lets go of her only to pull her in again, crushing her to his chest until she can barely breathe. “You shouldn’t say such things at night, love,” he says. “You’ll give someone the wrong idea.”

“I mean what I say.”

He laughs—short, but not unkind. “No, you don’t.”

She can feel him watching her still, his gaze sharp enough to cut. The air between them hums, charged. She shivers, uncertain whether it’s from fear or the heat of his closeness. Then he shifts, one leg sliding over hers, pinning her in place.

“Stay like this,” he says softly. “With me. Until morning.”

“I don’t intend to move.”

“Careful with your words, ma chère.” His tone is quiet, velvet and warning all at once. “Don’t start something you can’t stop.”

The edge of danger in his voice fades, replaced by something gentler, quieter. She presses her face to his chest and listens to the steady thrum of his heart until her eyes grow heavy again. And slowly, lulled by his warmth and the rhythm beneath her ear, she lets herself drift back into sleep.

---

Lynette’s contact turns out to be a merchant from Sumeru, in Fontaine for a short vacation. She doesn’t know how Lynette knows him, and he doesn’t volunteer the story, either.

While Lynette keeps Lyney occupied, the merchant visits the manor. He listens as Lumine outlines her intentions, then assures her he can arrange everything: new identity papers, a small house in the border village, safe passage all the way there.

When he asks when she plans to leave, she hesitates. Thinks of the vial in her vanity drawer, how little remains. Counts the days in her head, the nights she has left before it all runs out. Her voice shakes when she finally says, “Two weeks.”

The merchant nods. “That should be plenty of time.”

“I’ll meet you near the side gate,” she says. “Two weeks from now. Likely after midnight, once my husband’s asleep.”

He hesitates. “You won’t be leaving with your husband?”

She doesn’t answer. The silence is enough.

“My apologies,” he says quickly, bowing his head. “It isn’t my place to ask. I only wish to keep a clean conscience. You won’t be doing anything you’ll regret… will you, Duchess?”

Something twists in her chest—guilt, maybe. Or grief. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore. Still, she forces herself to shake her head.

The merchant studies her for a moment longer, uncertainty flickering in his eyes, before he inclines his head and takes his leave.

She watches the door close behind him. Then exhales, slow and shaky, trying not to let the unease catch up to her.

---

For the next few days, as she moves through her secret preparations, Lumine does her best to maintain the façade—that everything is fine, that nothing is changing.

Lyney keeps his word. He always does. He clears his schedule for her, and they spend so much time together it feels almost like compensation.

She lets herself have it—his smiles, his easy affection, the charm that still makes her laugh when she’s not on guard. She drinks him in, storing fragments of him to carry away when she runs. It feels like she’s using him, and guilt settles deep in her bones, blooming each time he touches her or looks at her for a heartbeat too long.

And yet, beneath that guilt, there’s a strange freedom in knowing the end is near. That soon she’ll leave this manor, this name, this life, behind. One day, she might even look back and tell the story—the year she was Duchess Perinheri, the year she loved a man she never should have, the year she couldn’t stop seeing violet eyes every time she closed hers.

He lives in her now—in her blood, her breath, her very marrow. An imprint she can’t escape. And perhaps she doesn’t want to, not completely. It’s all she’ll have left of him.

She counts the days. The hours. Each night she steels herself, listening to the thrum of her heart in the hush after she persuades him—gently—to let her rest. He always agrees, and somehow that makes it worse. It would be easier if he were cruel, if he cared nothing for her mind, only her body.

Sometimes she catches herself wondering if he does love her. Then stops. There’s no point. The potion still runs in his blood, warping truth and desire alike. And even if some part of his affection was genuine, would it survive the moment he learns what she’s done?

She knows she isn’t built for this life. She doesn’t have the ruthlessness of the Perinheris, the instinct to move through danger without flinching. She’s just Lumine Viatrix, a minor noble who overreached.

What had Lyney once told her? That he adored her because she knew her place.

So this is her trying to return to it.

She tells herself she feels nothing—no guilt, no sorrow, only pragmatism. Because she knows the moment she allows emotion to surface, she’ll falter. And if Lyney has taught her anything, it’s this:

Sometimes, hesitation is the quickest way to lose.

---

It isn’t easy, trying to move under the watchful eyes of Lyney and the Perinheri household.

She feels like a thief, slipping through corridors in the dark, hiding little things away piece by piece. Each night, she tucks something new aside for the life she’s building in secret.

She packs light. Practically, she can’t afford to carry much. Emotionally, she knows the more she takes from the manor, the harder it’ll be to let go. Sentimentality will only slow her down. So she keeps to what’s useful—jewellery she can pawn, mora she can spend, one or two light summer dresses. Enough to keep her decently clothed until she finds her footing somewhere new.

Her old room becomes her refuge. No one enters it anymore, not even Lyney. The staff see nothing strange about her things remaining there. It’s the perfect hiding place, and that small privacy feels like her last sanctuary.

But as the day of her departure draws closer, her body betrays her. Her stomach knots tighter each morning; her appetite withers; her heart beats too fast. And of course, Lyney notices. He always does.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asks one evening over dinner, watching as she listlessly pushes food around her plate.

“Just tired,” she says, keeping her eyes down. The scent of roast beef fills the room, rich and inviting, but she can’t bring herself to taste it.

One year of luxury—one year of being spoilt by the finest the Perinheris could offer. Can she really go back to having little? She doesn’t know. But she’ll have to try.

“You’ve been telling me that a lot lately.” His tone is light, but there’s something sharp underneath, something faintly irritated. She looks up and finds him studying her, eyes narrowed as if piecing together a puzzle. Her pulse stumbles.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she murmurs. She forces herself to cut into the beef, to bring a bite to her lips, to chew. It tastes of nothing.

“I wonder why.” He sets down his cutlery; the soft clink of metal on porcelain sounds too loud in the quiet hall. “Do you miss Lynette?”

Lynette had excused herself for a short trip—a hike in the mountains with old friends, she’d said. Lumine suspects the truth: that she’s given herself the perfect alibi for when Lumine disappears.

She’s grateful. And yet, she mourns the loss of her company, too. She’d have liked to thank her properly, to say goodbye. But she knows that would be selfish, asking for one more connection when she’s the one choosing to cut ties.

So she only shakes her head. “It’s good to have a break from her lessons,” she says with a small smile. A careful half-truth. She’s starting to sound like Lyney; the thought unsettles her. “The last class we had, I was sore for three days after.”

Lyney’s lips curl into a familiar smile, one that makes her stomach flip for reasons she doesn’t want to name. “Is that so?” he says. “So you haven’t been aching since she left, I presume.”

Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth. She reaches for her wine, fingers trembling slightly, and takes a gulp for courage. “That doesn’t mean I want to be sore,” she says, aiming for humour. It comes out thin. “I’m not a masochist.”

“My,” he purrs, “I don’t know why you’d say that. It’s not as though I was suggesting you were.”

Not aloud, she thinks. But she knows what he means. What he’s been wanting.

His presence lingers in her mind—the weight of his gaze, the press of his hands, the soft, inexorable way he maps every inch of her. Some nights, she lets things go too far. It happens so easily: a kiss becomes a touch, a touch becomes something that leaves her trembling. She tells herself she’s still in control, but she knows better.

Between the two of them—the drugger and the drugged—someone has to stay sane. She tries to be that person, though her resolve erodes a little more each night. So she compromises: she lets him touch her, kiss her, bring her to shivering completion with his hands and mouth before she pretends to drift into sleep. And he never pushes further. Not yet.

“You’re making fun of me,” she says at last, soft but firm.

“I don’t know what gives you that impression.” He leans closer, smile tender, eyes dark. “I’d never laugh at my darling wife. Anything you want, I’ll grant you. You know that, don’t you?”

The bluntness catches her off guard. Lyney is rarely so direct. She’s spent so long learning to read between his words that this new straightforwardness leaves her unmoored.

She takes another swallow of wine, feeling it burn down her throat and settle warm in her stomach. “Anything?”

“Mm.” His gaze glints like amethyst glass. “Anything.”

“Even if I ask for the sun? The moon and the stars?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll find a way to give them to you,” he says, almost lazily. “You doubt me too much, chérie. I’m insulted that you think there’s something I can’t offer you.”

“I’m sure there is,” she says. “I just have to find it.”

“Why do you like teasing your poor husband so?” he asks, reaching across the table. His fingers curl around hers, guiding her hand to his cheek. Her pulse stutters. He nuzzles into her palm, his smile soft, dangerous. “Here I am, offering my heart on a silver platter, and all you can think about is how to wring me dry.”

The wine is working its magic. It seeps through her veins like slow fire, softening her fear, dulling her better sense.

“Are you really?” she asks, her voice quiet but unsteady. “Offering me your heart.”

He pauses. Looks at her. Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes. Then she startles—a quick breath caught in her throat—as he turns his face into her palm. Something wet drags across her skin, followed by the sharp sting of teeth.

“Asking such strange questions,” he murmurs, lifting his gaze back to hers. “It sounds almost like a test. But what is it you’re trying to draw out of me, hm?”

She shivers under the weight of that stare. He speaks again, softer now, as if to himself. “What answer would please you most? Should I say I want you? That I adore the ground you walk on? Or would you rather I remain just out of reach so you can keep chasing the part of me you can’t quite have?” His tone curls, intimate, dangerous. “Tell me, darling. I find this all very fascinating.”

There’s a spark in the air, fragile and flammable. She’s frozen in place, every muscle tight, her hand still caught in his. His hold is gentle but unyielding—like waves lapping at her ankles just before the tide drags her under.

“You told me once,” she manages, voice trembling, “that you can’t ask something of someone without knowing what they want in return. That’s how you lose.”

She feels him smile against her skin. “You listen well,” he purrs, low and pleased. The sound vibrates through her. “So is that what you’re telling me now? That I’m losing, because I don’t know what you want?”

Her throat is dry. She can’t answer him. She doesn’t even know the answer herself.

“I’m not trying to tell you anything,” she says at last, curling her fingers slightly, trying to pull away. His grip tightens; she can’t move.

“That’s what you say,” he says, smooth as silk. Her stomach twists—half fear, half something shamefully close to desire. Because even when he sounds tender, even when he feigns vulnerability, he never truly is. Lyney is always composed, always deliberate. Even his cracks are crafted.

“But one thing about you hasn’t changed, my love,” he continues. “No matter how careful you are, no matter how you try to hide—it’s all written on your face.”

Then he rises from his chair and steps towards her. She forgets how to breathe. He’s beautiful, and terrible, and she can’t look away.

“This is your chance, mon trésor,” he whispers, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath. “To take what you want. So why don’t you?”

And then he kisses her.

Her eyes flutter shut as he cups the back of her head, deepening the kiss. Somewhere in the distance, she hears the faint rustle of movement—staff quietly exiting the hall—but she can’t focus on anything but him. His mouth. His warmth.

She forces herself to break away, gasping, and he watches her with dark, intent eyes. His tongue runs over his lips, as though trying to taste what’s left of her. “Stubborn,” he says. “As always. You enjoy making me wait, don’t you?”

“It’s not—” she stammers, her voice a fragile thread. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just—”

“Tired,” he finishes for her, smiling. Angelic. “Of course. You tire so easily. It worries me sometimes. One day you might fall apart right in front of me, and what would I do then?”

She can’t tell if he means it. His tone is too even, too smooth to be sincere.

“You’re exaggerating,” she says weakly.

“You think so?” He’s still leaning over her, close enough that she can feel the heat of him. “Then don’t give me reason to exaggerate, love.”

His hand lifts, the back of his fingers brushing beneath her eye before tracing to her ear. “You should know your husband by now, shouldn’t you?” he asks. Then, quieter: “I’ll always give you what you want—but what will you give me in return?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he steps back, granting her space. She resists the urge to sag into her chair. The air feels colder in his absence, as though he’s taken the warmth with him.

“Sweet girl,” he says, voice almost tender. “You’re tipsy. I’ll help you back to our room.”

She doesn’t protest as he lifts her from the chair, carries her up the stairs, and into the darkened room. He undresses her with practised care, his touch deft, patient, gentle. The nightdress slides over her head, and before she can think, his hands are on her knees, warm and steady, parting them as he kneels between her thighs.

He doesn’t use anything but his mouth.

And she sleeps too well that night.

---

The day finally comes.

The last dose of potion slipped into his drink the night before. Her last day with the staff. Her last day with him.

She spends it walking the estate—her estate, for a little while longer—speaking with the people she’s come to know, the ones whose faces have softened over the past year when they greet her as “Your Grace”. Everywhere she turns, she sees faint traces of herself: the flowers she chose for the garden, the new art on the walls, the curtains she had replaced. Small, tangible reminders that she was here once. That her presence, however brief, left a mark.

In the afternoon, she and Desyree go to the market, the same one where all of this began. They wander the narrow aisles between tents, admiring the trinkets, fabrics and spices. Desyree’s laughter rings bright, and Lumine lets herself smile too, even knowing this is goodbye. She memorises everything—the smell of roasting nuts, the chatter of merchants, the warmth of sunlight through gauze canopies—hoping it will linger long after she’s gone.

The guilt sits heavy in her chest. Bitter, familiar. But she matches Desyree’s enthusiasm all the same, pretending this is just another outing between mistress and maid.

Later, she visits Changfeng’s workshop. She tells herself it’s to check on his progress, to be sure he’ll continue to thrive after she’s gone, but she knows it’s also sentiment. A selfish wish to see something steady, something good, before she leaves it all behind.

He brightens when she enters, hands dusted with clay. “Your Grace!” he exclaims, smiling. “Forgive the mess—I’m working on an order for His Grace.”

“For Lyney?” she asks, surprised.

“Yes, one of his clients wanted a set of unique pieces,” he explains, turning back to the half-formed porcelain before him. “The specifications are unusual, but I’ve enjoyed the challenge. It’s been a while since I’ve had to think this hard about design.”

“I hope it’s not giving you too much trouble,” she says.

“Oh, not at all. Keeps me sharp.” He wipes his hands on his apron, grinning. “Besides, I have good workers now. I wouldn’t be here without His Grace’s support.”

Lumine nods, glancing around the busy workshop. Potters are shaping clay on spinning wheels; the kiln glows in the corner, heat shimmering like a living thing.

Changfeng’s expression softens. “Actually, Your Grace—I made something for you and His Grace recently. A small token of thanks.”

He leads her to a back room lined with shelves. Finished works gleam under the light. From one of the higher shelves, he carefully retrieves a tea set.

Her breath catches. The porcelain is delicate and faintly luminous, painted with clouds and a pale moon surrounded by violet Sumeru roses.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, tracing the rim of a cup with her fingertips. The glaze glimmers in the sunlight, white fading to gold beneath the paint. “You made this yourself?”

“Yes,” he says, pleased. “I was experimenting with new techniques. A painter I met at the Court of Fontaine showed me how to mix shimmer into pigment—it took a few tries to make it adhere to porcelain, but I think it turned out well. Watch.”

He sets the cup on a table and pours hot water from a kettle. She gasps as the colour shifts before her eyes—the porcelain deepens from white to midnight blue, the painted moon glowing bright against the dark.

“That’s incredible,” she says, awe threading through her voice. “Truly, Changfeng, you’re a genius.”

He chuckles, flustered. “You’re too kind, Your Grace. It’s thanks to that painter as well—Mamere, her name was. She refused any payment, only asked that I pass along spare parts if I had them.”

Lumine smiles faintly. “A generous artist, then.” She sets the cup down carefully. “Thank you, Changfeng. It’s a lovely gift.”

He seems to read the question in her eyes before she asks. “Ah, but I’ll hold onto it a little longer, if you don’t mind,” he says. “I’d like to add a few finishing touches. I’ll deliver it to the manor myself next week.”

Her heart sinks. Next week. She won’t be there to receive it.

But she forces her lips into a smile. “Then I look forward to using it,” she says.

“I hope it meets your expectations,” he replies warmly.

She lingers a while longer, chatting about his family and future commissions, before finally taking her leave with Desyree.

“He’s come a long way since the first time we met him,” Desyree says as they walk back towards the carriage.

Lumine nods, but her thoughts drift elsewhere. The sun is already sinking beyond the rooftops, washing the sky in violet and gold.

Twilight.

Not much longer now.

---

Lyney returns early that evening—after dinner, just as she’s stepping out of the bath.

When she emerges, hair damp and skin still flushed from the heat, he’s already there: seated behind his desk, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, a report in hand. He looks up when she appears. Smiles. Beckons her closer with one hand before turning his eyes back to the document.

She hesitates only a moment before obeying. When she’s near enough, he tugs her gently onto his lap. She settles there, curled against him, gaze drawn to the papers spread across his desk.

The words are in a language she can’t read. “What’s this?” she asks, tilting her head back to look at him.

“Nothing important,” he murmurs, distracted. “A report from one of my agents overseas. Routine work.”

He sets the document aside, eyes flicking to her. “What did you do today?”

She tells him—about walking the estate, about visiting Changfeng’s workshop—and he listens with far more attentiveness than he gave his report. His hands move constantly, idly stroking through her hair, brushing her arms, resting on her hip. The touches are light, almost absentminded, but never without purpose.

“Oh, so he’s still puzzling over that order?” Lyney hums when she mentions Changfeng. “I told him he didn’t need to fulfil that client’s specifications to the letter. Even I find them absurd.”

“I think he enjoys the challenge,” she says softly.

“Perhaps. I’ll never quite understand what drives artisans forward.” He laughs, that familiar, dulcet sound that always makes her chest tighten. “But if he’s happy, that means you’re happy too, doesn’t it?”

Her pulse skips. She ducks her head, staring at the desk. “That’s an odd way to put it,” she mumbles.

“Only if you read too much into it,” he replies.

His hand glides up her hip, fingers tightening at her waist. Her breath catches.

“No snack tonight?” he asks, tone unreadable—curious, perhaps, but tinged with something heavier.

She swallows hard. The deflection she’d rehearsed dies on her tongue. She can only look at him, wide-eyed, her mind suddenly blank.

“Darling?” he prompts, head tilting slightly.

She’s been thinking about this moment for days. Agonising over it, weighing whether what she’s about to do is cruel or cowardly. Whether it makes her greedy, selfish, irredeemable. Whether it’s one more sin to add to the list.

But the dreams never stop. His scent lingers on her skin long after he’s gone. His warmth burns in her memory. His voice—low, velvet, inescapable—undoes her.

That question she’s been circling for weeks—Would it really be so terrible to fall?—this, she thinks, is the night she’ll find her answer.

She slips off his lap. He lets her go, though his gaze follows her, sharp with curiosity. She takes a few steps back until the desk separates them. Her heart hammers in her throat.

“I have a proposition for you,” she says.

Lyney’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Another one?” His voice dips, soft, entertained. “Are you planning to blackmail me again, ma douce?”

She shakes her head. Then, before she can second-guess herself, she reaches for the straps of her nightdress. His amusement fades instantly, replaced by stillness. Focus.

The straps slide down her arms. The fabric falls with a whisper, pooling around her feet.

“Rather than a snack,” she says quietly, “why don’t I offer you myself instead?”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. He just stares at her. She wonders—panicked, mortified—if she’s misread everything after all.

Then he’s on his feet. Crossing the distance in an instant. His arms wrap around her waist and pull her in, and before she can draw breath, his mouth is on hers.

The kiss is fierce, consuming.

Gone is the measured tenderness of the past few nights—the careful restraint, the featherlight touches. This is raw, unrestrained hunger. He kisses her like he means to devour her, to swallow her whole. And in some fevered corner of her mind, she thinks she might let him.

He groans against her lips, the sound vibrating through her bones. She feels the hard press of him against her hip, the fine fabric of his trousers doing nothing to hide the shape of his desire. Her hands find his shoulders, clinging—and then she forces herself to pull away, breathless, needing space to think, to speak.

He blinks at her, chest rising and falling, pupils blown wide.

“I want you,” she whispers. The words tremble out of her, raw and honest. “I want you, Lyney. But I need to ask a favour first.”

His voice roughens. “What favour?”

She meets his gaze and holds it, even as her pulse thrums in her throat. Looking at him feels like staring directly at the sun, so brilliant it blinds her.

“I want to…” Her voice falters as she tries to find the words. The request sounds foolish even in her head, and embarrassment clogs her chest. But he’s waiting—watching her with that steady, patient interest that feels heavier than silence—and she forces herself to continue.

“I want to be the one who sets the pace,” she says at last.

There’s a pause. A long one. Then Lyney smiles—slow, wicked, knowing. “You want to set the pace?” he echoes. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want. But tell me, what does that mean, exactly?”

Heat rises in her cheeks. She finds herself staring not at his eyes but at his mouth. “I’ll… I’ll be the one on top,” she says. It was meant to sound confident; instead, it comes out barely above a whisper. “I’ll decide what we do. And I don’t want you to touch me. Not unless I say you can.”

She half-expects him to argue, to tease, to negotiate. But Lyney only inclines his head, interest glimmering in his eyes. “If that’s all my wife wants,” he purrs, “then who am I to refuse her?”

Before she can reply, he begins to undress.

Her breath catches as he unbuttons his shirt, slips it off, and lets it fall soundlessly to the floor. Then his belt, his trousers—each motion efficient, purposeful. He makes no show of it, no deliberate seduction, yet the ease of his movements—the quiet confidence of a man utterly unashamed—unravels her more than any performance could.

When he’s bare, she can’t help but stare. She hadn’t truly seen him before, not like this. In the cabin, there had been too much heat, too much urgency. Now there’s space, light, the luxury of sight. And she can hardly believe that she once took that inside her. That she’s here again, wanting to do it once more.

Lyney says nothing. He simply turns and reclines on the bed, back resting against the carved headboard, gaze fixed on her. The picture of composure—graceful, unhurried, devastating.

“Are you coming?” he asks, voice a silken drawl. “Or is this part of your request, to leave me waiting for your mercy?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Part of her had been certain he would refuse, that she’d never have to act on this plan. Now that he’s agreed, the reality of it knocks the breath from her.

Still, she crosses to the bed. His eyes follow her every step, steady, unreadable. When she hesitates at the edge of the mattress, he stays perfectly still, just as he promised. Waiting.

She places one knee on the bed, then the other, easing her weight beside him. The mattress dips beneath her. He tilts his head, patient. “What do you want to do to me, love?” he murmurs.

A good question. Her gaze roams over him. He’s beautiful, almost unreal in his perfection. An angel, if she didn’t already know the devil that hides beneath his charm.

“I want to touch you,” she says.

“Then do whatever you want,” he says softly.

She reaches out, hands trembling, and brushes her palms over his chest. His skin is warm, smooth, alive beneath her fingers. She watches his reaction—the slight flutter of his eyelids, the soft parting of his lips—as her touch drifts down his sternum, over the subtle curve of muscle, tracing the line to his navel.

He’s lean rather than broad, graceful strength beneath her hands. When her fingers graze lower, just above his stomach, his breath leaves him in a short, startled exhale. She looks up. For a heartbeat, she thinks she sees surprise flash in his eyes—as if even he hadn’t expected his own reaction—but it fades quickly into that easy, unfathomable smile.

She keeps her hands to his torso, tracing him with careful curiosity. She’s too nervous to go further, too aware of her own inexperience.

“You’re adorable,” he says at last, voice rich with quiet enjoyment. “So bold, claiming you’ll set the pace—and yet you can’t even look me in the eye without blushing.”

She bites her lip, embarrassed. “I didn’t say you could talk.”

“Oh?” His tone lilts with laughter. “You’re right. I’ll keep quiet, then.”

And he does.

He stays silent as she explores him—her fingers moving down his chest, across his thighs, up again to the sharp angles of his hips. Once or twice, he flinches, a brief twitch of muscle betraying sensation, but his expression remains poised, serene.

Her gaze keeps flicking lower, towards the one part of him she hasn’t dared touch. It’s impossible not to look. Impossible to ignore. Her throat tightens.

“Does it hurt?” she asks at last.

He hums, a quiet, thoughtful sound. “I’m used to it.”

“Why?”

His lips curve, that familiar shadow of amusement curling through his tone. “Because I’m a man of flesh and blood, mon amour. You think this is the first time I’ve had to bear it? Every night you lie against me, soft and warm, and stop just before I can have you—did you imagine I felt nothing?”

The words land like a touch—half-teasing, half-true—and the way he says soft and warm makes her pulse skip, her breath stutter. He knows exactly how much she doesn’t know, and he delights in every second of it.

Something in his tone unsettles her, though—too calm, too knowing, so she decides, almost out of defiance, to startle him into silence.

Her gaze drops, deliberately, between his legs. Then her hand follows. She wraps her fingers around him.

Lyney goes perfectly still.

He’s warm beneath her touch. Warm and velvet, but heavy too, the solid weight of him pulsing faintly against her skin. Her courage wavers, but she’s already crossed the line, and she refuses to retreat now—not after asking to take control. She draws a steadying breath and glances up.

He’s watching her. His expression has shifted—serious now, stripped of humour. He looks at her the way a hawk looks at a mouse. She swallows. She has no idea what she’s doing.

Still, he’d reacted when she touched him, so…

She braces herself and strokes once, slow and uncertain. Lyney inhales sharply—a small sound, but unmistakable. Emboldened, she does it again, a little firmer, a little faster.

“Slower, chérie,” he rasps, voice rougher than she’s ever heard it. “No need to rush.”

She adjusts, slows her rhythm, and his head tips back against the headboard. His eyes fall shut. His lips part on a quiet breath. For once, he looks unguarded—bare, open, almost human.

It feels strange, seeing him like this. Nice, even. Something real flickers there, in the spaces between the masks he wears.

Her thumb drifts across the tip of him, catching a bead of slickness. She spreads it down his length, and the glide becomes easier, smoother. He hisses, and something inside her answers—a sharp pulse low in her belly, the ache of emptiness.

Her gaze drifts to his mouth again, parted and glistening, and she wonders—just wonders—

She bends her head. Exhales softly over him.

Lyney jolts, his whole body tightening. “What are you doing, my sweet?” he asks, his voice a dark purr. The look he gives her makes her stomach flip—like he wants to pull her in, devour her whole.

She meets his gaze, steady this time. “I want to taste you,” she whispers, and before she can think twice, she takes him into her mouth.

The sound he makes—half gasp, half moan—shudders through her. She closes her eyes and focuses on him: his taste, his heat, the weight of him against her tongue. He’s slightly salty, unfamiliar. It takes effort to fit him between her lips, to breathe around him, but she persists, inch by inch, until the tip of him brushes the back of her throat.

He’s larger than she remembers. She doesn’t know how she ever took him before.

She draws back, then takes him again, her tongue tracing his length while her hand covers what her mouth can’t reach. He hisses, low and harsh, and that sound—raw, involuntary—spurs her on. Satisfaction blooms inside her at the thought that she can do this to him, that she can make him feel.

Her jaw aches. Her lips are sore. But the little noises he makes, the quiet words of praise—“good girl”, “just like that”—keep her going. They make her want to please him, to give him this one last thing. It feels like something she can offer in return for everything else she’s taken.

When she finally draws back, licking softly at the head of him, Lyney exhales her name like a prayer. “Lumine, darling,” he breathes, voice rough. “That’s quite enough.”

She blinks, surprised, disappointed. “You didn’t like it?”

He lets out a quiet, frayed laugh. “It’s not that.” His eyes are near-black now, pupils blown wide, his lips red and bitten. “It’s just… if I could make one request, I’d rather finish inside you than in your mouth.”

The bluntness of it sends a shiver through her.

For a fleeting moment, she considers teasing him—returning to her mouth just to make him beg—but the thought dissolves under the heat of her own want. Because she wants that too. Has wanted it for so long.

So she obeys.

She shifts across his lap, rising to her knees, hovering above him. One hand braces against his shoulder; the other reaches back to guide him into place. He’s slick from her mouth, and she’s wet—too wet—and when the head of him slides against her entrance, she nearly gasps from the contact alone.

The tip of him presses in, just a little, and pleasure sparks through her like lightning—sharp, electric, undeniable.

“Mm.” Lyney’s voice is low, unsteady, his skin flushed faintly pink, eyes half-lidded as he tilts his head back to look at her. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs. “So delicate. But you can take me, can’t you? Use me for your pleasure. Fall apart on my lap, over and over, until you can’t breathe without me.”

Filth again, so shameless it makes her face burn.

“If you keep running your mouth like that,” she says, breathless, “I’ll get off right now.”

His smile sharpens. “I’ll be good,” he promises. “I’ll be quiet.”

She leans in, close enough that her lips hover just shy of his. He’s watching her, intent. “Keep your hands on the duvet,” she says. “Don’t touch me.”

A lie. She wants him to touch her, wants it so badly her skin aches with it, but she clings to the illusion of control. For once, she has power; for once, what she says matters. And the headiness of it—the sight of him holding still, waiting—makes her giddy.

Lyney obeys without a word, his hands fisting in the sheets.

She kisses him, slow, lingering, and he moans into her mouth, a sound that curls low in her stomach and makes her tighten around nothing.

Impatient, she pulls back and lowers herself onto him. The tip of him slips further inside, and Lyney exhales. She bites her lip, holding his gaze, then sinks fully, taking as much of him in as her body allows.

Lyney goes rigid. She leans forward, palms splayed across his chest, trying to breathe through the shock of it. He’s so much—her dreams could never have recreated this, the solid heat of him stretching her open, filling every inch of her. It’s overwhelming, dizzying, too real.

But once the ache settles, she feels it—fullness, deep and heavy, turning emptiness into something that’s finally hers.

“Lyney,” she breathes, her voice trembling.

“You feel so good, love,” he answers, sounding dazed, his voice breaking into a low groan. “So tight. Like you’re made for me.” His head tips back, eyes dark and glassy. “Made for me alone.”

His possessiveness makes her whimper, and he inhales sharply as she clenches around him.

“You like me like this, don’t you?” he asks, voice roughened with strain. “Under you, doing nothing but listening. Do you like using your husband as your toy—using me to make yourself come?”

“Yes,” she gasps, her hips moving instinctively, grinding down, searching for friction. Gravity pulls her lower, drawing him deeper still. “Ah—Lyney, you’re filling me up. I can’t think—”

“I am, aren’t I?” he breathes, a laugh spilling from him. “Tell me, love. Tell me it feels better than anything you’ve ever known.”

“Never—” The word breaks into a sob. She rocks against him, losing rhythm, losing sense. Every time she moves, pleasure sparks and folds in on itself, dragging her higher. “It feels so good now, Lyney—”

And it does. Every nerve is alight, every breath caught on a knife’s edge. Even though he’s not fully inside her yet, she’s already unravelling, undone by his scent, his eyes, his voice murmuring soft things she can’t hold onto.

She remembers the phantom of his touch, the way he haunts her dreams, the velvet rasp of his breath in her ear, and every thought of him drives her to move faster, harder, desperate for more. She rises, sinks, rises again, taking him deeper each time, as though she might die if she can’t feel him inside her right now.

She hears him murmur something—soft, panting, strained. Feels good, but too slow, maybe—and then, without warning, Lyney thrusts up hard into her.

She cries out, her hands scrambling against his shoulders. “N-Not supposed to—touch—” she gasps, clinging, her mind barely stringing the words together.

“Not touching,” Lyney rasps, voice low and wrecked. “Just taking you. Like this.”

He moves again, and she breaks, head falling back, breath caught as he slides in to the hilt, hips flush against hers. The sensation floods her—too full, too deep, too much—and by the time his fingers find her chin and tilt her face up for a kiss, she’s already gone.

He kisses her until her lungs burn, until all she can taste is him. He abandons all pretence of letting her lead, gripping her waist instead, guiding her to move while he thrusts up from beneath, every motion stealing another sound from her throat. His mouth drags down her neck, sucking bruises into her skin, marking her as he always does, his claim written in heat and teeth.

A flicker of thought cuts through the haze—it isn’t fair. He was supposed to let her take charge. But the protest dies before it can form, drowned out by the rhythm of his hips, the low praise spilling from his mouth, the way pleasure dissolves every coherent thought she’s ever had.

She falls apart fast—too fast. The rush takes her whole, and she’s crying his name before she even realises she’s coming, trembling as he groans and pulls her down to meet him.

Then, in one breathless motion, he rolls them over. She lands beneath him, pliant and shaking, and he drives into her again—deeper this time, rougher. Whatever restraint he had left vanishes.

He takes her to pieces with those clever hands, with the scrape of his teeth along her throat, with the slow, relentless rhythm of his body against hers. She sobs, writhes, pleads for mercy, but he doesn’t stop—not until she’s trembling again, not until he buries himself deep and stills, his teeth sinking into her skin.

Silence follows, heavy, trembling.

Her pulse throbs in her ears. His kisses trail across her cheeks, catching the tears she hadn’t realised were falling. Her body aches, marked and claimed, and when he shifts slightly, pressing against her clit, she can’t hold back the sound that spills from her lips—a needy, broken moan.

“Does my darling wife want another round?” Lyney murmurs against her ear, his tone silken, coaxing.

“N-Not now,” Lumine manages, voice fragile as glass. “Lyney…”

He shudders when she says his name, presses his lips to her jaw. “Don’t say it like that, sweet,” he breathes. “You’ll make me forget my good intentions.”

She trembles when he kisses her again, her fingers digging into his back. He moves inside her, slow, deliberate. He’s already hard again.

“Lyney,” she says again, no louder than a whisper.

“One more time?” he asks—soft, sweet, too sweet.

She hesitates. Thinks of what tomorrow brings—how this is the last time, the last night, the last breath they’ll share like this. The thought makes her chest ache. She doesn’t want this to end.

“One more time,” she agrees.

He kisses her before she can say anything else. And then there are no more words.

---

When she wakes, it’s just past midnight. Lyney lies beside her, one arm draped carelessly over her waist.

She moves slowly, careful not to wake him. Slips out from beneath the sheets. In the bathroom, she cleans herself up, rinsing away the traces of him—the stickiness clinging to her skin, between her thighs, the scent that still lingers faintly in the air.

When she’s done, she dresses quickly and leaves the room in silence.

Her packed suitcase waits where she left it, tucked against the wall of her old bedroom. She takes it and heads for the side door. The manor is quiet at this hour—only the faint creak of old wood and the hum of the night air. Out in the garden, she follows the narrow passage Aurele once showed her—not exactly a secret, but quiet enough, forgotten enough, that no one will think to check it.

At the end of the path, the merchant is already waiting. His breath fogs faintly in the cool air, and beside him stands a carriage drawn by two horses.

She approaches, hands him the pouch of mora they agreed upon. He accepts it with a nod, then offers her a sealed envelope.

“The carriage will take you to the border village,” he says. “But it’s a remote place, too rough for wheels past a certain point. The coachman will leave you at a transfer station; from there, you’ll have a sumpter beast waiting.”

Lumine nods. “Thank you. For everything.”

“No need,” the merchant replies. “I owe Lady Lynette a favour. Consider it repaid.”

She hesitates, tempted to ask what kind of favour, what debt, but decides against it. She’s leaving this life behind. Curiosity has no place where she’s going.

Instead, she asks, “And this envelope?”

“Your new papers,” the man says. “You’ll need them to cross the border.”

He offers his hand, steadying her as she climbs into the carriage. The coachman, silent and stone-faced beneath his dark coat, snaps the reins once she’s seated.

“I wish you safe travels, Duchess,” the merchant calls.

She almost corrects him, but stops herself. Simply nods, raises a hand in farewell, and lets the distance swallow him as the carriage begins to roll.

Inside, she settles back against the velvet seat. Her heart beats too fast. The suitcase at her feet bumps lightly against her legs with every turn of the wheels.

She opens the envelope. Inside are neatly folded papers: a new name, a small land deed for property in the border village, a note listing some contacts she can reach out to for help when she arrives at her destination. Enough to start again. Enough to survive.

Then something slips free—a smaller note, caught between the documents. She picks it up, squinting under the pale wash of moonlight.

Good luck, it says. The handwriting is elegant, unmistakably refined. It’s signed only with two initials: M.S.

It takes her a moment to place them. When she does, her breath catches.

She closes her hand around the note, crushing it into her palm before tucking it back into the envelope.

It doesn’t matter who else helped. She’s on her way now. The plan worked. All that’s left is to keep moving forward—past the gates, past the gardens, past the name that isn’t hers anymore.

She is not Duchess Perinheri. She is Lumine Viatrix again. And for now, she will take every scrap of help the world gives her.

Chapter 14

She wakes to sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains and the soft trill of birds outside her windowsill.

Lumine—Ying, as the villagers know her now—stretches, yawning as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. The clock on the far wall reads just past ten. Late, but still early enough to make the morning market and gather ingredients for an early lunch.

She’s starting to get used to life here. It’s been a little over two months since she fled the Perinheri manor. The first few weeks were difficult, but she’s fallen into a rhythm—slow, steady, ordinary.

It took three days to reach the border village: two by carriage, with quick stops for food and the chance to pawn a few pieces of jewellery for extra mora, and one more through the mountains on the back of a stubborn sumpter beast motivated only by the promise of fruit.

By the time she arrived, dusk had settled. The village head met her at the edge of town, showed her the small house deeded in her name, the market square, the well, and the pasture where her rented beast could rest. No one ever came to claim it, so it became hers by default. She doesn’t mind. It’s gentle company, and she’s grown fond of it—though she still hasn’t decided on a name.

She’s tying her hair up when a knock sounds at the door. Quickly, she smooths her skirt and opens it.

“Shani?” Lumine blinks. “You’re up early.”

Her neighbour snorts. “I don’t sleep in every day.”

“The only mornings I’ve seen you awake before noon are when your mother drags you to the market,” Lumine teases.

Shani waves a dismissive hand. “That’s not why I’m here. Do you have any zaytun peaches?”

“Zaytun peaches?” Lumine glances at her kitchen counter, where a basket of fruit rests. “I don’t think so. Why? I thought you hated them.”

“They’re not for me.” Shani leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the blood moon.”

Lumine blinks. “And that means…?”

“Oh, right, you wouldn’t know.” Shani lowers her voice. “The blood moon is a time of change—and not always good change. To keep away misfortune, people make offerings to the old desert gods. Zaytun peaches are the favourite, supposedly. My mother swears by it. So does half the village. The vendors have all sold out, and she’s halfway to losing her mind.”

“I see.” Lumine shakes her head. “I don’t have any, but maybe we could find some outside the village? Does it have to be zaytun peaches?”

“Too risky to travel right now,” Shani says, shrugging. “And yes—it has to be peaches. The gods like their calming scent. My mother won’t settle for anything else. I’ll ask around some more. Thanks anyway!”

With a wave, she’s gone.

Lumine returns to the kitchen, frowning. She tips the fruit basket onto the counter and sorts through its contents: sunsettias, harra fruit, bulle fruit, henna berries—a few mysterious apples—but no peaches.

Then, buried at the bottom, she finds three.

She raises an eyebrow, lifts one, and rolls it in her palm. The skin is taut, flushed pink, the scent light and sweet. When she presses her thumb against the flesh, it yields softly.

Hesitating, she takes a small bite.

Juice floods her mouth—sweet, fragrant—and for an instant she almost enjoys it. Then the flavour curdles on her tongue, cloying, unbearable. Her stomach twists. She spits out the mouthful and takes a sip of water, gagging faintly.

Her appetite has been unreliable ever since she came here. Maybe it’s the altitude; maybe the solitude. Some days she feels like her body isn’t quite her own anymore. It’s frustrating, but perhaps this is the price of what she’s done—her punishment for cowardice.

She mourns it anyway. Sweetness turns her stomach now, as do most fruits and desserts. Only savoury things stay down—soups, grains, salted meat—or bland meals so plain they might as well be nothing.

It makes her miserable. But it’s still better than hunger.

She looks down at the basket, at all the bright fruit she can no longer enjoy. The remaining two zaytun peaches gleam under the sunlight, their skins almost luminous. She picks one up, turning it from hand to hand.

Maybe she’ll give it to Shani. She doesn’t have any use for it anymore.

---

“Ying!”

She turns at the sound of her name. One of the village elders—Uncle Khalil—stands a few paces away, waving with a smile. Lumine tightens her shawl around her shoulders and walks over.

“Yes, Uncle Khalil?”

“I wanted to ask how you’ve been settling in,” he says. “I heard you haven’t been eating well.”

“Oh.” She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “It’s nothing serious. I just need more time to get used to the mountain air.”

Khalil nods, though a faint furrow cuts across his brow. “It does take some getting used to. When I first moved here from Sumeru, I spent weeks fighting nausea before my stomach finally settled.”

He lifts a small basket wrapped in a bright cloth. “Here—take this. It helped me when I first arrived, twenty years ago. Might help you too.”

She accepts it, peeking under the fabric. Two glass jars rest inside, filled with a soft brown powder that glints faintly in the sunlight. “What is it?”

“Spice,” he says. “Ground from harra fruit. It sharpens the appetite, settles the stomach. Takes some adjusting for someone raised on Fontaine cooking, but it’ll keep you eating.”

Her throat tightens with gratitude. “Thank you, Uncle Khalil.”

He waves a hand. “No need. Shani mentioned you hadn’t been well and asked if I had any advice. I remembered this.” He chuckles. “My wife used to heap spoonfuls of it over every meal when we first moved here. Now I can’t eat without it—everything else tastes bland.”

“That sounds dangerous for my palate,” she jokes.

“Perhaps,” Khalil says with a grin. “But a better poison than starvation, eh?”

They share a small laugh before she ventures, “Uncle Khalil, do you know anything about zaytun peaches? I keep hearing about them today.”

“Oh, that.” He nods. “Some villagers believe offering zaytun peaches to the gods on the night of a blood moon calms their anger and wards off misfortune for another year.”

“What happens if you don’t?”

He purses his lips. “No one knows. No one wants to find out. Even my wife makes her offering without fail. It’s tradition.” His gaze drifts skywards. “I doubt the old gods still watch us, truth be told. People say they faded into the desert long ago.”

“Well,” Lumine murmurs, adjusting the cloth over her basket, “better to be safe than sorry. How do you make the offering?”

“Simple enough. Toss the peach into a fire.”

“That’s all?”

He nods. “We’re not particular about ceremony here. Quick and practical suits us fine.” He pauses. “Do you have any on hand?”

“Two,” she says. “Will that do?”

“Plenty. Throw one into the hearth during the blood moon and make a wish.” His eyes glint with humour. “Fontainians have something similar, don’t they? The wishing fountain?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “The Fountain of Lucine. You toss in a coin, make a wish, and if the archon’s in a generous mood, she might listen.”

As the words leave her, a memory rises—Lyney’s voice beside her, the coin pressed into her palm, her whispered wish that their siblings return safely from the northern front. The wistfulness in his gaze when she’d opened her eyes—

Heat rushes to her face. She forces the thought away. Not now.

“Then you already understand,” Khalil says, smiling. “All rituals are the same at heart—prayers for peace, for prosperity, for things to stay as they are.”

For reasons she can’t name, a chill crawls down her spine. Her fingers tighten around the basket. “You’ll take part too, I suppose?”

“Even if I didn’t want to,” he chuckles, “my wife would make sure I did.”

“Do you always wish for the same thing?”

“Yes.” His eyes gleam suddenly sharp, perceptive. “That life will continue as it is. And you, Ying? What do you wish for?”

She startles. “N-Nothing. Why do you ask?”

He studies her for a moment, then speaks gently. “Because everyone who comes to this village is running from something. You look the same—like someone trying to escape her past.”

Her throat goes dry. She can’t find a reply.

Khalil softens, his smile returning. “Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry. Only—be careful what you wish for, young one. It might not be what’s best for you.”

She swallows. “Right.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” he says. “Were you headed for the market? Go now, before the vendors close for the midday rest.”

“Yes. I wanted to pick up a few things for lunch.”

He nods. “Safe travels, then.”

She waves and walks on.

Her heart beats too fast, the memory still flickering behind her eyes. She doesn’t want to think. Doesn’t want to remember.

But his voice lingers anyway, brushing her ear like a ghost she can’t shake. Her knuckles whiten around the basket. Overhead, the sun blazes, a blinding white-gold disc against the azure sky.

Here, in this quiet border village where the air runs thin and questions are few, she can pretend to be someone else. And so long as she keeps pretending, she doesn’t have to face the past she left behind.

---

Lumine stares into the flickering fire, her thoughts drifting like smoke.

After visiting the market, she’d gone to the pasture to feed her sumpter beast a few sunsettias, then traded one of her zaytun peaches to Shani for a plate of Aaru mixed rice—her dinner for later. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, as most days here do. No one expects anything of her, and she prefers it that way. Here, she’s anonymous. Here, she answers to no one.

Now she sits cross-legged before the hearth, hands resting lightly on her knees. The fire crackles softly. Outside, the night wind whistles through the shutters. She wonders when the blood moon will rise—no one seems to know the exact day, only that it’s close.

She always ends up thinking when she’s alone, no matter how hard she tries not to. Thoughts slip through the quiet. Memories seep in—his voice, soft and sweet; the warmth of his hands; the impossible violet of his eyes.

Sumeru roses grow wild along the village paths, and each time she passes one, she thinks of him. She’s been trying to break that habit. It hasn’t worked.

Restless, she rises and goes to her bookshelf. Her fingers trail across worn spines until they pause on a collection of old Sumeru folktales. That should be distraction enough. She settles into the chair by the fire, tucks her legs beneath her, and begins to read.

She’s barely reached the first page when a knock sounds at the door.

Lumine freezes. The villagers rarely visit after sunset. Perhaps she imagined it—

Another knock. Louder this time.

Caution prickles at her skin, but curiosity wins. She sets the book aside and moves to the door.

When she opens it, a young woman stands on the threshold. Her face is pale, drawn tight; her fingers clutch a thin shawl. “Help me,” the stranger whispers. “Please.”

Lumine’s instinct is immediate. “What’s wrong?”

The woman’s lips tremble. “I-I’m tired,” she says, voice thready as paper. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

Pity softens Lumine’s hesitation. She glances towards the counter, where the basket of fruit still sits untouched. She won’t be eating any of it anyway.

“Come in,” she says.

The woman steps inside and sinks before the fire with a low sigh. Lumine brings the basket over, picks a sunsettia, and sets it beside her guest. “Here. Eat this.”

The woman accepts it with a small murmur of thanks, eyes fixed on the flames.

“What’s your name?” Lumine asks.

“Eloise.”

The name makes her pause. “You’re from Fontaine?”

A nod. Something cold stirs in Lumine’s stomach. “That’s quite far from here,” she says gently. “How did you manage the journey?”

“I had help,” Eloise says, nibbling delicately at the fruit. “I… needed to leave. The city.”

“Why?”

Silence. Then a faint shake of the head. Lumine lets the question fall. “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

“Not really.” Eloise’s voice is small, exhausted. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. There were bandits on the road—treasure hoarders. Everyone else in my group…” She breaks off, biting her lip.

“I’m sorry,” Lumine says.

“Don’t be.” Eloise gives a faint, brittle smile. “It isn’t your fault. I just barely escaped with the clothes on my back.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Sumeru. I have relatives there.”

“Why not take the ocean route? It’s safer than the mountains. Faster, too.”

“Because they’d expect me to,” Eloise whispers. “And they’d stop me before I could flee.”

Lumine studies her more closely. The woman eats without grace, juice slipping down her chin. Even so, there’s refinement in the way she holds herself, an elegance that betrays old breeding. Lumine passes her a napkin, which she takes with murmured thanks.

The name Eloise still tugs at her memory. Familiar somehow. “Forgive me, but… which family are you from?”

Eloise flinches. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Running from something, then. Lumine feels the ache of sympathy. “You don’t have to keep secrets,” she says quietly. “I left Fontaine, too.”

Eloise blinks. “You did?”

Lumine nods. “So I understand. How difficult it is to walk away from everything.”

For a moment, the other woman hesitates, uncertainty warring with the need to speak. Then, haltingly: “I married someone I shouldn’t have.”

Lumine’s breath catches, but she urges her on with a nod.

“My husband betrayed his master,” Eloise says. “I didn’t know anything. I’d only just married him. But a few days ago—” Her voice fractures. “A few days ago, soldiers came. They dragged out his parents. My husband was gone, and I—I barely escaped.”

Tears spill down her cheeks. Lumine crouches beside her, rubbing small circles on her back. “You’re safe now,” she murmurs. “No one will find you here.”

Eloise shakes her head. Her nails dig into the sunsettia until juice seeps between her fingers. “You don’t understand,” she says. “You don’t know who my husband betrayed.”

Lumine stills. “Who?”

The woman looks up, eyes wide and terrified. “The Perinheri family,” she says. “Lyney Perinheri.”

The world goes silent. Lumine’s blood turns to ice.

Eloise sets the fruit down with trembling hands. “I can’t eat another bite.”

Lumine can only stare. The name clicks into place—Eloise, Count Ambra’s fiancée. Married just months ago, before he vanished without a trace.

Eloise doesn’t seem to recognise her, but that in itself isn’t surprising. Lumine had always been selective about the company she kept, only accepting invitations from other ducal houses, rarely attending events where lesser nobles gathered. Their circles had never overlapped.

“He’s a cruel man,” Eloise says, voice shaking. “Duke Perinheri. Everyone calls him beautiful, but no one knows what he truly is.” She shudders. “I’m afraid he’ll track me down. Just to erase what’s left of our family. He’s capable of it.”

Lumine swallows hard. Yes, she thinks. He is.

“Do you have anyone you can reach tomorrow?” she asks after a pause. “Someone who can take you to Sumeru?”

Eloise nods weakly. “A relative will come for me. Here, in the village. I only need a place for the night.”

“You can stay with me,” Lumine says. “I’d appreciate the company.”

Relief flickers through Eloise’s eyes. “Thank you,” she breathes. “Truly.”

After a moment, she clears her throat. “It’s rude of me to ask only now, but—may I know your name?”

Lumine hesitates. She considers telling the truth, just this once. But then she remembers why this woman is running, and from whom.

“Ying,” she says at last, with a small, practised smile. “My name is Ying.”

---

Her sleep is restless.

She’d thought she was settling in—learning, slowly, to live outside Fontaine, outside the Perinheri manor. Her dreams had grown almost harmless. Just last week, she dreamt she was riding her sumpter beast through one of Fontaine’s public gardens, trying to convince a garde that her “noble steed” was not, in fact, responsible for half the flowerbed’s disappearance.

A ridiculous dream, but harmless nonetheless. She’d woken up bewildered but faintly amused, and told Shani about it later that day.

But tonight—

She knows she’s dreaming. She must be. Because Lyney is here.

He sits in her armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the hearthlight painting his hair gold and his skin honey-warm. His eyes—impossible violet—catch the fire as they rest on her. He props his cheek against one hand, the very picture of composure.

“So,” he says, voice smooth and deliberate, impossible to read. “Did you find it amusing, hm? Keeping me on your leash for months? Did you think I’d simply turn a blind eye and let it go?”

It’s a dream, she reminds herself. It has to be. She doesn’t remember him coming in, doesn’t remember anything before this moment—but that doesn’t stop the cold knot in her gut, or the way her pulse stutters. It feels too real.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she manages.

Dream-Lyney rises, movements fluid, predatory. He walks towards her with the quiet grace of a cat deciding when to pounce.

“You don’t know?” he asks, soft as a blade. Her breath catches; she’s rooted in place as he closes the distance. “Then perhaps I should return the favour, my dear wife.”

He’s close enough to touch now. When he lifts his hand to her face, she doesn’t flinch—can’t. The door is at her back; there’s nowhere left to go.

“You must have enjoyed it,” he muses, thumb stroking her cheek. “Lording over me with magic. Forcing me to love you. Manipulating me however you pleased.”

His touch remains gentle, almost tender. “So you shouldn’t complain,” he adds softly, “if I treat you the same.”

Her breath stutters. “Y-You can’t,” she says, voice trembling. “You’re a dream. You’re not real. None of this is real.”

“So what if it isn’t?” His tone never rises. Still sweet. Still coaxing. “Do you think that means you can run from me forever?”

She tries to turn away, but his grip tightens, holding her still. He leans in—so close she feels the whisper of his breath, so close that her body, traitorous thing, braces for a kiss.

“I’ll find you, sweet,” he murmurs. “The same way I found Ambra. The same way I’ll find Eloise. And when that day comes…”

He kisses her—just a brush, light as a sigh—and when he pulls back, his voice is low and tender, a threat wrapped in devotion. “You’ll rue the day you ever tried to bend me to your will.”

Her eyes fly open. She bolts upright in bed, heart hammering. Moonlight spills through the window, silvery and cold.

The house is silent. Eloise sleeps in the guest room. There’s no one else here. No trace of him.

Still, her heartbeat refuses to settle. The image of him sears behind her eyelids—so vivid, so precise she almost believes he’d been here. That he’d touched her.

No. Impossible. He doesn’t know where she is. It’s only the memory of Eloise—her story, her fear—stirring ghosts best left buried. Two women, both running from the same man. That’s all it is.

She tells herself that. Over and over. She should sleep.

But when she lies back down, her blood won’t still. The blanket feels too heavy, the air too close. She can still see his eyes—bright, cutting violet—and the curve of his smile, knowing, merciless. Even in dreams, he looks through her, not at her, as if he’s always known the secret hunger she hides. As if he’s waiting for the moment she breaks.

Lumine shudders, pulling the blanket over her head. It was just a nightmare, she insists. Just nerves, stirred by the arrival of an unexpected guest. Lyney is in Fontaine. He wouldn’t come here. Wouldn’t cross half a continent for a woman who deceived him.

He’s free now. So is she. Probably.

She keeps repeating it like a prayer, each word fainter than the last. He’s gone. He won’t find me. He doesn’t care.

Only when exhaustion finally wins over does she drift back into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

---

“Thank you for the meal,” Eloise says as she rinses the plates clean.

“Think nothing of it,” Lumine replies. “Women should help each other.”

Eloise nods. “Even so, I wasn’t expecting kindness last night,” she admits. “Not that late. I’d already resigned myself to sleeping on someone’s doorstep.”

“Then why knock on mine?”

Eloise hesitates, considering. “I’m not sure,” she says at last. “But if I had to guess… I just thought the owner of this house would be kind.”

Lumine blinks. “Why’s that?”

“Yours is the only house with flowers outside the window,” Eloise says with a faint smile.

She doesn’t have an immediate answer to that, but the words strike something quiet in her. Flowers—of course that would give her away. Still, she smiles. “Then I’m glad you came to me.”

Eloise smiles back, and for a moment they lapse into an easy, companionable silence.

“You said your relatives are meeting you in the village?” Lumine asks after a pause. “Do you know where?”

“The grazing pastures,” Eloise says. “They’ll come in the afternoon. I can find my way, if you tell me how.”

“I’d rather not let you go alone,” Lumine says. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Would you?” Eloise’s voice carries both surprise and relief. “I’d appreciate that. Then I won’t have to wander around like a lost fool.”

“Of course,” Lumine says. “It’s a small thing.”

“Thank you again, Ying,” Eloise says warmly. “You’ve been nothing but kind. My benefactor, truly.”

“There’s no need for that,” Lumine says, embarrassed. “All I did was offer a room for the night.”

“If you hadn’t, I might not be alive now,” Eloise murmurs, solemn. Lumine doesn’t contradict her—only busies herself wiping the table, unsure how to respond.

After a moment, she changes the subject. “I haven’t heard news from Fontaine in a while,” she says.

Eloise brightens. “Oh? Is there anything you’d like to know? I might not look it now, but I was a noble lady once—people told me all sorts of things.”

Lumine hesitates. She knows indulging her curiosity is dangerous—nostalgia is the first step towards weakness—but she can’t help herself. After last night’s dream, after hearing Lyney’s name again, she needs to know.

She starts with something harmless. “Is the old king still on the throne?”

It’s been only two months since she fled, but it’s safer to start with small talk.

“Oh, the king?” Eloise says. “He fell ill recently—quite severely, from what I hear. The crown prince’s been ruling in his stead, and he’s made it his mission to purge corruption among the nobility. The people adore him for it.”

Lumine blinks. She hadn’t expected that. “I always thought the king would rule forever.”

“So did I!” Eloise says, then her voice falters. “But things can change in an instant, can’t they…”

The silence that follows feels heavy, so Lumine hurries to steer the conversation elsewhere. “What has the crown prince done to weed out corruption?”

Eloise exhales. “Everything short of bloodshed,” she says. “He’s cracked down on illicit trade, exposed a few smuggling rings. The nobility are terrified. And of course, it doesn’t help that the sword of the crown no longer bothers with civility.”

The title makes Lumine pause. “The sword of the crown,” she echoes. “You mean… the Perinheri family?”

Eloise flinches, gaze dropping. “Yes. Duke Perinheri. He’s been leading the investigations—helping the prince deal with ‘traitors to the crown’. Whatever leash the old king once kept on him, the prince has cut loose. He moves freely now. Too freely.”

Ah. That would explain it. Why Lyney waited so long before moving against Ambra. Under the old king, he must have been bound by caution. But with the prince’s favour behind him, there’s nothing to hold him back.

She doesn’t mention any of this, of course—it’s too raw a wound for Eloise. “The Perinheri name does have a way of inspiring fear,” she says instead.

Eloise studies her. “You’re a runaway noble too, Ying?”

Lumine startles. “What makes you think that?”

“You speak like one,” Eloise says simply. “Only someone raised in those circles would care about politics.”

Fair point. “I was,” Lumine says after a beat. “My family fled when my brother refused the draft to the northern front.” A lie, smooth as breath. “They went abroad. I’m the only one who stayed.”

“Why stay here?” Eloise asks. “There’s nothing in this village.”

“That’s exactly why.” Lumine smiles faintly. “No one here asks questions. You can be anyone, or no one at all. People leave you to your peace.”

Eloise tilts her head, studying her. “You sound like someone who’s lived through too much.”

“It was worse in Fontaine,” Lumine says, and leaves it at that.

A few moments of silence pass. Then Eloise speaks again. “Did your family ever have conflicts with others, Ying?”

Lumine shakes her head. “We kept mostly to ourselves,” she says. “Minor nobles. Hardly anyone knew who we were. Our biggest trouble was with the crown, since my brother refused to fight in the war.”

“I can understand that.” Eloise sighs. “My family was luckier. My father died early, and I had no brothers. So we were spared from the draft.”

“Some ladies volunteered, though,” Lumine says.

“Ah, yes. Lady Lynette Perinheri. The most famous of them all.” Eloise shivers, as though even the name carries a curse. “I admire her. Though her brother frightens me.”

“That man would frighten anyone.”

“Not everyone, apparently.” Eloise wrinkles her nose. “There are still plenty who want him, mad as that sounds. I can’t imagine pining after a man so devoted to his bedridden wife.”

That makes Lumine freeze. “... Bedridden wife?”

Eloise blinks. “Oh, you don’t know? Well, it’s fairly recent. Duke Perinheri married last year—a minor noble, I think her name was Lumine. Two months ago, she fell terribly ill and hasn’t been seen since. The duke says she’s resting at home.” Eloise shakes her head. “I hope she recovers soon. People say she’s the only one he listens to. Perhaps she can talk some sense into him.”

Lumine isn’t really listening anymore.

So that’s what he’s told them. That she’s ill.

It fits—of course it does. Lyney has always been a master at shaping perception, and this story is perfect: the devoted husband, the ailing wife tucked away from public view. Give it enough time, and when he finally announces her death, no one will question it. They’ll pity him instead.

Her fingers twist in her skirt. The logic is sound, painfully sound. It’s exactly what she should expect of him—measured, meticulous, effective. So why does it ache? Why does it feel like he’s burying her alive?

Maybe that’s why Eloise hasn’t recognised her. Duchess Perinheri is “bedridden”, fading from the world by slow degrees. Who would ever imagine her hiding here, in this border village at the edge of nowhere?

“Ying?” Eloise’s voice breaks through her thoughts, tinged with concern.

She startles. Forces a smile. “I’m here,” she says. “Sorry. My mind wandered.”

Eloise nods. “A lot must have changed since you last heard from Fontaine,” she says gently. “It must be a lot to take in.”

“Well,” Lumine murmurs, “time makes fools of us all.”

They finish tidying up, then begin packing Eloise’s few belongings for the road ahead. The conversation turns to trivialities again, but Lumine’s thoughts spiral elsewhere.

In this perfect fiction Lyney has spun—the story of the sickly duchess hidden away—how much longer will she be allowed to live in his narrative before he ends it? When will the news reach Fontaine that she has “passed peacefully in her sleep”?

Will he mourn her in public? Take another wife? Hold a funeral she can never attend?

She hasn’t written to her mother or brother, too afraid her letters might be intercepted, that he might find her. She’d thought silence would protect them. But if he says she’s dead… what then?

She’d fled to reclaim herself—to be Lumine Viatrix again. Yet with every passing day, with every lie that replaces her, she feels herself slipping further away.

---

They’re just about to leave when Eloise’s stomach growls.

It’s loud, undeniable. Eloise jumps, nearly dropping her small pack, her expression flickering between guilt and embarrassment as her hand presses to her stomach. Lumine can’t help laughing.

“Hold on,” she says, heading to the kitchen. “I’ll get you something for the road.”

Her fruit basket is nearly empty now. A few apples—two reserved for her sumpter beast—and one last zaytun peach she hasn’t touched since hearing about the blood moon ritual.

Eloise has followed her to the counter. Her eyes fix immediately on the peach, wide and intent. “I’ve never seen a fruit like this before,” she says.

“They’re native to Sumeru,” Lumine explains. “They don’t grow well in Fontaine’s climate.”

“It smells wonderful.” Eloise leans closer, unable to hide her fascination.

Lumine watches her for a moment. “Would you like it?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.” Eloise steps back quickly, flustered. “It just looks so lovely. But it’s your only one—I shouldn’t be greedy.”

Lumine studies her. A young noblewoman, barely more than a girl, alone and frightened, running from a ruined life—all because of the man Lumine once called husband. The guilt sits heavy in her chest.

It’s just a peach, she tells herself. She doesn’t believe in rituals or gods. The wish she made at the Fountain of Lucine hadn’t come true either, not entirely. Lynette returned safely; her brother was stabbed in the leg and continues to stay on the northern front. So much for divine mercy.

Even here, few seem to believe in the blood moon rite. Shani only wanted peaches to placate her mother; Uncle Khalil barely humoured the superstition. Lumine never put stock in such things. Meanwhile, Eloise is looking at that peach as though it’s the last good thing left in the world.

With a quiet sigh, Lumine reaches out, picks up the fruit, and presses it into Eloise’s hands. “Take it,” she says firmly. “You’ll need the strength more than I do.”

Eloise hesitates, then accepts, her eyes lighting up. “Thank you. Truly. For everything you’ve done.”

Lumine smiles. “It’s only fruit,” she says. “If you want to repay me, then make it to Sumeru. Don’t let my hospitality go to waste.”

“I will.” Eloise beams, and as they step out of the cottage, she bites into the peach, sweet juice running down her chin.

They find her relatives quickly enough—easy to spot, with the same fine features and ill-fitting travel clothes. Lumine stays just long enough for introductions. The family thanks her profusely before leading Eloise away down the road.

Lumine watches them go until they disappear beyond the ridge. Then she turns towards the pasture and her waiting sumpter beast.

“Hello there,” she greets.

The creature lifts its head with a low, throaty sound—something between a grunt and a sigh—and lumbers towards her.

“You’ve been eating well, haven’t you?”

It blinks at her, unimpressed. Lumine laughs, holding out the apples. The beast noses them eagerly from her palm, crunching with soft, wet snaps. She runs her fingers through its thick fur, grounding herself in the warmth beneath her hand.

She still hasn’t named it. None of the names she’s thought of have felt right. Maybe it’s because she’s still nameless herself. How can someone uncertain of her own identity give one to another living thing?

The beast seems content, at least. It grazes in peace, fed and cared for, asking nothing more of the world. Perhaps that’s enough—to simply exist without expectation.

Maybe Lumine should learn from it. Stop turning her thoughts over and over, worrying about questions that have no answers. She left everything behind so she could start over. She should learn how to live with that.

She pats the beast one last time, then glances at the sky. Dusk has deepened into indigo, streaks of violet and gold fading along the horizon. The moon will rise soon.

Time to head back.

The pastures are quiet, too quiet. They lie just beyond the patrol routes; stories of treasure hoarders still circle among the villagers.

“I’ll go now,” she tells the beast. “I’ll bring bulle fruit tomorrow, if the market has any.”

It huffs in what might be agreement.

Smiling faintly, Lumine climbs back over the fence, gathering her skirt as she makes her way down the dirt path towards the village.

Her shadow stretches long before her, a dark smear across the earth. She glances up—the moon’s pale edge already visible through thin clouds—and an inexplicable chill runs down her spine.

She lowers her gaze, quickens her pace. The wind has begun to rise. It wouldn’t do to be caught outside after sundown.

---

The light through her window isn’t the gentle silver she’s used to.

Lumine hesitates, then peers outside. The moon that greets her isn’t pale or serene—it hangs low and heavy, the colour of rust. A dull red disc, full and swollen, bleeding over the horizon. The sight turns her stomach.

The blood moon.

Of all nights—right after she’d given away her last zaytun peach.

Not that it should matter, she tells herself. She doesn’t believe in superstition. Yet unease curls in her gut, a slow, insistent twist. Had she been too hasty?

No. Eloise had needed it more. And really—what’s the worst that could happen? She’s already lost everything that once defined her: her home, her name, her place in the world. There’s nowhere left to fall.

Slightly steadier after that thought, Lumine turns from the window and sits in her armchair. The village beyond her walls is quiet, but she imagines the flicker of hearths, people performing the same ritual Uncle Khalil described—tossing a zaytun peach into the fire, whispering wishes to the old desert gods.

Perhaps she should do the same. Just to be safe.

Shani had only mentioned an offering. The gods might prefer peaches, but surely they wouldn’t mind an apple.

She takes the last one from her basket. Its skin glows faintly red in the firelight. She won’t eat it anyway—might as well put it to use.

Crossing to the hearth, she tosses the apple into the flames. The fire seizes it greedily, red skin blistering as the scent of sweetness fills the room. Lumine folds her hands together, bowing her head as she used to when she was a child—blowing out birthday candles beside Aether, or standing at the Fountain of Lucine, murmuring wishes for luck.

“Please let everything turn out well,” she whispers.

It’s a vague prayer, shapeless and safe. Hard to wish for anything more specific when she no longer knows what she truly wants, only what she’s lost.

Her gaze lingers on the apple as it blackens. Maybe she should move on from this place one day. Sumeru, perhaps. She had told Lynette that would be her first destination—maybe she should make that lie true. It feels like something she owes her friend.

She wonders how Lynette is faring now. How Desyree is doing. Whether the butler still hums when he works, whether the stable boys still play in the gardens.

Her mind slips—inevitably—to him.

Lyney.

The name hits her like a blow. She stiffens, fingers curling against each other as the air in the room thickens. The faint sweetness of roasting fruit mingles with something cloying, something she can’t name.

Breathe.

She drags in a slow breath and forces herself to look away from the fire. There’s no use thinking about him. The past is gone. The only direction left is forward.

When the apple finally collapses into ash, she stirs the fire once to scatter the embers and leaves it to die. The moonlight beyond her window has softened again, its colour fading back to silver. The blood moon is already passing, as if it were never there.

So much fuss over something so fleeting. She hadn’t heard any noise from the village—no chanting, no ceremony. Only the crackle of her own hearth, and her quiet, foolish wish looping in her mind.

Please let everything turn out well.

She climbs the stairs slowly, exhaustion heavy in her limbs. Lately, she’s been tired all the time, her body sluggish, uncooperative. Altitude, she tells herself. Stress. Nothing more. She can’t afford to fall sick now—not when she’s finally carved out a fragile bit of peace for herself, not when she still needs her strength to keep moving forward.

By the time she slips beneath her blanket, the weariness has deepened into something bone-deep, irresistible.

Her eyes drift shut. The world fades. And then—nothing.

---

Maybe, Lumine thinks, the ritual worked.

It isn’t like her to give credence to superstition. She doesn’t really believe it worked—doesn’t think that a whispered wish to gods long dead could possibly change anything.

And yet, life has begun to tilt towards the better since the blood moon. Only in small, ordinary ways: the market had bulle fruit for cheap the next morning (much to her sumpter beast’s delight); her appetite has steadied, enough that she can finally eat fruit again without immediately spitting it out—though that might owe more to the copious amounts of spice she’s started tossing into her meals, just as Uncle Khalil advised. Then Shani’s mother, soft-hearted as ever, sent her home with a massive pot of glided tajine after overcooking for dinner.

All the better for her. The tajine will last two days at least, and Shani’s mother is an excellent cook. Lumine still dreams of her Aaru mixed rice sometimes.

No great miracle, she tells herself. But sometimes, it’s the little things that make life bearable.

She hums as she sits in the grass beside her sumpter beast, which is sprawled on its side, half-asleep. The day is bright and clear; the sky a deep, forgiving blue, clouds soft as fleece. She’s been gifted a few silk scarves and a woven bag by one of the old women in the market, and she has no errands left to run.

A quiet, idyllic sort of life—made possible by the stash of mora she’d carried all the way from Fontaine. The villagers themselves have little use for coin, but passing traders and Eremites do, and she often buys food or spice from them to barter later at the market.

It’s an odd system, bartering. It took her some time to adjust—she’d been so accustomed to city life, where everything had a price and currency was a language of its own. Here, among the border hills, that language carries less weight. People trade what they have, trust what they can see.

And she doesn’t mind that. The simplicity feels honest.

“Ying!”

She turns at the call. Shani is walking towards her down the dirt path, hair tied back, a grin tugging at her mouth. At the sound, Lumine’s sumpter beast huffs, lifting its head before flopping back down with a grunt.

“What are you doing here, rolling in the grass like a child?” Shani calls.

“Passing the time,” Lumine replies.

Shani laughs. “You’re the only person in this village who can afford to live so freely. Everyone else is always busy—patrolling, trading, fixing something. Meanwhile…”

Lumine smiles. “I contribute to the village in my own ways.”

“So you say.” Shani hops the fence and settles down on the grass, folding her legs neatly beneath her. She eyes the slumbering beast. “Still haven’t thought of a name for your noble steed?”

“Hm, not really,” Lumine admits. “Nothing feels right yet.”

Shani squints at the creature. The beast yawns, then rolls over onto its other side. “You could call it Kuslan.”

“What does that mean?”

“Lazy.” Shani bursts out laughing when Lumine stares at her. “It fits, doesn’t it? I’ve never seen your beast do anything but eat and sleep. Reminds me a little of its owner.”

Lumine gasps, hand to chest in mock offence. “How dare you imply I’m lazy? I do my fair share of work around here.”

“If you count playing with the children as work, then sure,” Shani teases.

“I have nothing more to say to you,” Lumine huffs, turning away.

“Don’t be like that.” Shani pokes her in the ribs. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you looking better. You were a bit pale in the past few days—as if you weren’t already pale enough to begin with,” she adds dryly. “You Fontainians, honestly. It’s like you’ve never seen the sun.”

“Well, I didn’t go out much before,” Lumine says. “I like to think I’ve gotten a little tanner since moving here.”

“Just a little. You still look as white as a ghost to me.”

Lumine rolls her eyes. “Not everyone turns brown in the sun. I, unfortunately, just turn pink. Believe me, I’m doing my best.”

Shani laughs. “Well, I don’t care what colour you are, as long as it’s the colour of health. My mother was worried you’d waste away, you know. That’s why she gave you so much glided tajine. She didn’t say it, of course—pretended she’d simply cooked too much. But it was for you.”

Lumine blinks, touched. “Really? I didn’t know.”

“She’s like that,” Shani says with a shrug. “Never admits when she cares. Just makes excuses and acts like you’d be doing her a favour by taking whatever she’s offering.”

“Your mother is a kind woman,” Lumine says softly.

“So are you,” Shani replies. “Didn’t you take in that Fontainian girl who showed up in the middle of the night? No one else would’ve been foolish enough to open their door at that hour. Only you would, you bleeding heart.”

The phrase makes Lumine freeze. Bleeding heart.

It echoes in her mind like a chord struck too sharply—Lyney’s voice, silken and amused, curling through her memory: soft, sweet, suffocating. My bleeding heart.

Pain shoots through her chest. She gasps, hand flying to her sternum.

“Ying?” Shani is instantly beside her. “Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine,” Lumine manages, pressing a hand to her dress as the faintness slowly ebbs, darkness receding from the edges of her vision. “Just a little dizzy. Must be the mountain air.”

Shani frowns. “You’ve been here two months already. Hard to believe the altitude still gets to you.”

Lumine forces a small smile. “Some people are weaker than others. I’ve never been the strongest.”

“Perhaps not in body,” Shani says, “but you’re strong in other ways. Strong of mind. Strong of heart. I like that about you—it’s rare around here.”

“That’s not true,” Lumine answers, gentler now. “Everyone’s been kind to me. Especially you.”

“Only because we’re neighbours,” Shani says. “And because I worry you’ll wander into danger and get yourself killed, and then my family will somehow be blamed. You have that look about you. Like a rabbit. A silly, fluffy one with droopy ears.”

“That makes it sound like you’ve never seen a rabbit before.”

“I have! Just not often. If you climb higher into the mountains, you might spot the snow rabbits before the foxes do.”

Lumine laughs, but the sound feels thin in her throat. They keep talking, the easy rhythm of small talk flowing between them, but a quiet unease prickles beneath her skin. She doesn’t know why. Something about the exchange feels familiar in a way she doesn’t want to name, an echo of something she’d rather forget.

Her thoughts stray, unbidden, to the blood moon. The apple collapsing in the fire. The wish she’d made. She should be fine. She’d done the offering, just like everyone else. This is only a conversation with a friend. A stray discomfort doesn’t mean anything.

And yet—

Her gaze drifts towards the fence, where a small cluster of Sumeru roses blooms, just out of her beast’s reach. Their violet petals shiver in the wind, bright as bruises. Her breath catches. She turns away.

---

Lumine curls up in her armchair, mending one of her dresses.

It had snagged on a rusty nail at the market earlier. The tear isn’t large, and the dress is one of her favourites—light, comfortable, worn soft at the seams—so she refuses to throw it away when she can still repair it.

The air is warm. She’s full and drowsy from the last of the tajine, her eyelids drooping as she draws the needle through the fabric. The motion is instinctive, muscle memory from years of practice. At least one skill from her noble upbringing has proved useful.

Maybe next time she’ll embroider something for Shani—a handkerchief, perhaps—and one for Shani’s mother, too. They’ve both been so kind. She wants to repay it somehow. Maybe she’ll stitch little rabbits for Shani, and fruit for her mother, who loves them so much. It’s been a long time since she’s embroidered for pleasure, though; her hands will be clumsy—

A sharp sting interrupts her thought. Pain flares in her fingertip. She startles, glancing down. The needle has pricked her. A bead of blood swells on her skin, red and bright as garnet, trembling before it slides towards her wrist.

Lumine sets the dress aside carefully—needle, thread, everything. She rises and crosses to the kitchen to rinse the blood off. It’s fine. She’s pricked herself countless times before. This is the sort of pain she understands: simple, harmless, ordinary.

She dips her hand into the basin of water she drew earlier. The drop of blood unravels into the water, blooming faintly, vanishing almost as soon as it appears. She watches her submerged hand through the ripples, thoughtless, until unease curls at the edges of her mind.

Maybe it’s the fatigue. Maybe it’s the shock of red against her skin. But the sight drags her back—to the blood moon, the apple blackening in the fire, the scent of smoke and sweetness. Everything the colour of blood and life and death.

A new world. A new home. A new life. A new beginning.

She lifts her hand from the basin, pours the water away, and absently slips her finger into her mouth to soothe the sting. The taste is faintly metallic, faintly salt. It’s been a long time since she’s tended to herself like this—since before the marriage, before the manor. Back then, she rarely lifted a finger. Desyree wouldn’t allow it. Nor Lynette. And Lyney…

A sigh escapes her. She lets her hand fall and returns to the armchair. The fire still burns steadily, its warmth wrapping around her like breath.

The nights here are dark, almost oppressively so. Silent, too. As though the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. She’s always grateful for the sunrise, for the way the light scatters the shadows and reminds her she’s still here.

She picks up her sewing again. Then pauses. A small streak of red marks the hem of the dress—her own blood, brushed carelessly across the fabric when she set it down.

It’s fine. Blood comes off. Everything does, if you scrub hard enough. That’s what her mother used to say. She still believes it. Lives by it.

She threads the needle once more and finishes the last few stitches. When the tear is mended, she packs the sewing kit away and sinks back into the chair, curling her legs beneath her, hands folded over her stomach.

The fire crackles softly. The night stretches on—long, heavy, unending.

She wonders when the sun will rise.

---

It’s another pleasant morning.

Lumine hums to herself as she cooks. She’d found carrots and eggs at the market and, on a whim, decided to make consommé. Now she stands in the kitchen, stirring the pot, pleased by the rich scent wafting through the air.

It’s quiet today, just the way she likes it. Shani had stopped by earlier to drop off a gift: candied ajilenakh nuts, bought from a travelling merchant. Lumine tried one and immediately fell in love with the crunch, the syrup’s sweetness. She’d set the rest aside for later, grateful she can stomach sweets again.

As the soup simmers, she glances out the window at her small flowerbed. She’d been trying to coax padisarahs to bloom, though the mountain air doesn’t agree with them. The village head had warned her they wouldn’t grow well up here, but she’d wanted to try anyway—Shani showed her an illustration once, and she couldn’t resist their beauty. When a vendor sold her the seeds, she’d taken it as a sign.

They’ve sprouted, but the buds remain stubbornly closed. Perhaps they simply aren’t due to open yet. Perhaps she’s doing something wrong. She’ll ask around the village later, once her soup is done.

Outside, someone shouts, followed by the shrill laughter of a child. Probably Habachi chasing Hilmi again. Lumine shakes her head and looks back at the pot. The soup is beginning to look as she remembers it—clear, amber, fragrant. She exhales in relief. It’s been a long time since she made consommé; she half-expected disaster. Cooking was never her strong suit. But she’s learning, and the neighbours often tell her she’s improving.

She lifts a ladleful to her lips. The broth is sweet from the carrots, light but rich. Satisfied, she adds a pinch of salt, stirring again. The aroma deepens, filling the small kitchen.

Then—another hand closes over hers.

Lumine jolts. The ladle clatters softly against the pot. She’s about to turn, expecting a neighbour—she never locks her door during the day, despite Shani’s scolding—but the thought dies as soon as a voice speaks behind her.

Smooth. Silken. Impossible.

“So this is where my pretty wife has been hiding,” Lyney says.

Her body goes rigid. Breath catches in her throat as warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her dress—his warmth, his presence. His hand remains over hers, steady, ungloved. Bare skin against skin. His fingers are long, elegant, familiar.

She shouldn’t be thinking about his hands. Shouldn’t be thinking about how beautiful they are. Why is she even thinking at all? Her mind scatters like glass. Her pulse hammers in her ears, drowning out everything else.

No. She must be imagining this. Losing her grip on reality after months of seeing violet everywhere—violet eyes, violet flowers.

Then his breath ghosts against her neck. The soft graze of his lips follows, achingly familiar. He leans in closer, the sound he makes nearly a moan.

“You smell sweet,” he murmurs. “Just as I remember, chérie. You still smell like home.” A pause. A deeper inhale. “You still smell like mine.”

“L-Lyney,” she stammers, finally finding her voice. His hand remains firm on hers, the weight of him pinning her in place. She doesn’t dare turn around. “What are you—you can’t be here,” she whispers. “You can’t.”

“Why not, my love?” His tone is soft, gentle, almost tender.

“You don’t know where I am.” Her gaze flicks towards the window. The sunlight is too bright, too sharp; she can’t make out their reflections, can’t tell if he’s truly there. “You can’t. You’re in Fontaine.”

“So you tell yourself,” he says mildly. “Yet here I am, in your kitchen, watching you make soup.”

She feels him step closer, until his chest presses against her back. His mouth finds her shoulder again, nudging the wide collar of her dress aside to kiss the bare skin beneath.

“Playing house,” he says. “Pretending this place is your home. Pretending you can build a life here, away from me.”

There’s something like wonder in his voice. The sound makes her stomach flip, her blood turn to ice and heat all at once. She doesn’t know what to think, what to feel. She can only stand there, trembling, caught between fear and the strange pull of recognition.

“Look at me, love,” he says, voice low. He nips lightly at her ear. “I want to see your face.”

She hesitates. If she refuses—if she turns—what will she see? It must be a dream. It has to be. Why would Lyney Perinheri—the sword and shield of the crown, Fontaine’s most feared and admired aristocrat—come all the way to this forgotten border village?

Why would he come for her?

She’s no one now. A runaway wife with no power, no allies, no wealth. She stole some jewellery, yes, but surely that isn’t reason enough for him to cross the continent to find her.

Surely it isn’t.

And that’s why she finally turns—because he can’t be real, and she has to prove it to herself. Has to see that there’s nothing there, nothing to fear, nothing to anticipate. Because Lyney Perinheri cannot be standing in her kitchen. There’s no way.

Except he is.

Standing there, disarmingly beautiful. The kind of beauty that dazzles, that steals breath and reason both. She hasn’t forgotten how striking he is; one doesn’t forget a face like his. But time and distance had dulled the memory of what his nearness feels like. How his beauty, sharp and lovely as a blade’s edge, cuts straight to the bone. How just being near him leaves her tongue-tied.

She can only stare. Drink him in.

Blond hair, violet eyes, the same shade as Sumeru roses. A smile so soft it makes her want to weep.

Lyney looks at her, gaze threaded with something she almost recognises—something like hunger. The moment she faces him, he reaches out, fingers tipping her chin up until she’s looking him in the eye.

His thumb traces her bottom lip, slow and deliberate. “You’re real, aren’t you?” he asks. “Here. In my arms again.”

She opens her mouth to speak. No sound comes out. Her thoughts scatter, collapsing under the weight of his presence—fear, adrenaline, something perilously close to want. The pot of soup bubbles behind her; there’s nowhere to run, and in front of her stands Lyney, terrible and tender both. His touch lingers on her mouth. She doesn’t know whether to pull away or part her lips and let him in.

“You’ve been gone too long,” he says, indulgent. “I missed you, you know. I waited for you to come home once you were done with your little journey of self-discovery. But you were taking so long that I thought perhaps it was better I come to you instead.”

She can’t tell if he’s angry. Or sad. Or simply amused. His expression is as unreadable as ever—he was always like that, even back then. Now, after two months apart, he feels less man than myth. Something sculpted rather than born.

Is she sure she isn’t dreaming?

She pinches herself hard. The sting makes her gasp. He notices, of course—he always does.

“You still don’t believe I’m real?” he asks, voice soft enough to burn. “Then perhaps I should convince you.”

Before she can react, he kisses her, and she falls apart.

It’s instinct, reflex, surrender. Her body remembers before her mind does. The heat, the taste, the way his lips part against hers—it all floods back in a rush, unbidden and unstoppable. One hand cradles the back of her head; the other wraps around her waist, drawing her close as if he might lose her again if he loosens his hold. She can’t breathe, but she doesn’t want to. His mouth tastes of memory and ruin, of everything she thought she’d escaped.

It feels inevitable, like yielding to gravity. Like trying to fight the pull of the tide.

Then something acrid hits her nose. The smell of burning.

“My soup!” she gasps, wrenching her head away, turning in his arms.

She reaches for the ladle, but his hand catches her wrist and pulls it gently back. Always gentle. Always deceptive. He sets her hand against his shoulder instead. Her pulse spikes. She looks up at him, trembling.

“Where are you going, Lumine?” he asks, smiling—soft, dangerous, devastating. “I didn’t say you could turn away.”

“B-But my soup,” she stammers, glancing between him and the pot. The worlds are colliding—her small domestic world, and the one she thought she’d left behind. “It’s burning—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He kisses her again, rougher this time, hungry. A claiming. An undoing. She whimpers, helpless, her fingers knotting in the cotton of his shirt as he presses her back against the counter. “I don’t want you thinking of anything but me.”

“But—” Her protest dissolves into a sigh. Her mind blurs, turns molten. Pleasure sparks under her skin, gathering heat low in her stomach. She hasn’t felt this alive in months. Hasn’t felt anything at all.

Somewhere in the haze, she hears metal scrape against metal. The burning smell fades. But she can’t focus on that. Can’t focus on anything except him—his mouth, his hands, the way he lifts her effortlessly onto the counter, the sunlight spilling through the window and gliding them both. He’s radiant. He’s impossible.

“I thought,” he says against her neck, voice low and tender as sin, “that if I gave you time, you’d come back. Grow tired of pretending. Of living without me.” His hand finds hers, brings it to his lips. A kiss to her palm, soft, biting. “So I waited. I was patient. I was good.”

He looks up at her, violet eyes catching the light.

“But you didn’t come back,” he says, almost gently. “And I was starting to feel restless.”

Her mouth feels dry. Too dry to swallow. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, useless, words trapped somewhere behind her teeth.

He presses another kiss to her palm before guiding her hand to cradle his cheek. “So tell me,” he murmurs. “About all the things you learnt and did here. How you tried to grow a new life without me. I want to know.”

She can’t run, not like this. Not when she’s perched on the counter and he’s standing between her knees, close enough that his scent fills her lungs and turns her dizzy. That bittersweet perfume—floral, edged with musk—melts through her skin like a mark she’ll never wash away.

But somewhere inside her, faint and wavering, a voice still whispers no. She shouldn’t give in. She came here to start over, to relearn herself. For two months, she’s been building a life that wasn’t tied to the Perinheri name, that wasn’t defined by him. She can’t lose that now—not when, for the first time, she can finally breathe.

“L-Let me go,” she whispers. Her voice is faint, but he hears it; she can tell by the way his eyes narrow, violet irises sharp enough to cut.

“Why, ma chère?” he asks, releasing her hand. Hers stays where he left it, resting on his face—old habits are hard to kill. “Is the counter too high for you, hm? Do you want me to help you down?”

“Lyney…” She can’t finish. Not with him looking at her like that—with that soft, knowing smile that strips her bare, as if he can see every thought she’s tried to bury, every secret, every shame.

Seeing him here—in the flesh, in her home—feels like unravelling. Everything she’s built in this village, every piece of herself she’s reclaimed, crumbles in the face of him. The only thing that feels real anymore is her name in relation to his.

Lumine Perinheri. Wife of Lyney Perinheri. Duchess of his house.

“Keep going, my love,” Lyney purrs when she falters. “I’ve missed hearing your voice.”

“I…” Her throat tightens. “I don’t want to go back,” she finally says. The words come out small and shaking, barely more than breath, but they tremble into the space between them, and she knows he’s heard. “I want to stay here.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just tips his head, studying her like a puzzle, eyes too bright, too sharp. His gaze cuts straight through her, all the way to the marrow.

“And why is that?” he asks softly.

He doesn’t sound angry. Doesn’t sound anything. And that, she knows, is when he’s most dangerous: when you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Because Lyney Perinheri is always three steps ahead of everyone. Including her. Especially her.

She shuts her eyes. Her heart thunders in her ribs. She’s trying to find courage, trying to find words. But under his gaze, she wilts. She feels small. Fragile. All guilt and fear and longing, a living testament to every mistake she’s made.

In front of him, she has no voice. Guilt coils around her throat, heavy and alive, choking her before she can speak.

“Someone like me,” she manages finally, “doesn’t deserve to be at your side.”

Short. Safe. Or so she hopes. Maybe if she admits her guilt, if she confesses, he won’t punish her further. He’s always preferred people who know their place. This is her showing she remembers hers.

Then his fingers touch her chin. Glide down her throat. Wrap, too gently, around her neck.

She freezes. Her stomach lurches—fear, yes, but not only fear. “Is that so?” he asks, voice smooth as silk. “You think you don’t deserve to be at my side?”

Her eyes flutter open, just enough to see him. The smile is gone. His expression is thoughtful now, almost curious.

“Tell me more about that, sweet,” he says, coaxing. His grip stays loose, casual, but she can feel the power in it—the grace of his fingers, the terrible ease of her own vulnerability. When she swallows, her throat brushes his thumb. “Explain to me why you think that way, hm?”

“I-I drugged you!” The words burst out of her before she can stop them. “I drugged you, and I blackmailed you, and I did all sorts of horrible things. I was selfish and greedy. I shouldn’t—”

He silences her with his mouth.

He doesn’t let go of her throat. His lips crash against hers, stealing her breath, stealing every thought she has left. His hand tightens, just enough to make her gasp, just enough for her vision to blur.

He leans into her, one knee braced on the counter, his body heat pouring into her, the sunlight behind them turning everything gold. If someone were to walk past her window now—past her little flowerbed of closed padisarahs—they would see her. A woman pinned to her own kitchen counter, a man’s shadow cast over her like a shroud.

Would anyone stop? Would anyone come to help?

In this forgotten border village, where everyone is running from something, would they pretend not to see?

Would she even want to be saved—from him or from herself?

“Cute,” he murmurs when he finally pulls away, just enough for her to breathe again, just enough to offer the illusion of distance. “That you think those are reasons enough for me to let you go.”

“W-What?” She’s dazed, her thoughts slipping through her fingers. His breath brushes her lips; his scent clouds her head. She feels like she’s drowning—in his warmth, his presence, the violet of his eyes.

“Don’t you remember, love?” he asks, releasing her throat only to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers linger there, tracing down the line of her jaw, coaxing her to look at him. “Back when you first came to me with that delightful proposition. You said you wanted a short-term arrangement.”

She vaguely remembers—she thinks. It’s hard to hold on to thought when he’s touching her, looking at her like this. Every nerve in her body answers to him. Her focus splinters beneath the intensity of his gaze, the precision of his touch.

“What did I tell you then?” His mouth drifts to her ear; his teeth catch on her skin. A sharp sting blooms, and she gasps. “You came to me with this game. So you’ll see it through.”

He trails lower, his lips brushing beneath her jaw. Her breath hitches. Her body feels too alive, too aware, too ready.

“I don’t recall ever agreeing,” he says, voice calm, “to let you run away from me.”

This time, his teeth catch on the edge of her collar, tugging it down, exposing her shoulder. “So I’m here to collect what I’m owed.”

The sound of fabric scraping against her skin jolts her back to herself. She gasps, her hands flying to his chest, pushing him back. “B-But I drugged you,” she stammers. “You can’t still want someone who—”

“You think I didn’t know?”

There’s a note in his voice she hasn’t heard in months—not anger, not exasperation, but something worse. Something that hums between amusement and disdain.

“You think I wouldn’t notice when something shifts inside my own body, chérie?”

Her blood turns cold. Her hands fall limp at her sides. “What?”

Lyney laughs. The sound is light, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I knew from the second night,” he says, sliding his arms around her waist. She doesn’t resist when he lifts her from the counter. Her body folds instinctively against his, too shocked to fight. “You’ve never been good at hiding things. You’re far too obvious.”

“H-How?” she manages, barely a whisper.

“That potion,” he says as he carries her towards the stairs. “It carries compulsion magic. I’m not immune to sorcery, but I know my own pulse, my own mind. I could feel it immediately.”

“But—if you knew, then why didn’t you say anything?”

“And ruin the lovely little game my wife had arranged for me?” His smile is almost tender. “Why would I? I wanted to see how far you would go. How far you’d let yourself fall just for a taste of affection.”

“Then all that time—”

“All that time,” he echoes, reaching the landing. Her fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting, desperate. He stops, looks down at her.

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Don’t what, my love?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, so please—”

He doesn’t pause. “What did you think I’d do?” His tone is gentle, almost bemused, as he walks down the narrow hall. He passes the guest room without a glance. Stops at her door. Turns the knob.

“You know I’d never do anything you dislike,” he adds, setting her down on the bed—too gently, as if she might shatter. She scrambles back against the headboard as he closes the door behind him. The click of the lock sounds final.

“I-I’m willing to accept punishment,” she says, curling in on herself. “However you see fit. Just… don’t take me back. I can’t bear it.”

“Why not?” His steps are slow, unhurried. Each one heavy with intent. She can only watch, trembling, as he draws close.

When he crouches beside the bed, he’s calm. Terribly calm. He reaches up, cradling her cheek in one hand. “Are you ashamed?” he whispers. “Too afraid to face the others? To meet Lynette’s eyes? Desyree’s? The servants who doted on you?”

“Stop,” she gasps, covering her ears. “Don’t say those things.”

The mattress dips under his weight as he leans closer. She doesn’t move. There’s nowhere left to go.

“It’s all right, my love,” he says, voice soft and silken, danger wrapped in sweetness. “Nobody knows but me.”

That makes her look up. Her fingers tremble. “Nobody… knows?”

He nods, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “Why would I tell anyone?” he asks. “Why ruin the little secret you’ve kept so carefully, when it was only ever meant for me?”

He smiles then, small and sharp. “If you truly think I’d share you with anyone,” he purrs, “then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you thought.”

A thought flickers through her—a fragile, trembling thing. If no one else truly knows, then—

She stops herself, shaking her head sharply. Tries to hold on to what little of herself remains, even as everything slips through her fingers like water through cupped palms. “You were just playing with me,” she breathes, clutching at the blanket. “You knew what was happening the whole time, and you just—you just let it happen.”

He blinks, slow and languid. “Then what were you expecting me to do?” he asks. “Did you want me to confront you? Weren’t you hoping the potion would do exactly what it was meant to?”

She tenses. He leans closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. He’s above her again, his presence filling the space, his body shadowing hers. “Or,” he says, “did you not want me to play along?”

What is she supposed to say to that? What can she say?

She can’t claim innocence—she was the one who spiked his drink, who set everything in motion. She can’t even feel wronged. Just lost. She thought there would be only two outcomes: the potion would work, or it wouldn’t. She never imagined this—never imagined him.

“So you don’t even love me,” she whispers at last, the only thought she can still reach for. “I thought you did. But you were just playing along.”

Something flashes in his eyes—brief, unreadable—and then he grabs her face and kisses her. It’s not the soft, coaxing kind she remembers. This one burns. Fierce, angry, claiming.

He kisses her like he’s trying to leave his mark inside her mouth, like he wants to brand himself beneath her skin. His teeth catch her lip; she gasps at the sting as he presses her down, his hand closing around her wrist, pinning her in place. The world narrows to his mouth and the rush of heat and air and hunger until her lungs scream for oxygen.

She beats weakly at his shoulder; only then does he pull back. His chest heaves. His eyes blaze.

“You think I don’t love you?” he asks. His tone is calm, measured, incongruous against the wildness of his gaze.

She shakes her head, shutting her eyes tight, but he takes her chin again, kisses her once more, holding her still. Her fingers clutch his shirt, desperate, and he groans into her mouth, a sound that vibrates straight through her. Heat coils low in her belly, answering before she can stop it.

And suddenly, the space between them feels empty. Too empty. Too cold.

Her mind flashes to the last time he touched her—her body rising and falling with his, the heavy weight of him pressing her down. Her thighs fall open on instinct, and he’s there at once, sliding between them, the hard line of his arousal pressing against her core. She whimpers.

“If I didn’t love you,” Lyney murmurs, kissing down her throat, “do you think I’d be here right now? Chasing you across half the continent after giving you all that precious time and space you begged for?”

He nips at her neck, soothes the sting with his tongue. “I told you I’d give you anything you wanted,” he says. “I gave you this—two months of peace. Now give me what I want.”

“You—you just want to punish me,” she gasps, words tumbling out before she can stop them. “You just want to make a fool of—”

Lyney bites down, hard enough that she cries out. His teeth sink into her shoulder; she knows it’ll bruise later. “If I wanted to punish you,” he rasps, voice roughened, “I wouldn’t have to come here myself.”

He lifts his head. The smile that curves his mouth is thin, wolfish. “I know where your mother is, after all.”

Her breath seizes. The world tilts.

He keeps smiling, gentle as ever. “But of course,” he adds, “I haven’t touched her. I’m not so cruel.”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, clutching at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

He tilts his head, studying her. His eyes gleam with a terrible kind of curiosity. “Why don’t you tell me?” he says softly. His hand slides down her side, anchors at her waist. “You always did know how to read me.”

His fingers tighten, pressing into her through the thin cotton. She gasps. “It shouldn’t be hard,” he says. “To tell me what I want. You already know the answer.”

Then he pushes her dress up, the fabric rucking around her hips. She startles when he kneels, his breath ghosting warm between her thighs. Her hands clutch at the pillow.

“We can make it a game,” he says. “If you win, I won’t take you back.”

“A-A game?” Her voice trembles.

“Mm.” His breath grazes her again, a teasing exhale that pulls a helpless moan from her throat. “If you give me what I truly want, you can stay here. Live out your quiet little life. Without me.”

“How will I know if I win?”

His eyes glint, wicked and soft all at once. “Haven’t we played games before?” he says. “You know I always tell the truth.”

She doesn’t believe him. Not entirely. But it’s hard to think—hard to think of anything—when he’s right there, when every part of her remembers him.

She hasn’t touched herself in two months. Hasn’t even wanted to. But with Lyney’s breath on her skin, his scent curling in her lungs, the taste of him still ghosting her lips—

She wants.

She wants so badly it hurts. Whatever fear she had, whatever resistance she clung to, it’s slipping. All she can feel now is the ache. The pull. The inevitability of him.

“Then…” She hesitates. Looks down at him between her legs, the gleam in his eyes, the wicked curve of his mouth. Some small, lucid part of her already knows this is a trap, that she’s walking herself into it. But the promise of him is too sweet, too familiar. She remembers too much—how easily he can unravel her, how thoroughly he can make her forget.

It’s impossible to tell herself no when he’s right there, and he makes falling look so very easy.

“All right,” she whispers at last. “I’ll play your game.”

“Of course you will,” he purrs, and lowers himself towards her.

The first flick of his tongue shatters her.

The shock of sensation hits like lightning. Two months without touch—long enough to dull the memory, not long enough to forget—and still her body recalls the script of him. Pleasure ripples outwards, trembling through her limbs. She knows the rhythm by heart: the way he tastes her, the way he toys with her, the way he pulls every sound from her throat until she’s shaking.

Lyney is too skilled at using his mouth. Too deliberate. Every movement feels like speech: articulate, persuasive, devastating. It’s less touch than language—his own form of argument, written against her skin. Every flick of his tongue, every delicate circle around her clit, every teasing press of his fingers—light, suggestive, never quite enough—feels like he’s rewriting her, erasing resistance, inscribing himself in her place.

It fits, she thinks dimly. That someone so good with words should be just as lethal without them.

Pleasure builds, familiar and terrifying in its inevitability. Her body arches, gasping, clawing for him. His name trembles on her lips—almost spoken, almost surrendered—

And then he stops.

Everything halts.

Lumine jerks upright, dazed, confused, her body shaking with the aftershocks. Lyney withdraws slowly, dropping featherlight kisses along her thighs, careful to avoid the slick, quivering ache between them.

“Lyney,” she breathes, her voice edging close to a whimper.

“Yes, my sweet?” he murmurs, almost absently. His teeth graze the inside of her thigh; she inhales sharply as his tongue soothes the mark he’s left.

“What are you doing?” she manages.

He’s never stopped first before. Never denied her at the brink. He’s always taken her apart until she begged—until he decided she’d had enough. Never like this. Never mercy.

“Why?” he says, and looks up at her. His eyes are pure violet, sharp as cut glass. “Is there something you want?”

He knows. He always knows.

She tries to close her legs, to press her thighs together and chase any kind of friction, but he catches her knees, holding her open. “Be good,” he says, velvet-smooth. “You want me to continue, don’t you?”

She nods helplessly, mute under his gaze. His thumb traces idle circles on her skin; his hands pin her in place. She’s never felt more exposed, or more beyond shame.

All she can think, all she can feel, is need. The aching, empty pulse of wanting him again—wanting the world to narrow to nothing but his mouth, his touch, his voice.

“Then listen to me,” Lyney says. His tone is tender, almost earnest. The hunger in his eyes belies it completely. “You can do that for me, can’t you, sweet girl?”

She bites her lip, nodding again. Her fingers fist the blanket. Lyney smiles. Then he lowers his head again.

And she breaks.

He teases her back to the edge, then withdraws. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time sharper, crueller. By the third, she’s trembling, breath hitching into soft, broken sounds. Tears blur her vision. His hands glide over her legs, guiding them over his shoulders, spreading her wider.

She can’t think anymore. Can’t even want properly. All she can see is him—his too-beautiful face slick with her arousal, his mouth shining, obscene and holy all at once. She should be ashamed. She isn’t. She’s only need, only heat, only desperation barely contained by the fragile shell of her body.

Finally, Lyney moves up over her. The shadow of him swallows her whole. She whimpers when his mouth dips to her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse.

Even though he’s only touched her between her thighs, her whole body burns. Every nerve alive, every breath trembling. She’s strung so tight she’s afraid she’ll break—that when she does, she’ll never be the same again.

“So pretty,” Lyney says, his lips tracing down her throat to the edge of her collar. The neckline gapes low, revealing the tops of her breasts. She squirms when his mouth grazes them. Her nipples ache through the thin fabric; the cloth feels unbearable against her skin.

She wants it gone. Wants his hands instead. Wants him—closer, deeper, everywhere.

It feels cruel, this distance. He’s touching her, always touching her, and yet somehow, it’s still not enough.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, silken.

Her body reacts before her mind can catch up. She reaches for him blindly, hands trembling in the air until he meets her halfway. His face fills her vision, beautiful and terrible, and when he kisses her, it doesn’t feel like choice. It feels like gravity—like something she was always meant to fall into.

She sobs into his mouth, lips parting instinctively, offering herself up. Because she does want him to take. Would let him take and take, if only he’d give her that promise of release. If only he’d finally let her fall. She’s been teetering at the edge for so long she can’t tell if the ache hurts anymore.

“Want you, Lyney,” she breathes, the words slurring together between gasps. “Want you, please—”

He hums, the sound low and indulgent. “You want me?” he echoes.

His hand cups her breast, thumb rolling over her stiff nipple through the thin fabric of her dress. She gasps, arching into his touch before she can stop herself. The friction sparks, sharp and exquisite, but it’s still not enough—never enough.

“Yes,” she cries, voice dissolving into a moan shaped like the word. “Want you.”

Language fails her. Thought fails her. All that exists now is the ache, the rhythm of her breath, the heat gathering between her legs.

And Lyney—smiling that same soft, devastating smile, sweet and gentle and merciless—can give her what she’s begging for. He can end the ache, fill the hollow, make her whole again. He always could.

“You’re greedy,” he says. “Always asking for so much, even when you offer nothing.”

As he speaks, he rucks her dress up over her head. She doesn’t resist. The fabric falls away, leaving her bare and trembling, skin prickling under the ghost of air. Even the coolness of it makes her moan. Everything feels like too much, and still, somehow, too little.

She’s so close. So close to the edge she can taste it. Teetering over oblivion, unsure if she wants to stop or fall. Unsure if the relief will save her or destroy her.

His palms find her breasts again, kneading, shaping, before his mouth closes over one. He bites, and she cries out, shuddering. His knee slips between her thighs, and she grinds down against him helplessly, chasing friction, chasing anything.

Lyney laughs—soft, low, almost wrecked, though he would never allow himself to break. “So sweet like this,” he whispers. “So mine.”

He’s saying too many things that don’t matter, words that can’t reach her through the haze. She can’t understand them anymore. She only understands touch, heat, the unbearable pleasure of him pressing her down.

He grinds his thigh against her, and she wails as it drags against her clit, nerves lighting up, her whole body tightening with the force of it. It’s too much, too sharp—yet not enough, never enough. She needs him. She needs more.

“So needy,” Lyney murmurs. He pulls back slightly, replacing his thigh with his hand. His palm cups her slick core, his fingers slide over her, teasing, coaxing. Lumine gasps—a shuddering, broken sound—when one finger slips in.

It’s nothing. A spark in an ocean. Nowhere near enough. She clenches around him, whimpering, reaching up to clutch her breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers. It’s shameless, desperate, and Lyney watches her like he’s starving.

“Please,” she cries. “Please take me.”

“You want your husband to take you?”

She nods frantically. Her body arches, mouth open, eyes unfocused. The world around her dissolves into light and sound and breath. She’s no longer sure where she ends and he begins.

“You want your husband to fuck you, Lumine?” His voice is a low rasp against her ear. His hand skims her waist, fingers digging into her hip hard enough to bruise. Pain and pleasure blur. She moans, pushing down against his hand, trying to coax him deeper.

“But why?” he asks softly. His mouth grazes her neck; his breath is warm, sweet. He’s too close, too heavy, too much. “Why do you want me, Lumine? I thought you wanted to run from me.”

Another finger slides in. The stretch draws a gasp from her throat, a momentary flare of sharpness before her body adjusts. It isn’t the same as having him inside her, not even close, but it’s something. It’s him.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t it?” he asks. “To this village. Without me. You lived two whole months without me.” His fingers scissor inside her, deliberate, measured. His other hand drifts to her clit, presses down lightly, and she cries out. Her hips twist, caught between retreat and surrender.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone almost contemplative, “you don’t need me after all.”

“N-Not true,” she pleads. “Not true. Lyney, need you, please—”

“Ah, but I can’t tell.” His voice is calm, conversational, almost amused. “You’ve never told me you wanted me before, not outside of bed. Maybe you’re only saying it now, trying to seduce me into giving you what you want before you leave again.”

“Not true!” Her voice cracks, collapsing into a whine. “Lyney, listen—listen to me—”

“I am listening,” he says.

His thumb circles her clit, presses down, and she breaks—her body convulsing, pleasure flaring white-hot behind her eyes. “I’m listening to you right now, aren’t I?”

Her throat feels thick, choked with everything she cannot voice. She wants to be honest. To confess. To tell him the truth. But fear holds her still, until Lyney’s fingers move inside her with precise, devastating ease, and whatever resolve she’s clung to splinters apart.

“Or maybe there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs. His touch continues—measured, knowing, coaxing her closer to the edge where thought dissolves into need.

He’s drawing her out, teasing her past sense and speech, pushing her towards that trembling brink where she becomes something helpless and wordless, made only of want. She’s frightened of that place, of what she’ll lose if she falls. Of who she’ll be once she’s gone.

“Is there?” Lyney asks, and before she can answer, he kisses her—hard, claiming, swallowing the sound that escapes her. His hand moves with him, and the world blurs to light and desire. Her fingers clutch at his shoulders, desperate for something solid as she drifts beneath the tide of sensation.

Pressure coils in her belly, dizzying. Shame and thought have long since left her; she is only breath and pulse and his name lodged somewhere between.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with truth, she thinks hazily. Maybe honesty is the only thing left to give him. Anything, just to end this exquisite ache.

“Tell me,” he breathes against her skin. She looks up, into the violet depths of his eyes, and her voice breaks open.

“I love you,” she cries. “I love you, Lyney. I love you so much that it scares me. So please—”

The rest is lost when he seizes her wrists and pins her beneath him, kissing her again, deeper, hungrier, until she forgets how to breathe. It feels like something long dammed has finally broken. She gasps against his mouth, trembling beneath the weight of his want and her own relief.

When he pulls back, his eyes gleam with something unreadable. “What else?” he asks softly.

Her mind stumbles; she can’t think. He presses closer, the heat of his body overwhelming, his breath unsteady against her cheek. His arousal, still clothed, grinds against her slick centre—she’s dripping so much that there’s already a damp patch on his trousers.

“What else, my love?” he repeats, almost tender. “What else should you tell me if you want me to put my cock inside you?”

The words are indecent, but the ache they kindle makes her shiver. She can’t look away. The answer rises unbidden, pulled from instinct rather than thought.

“I’ll stay with you,” she whispers, tears streaking down her temples. “I’ll stay with you forever. I won’t run. I love you, Lyney—please.”

A sound escapes him, half groan, half sigh. For a moment, he releases her, and before she can breathe again, he’s back on the bed, as bare as she is, drawing her close and slotting himself inside her like he’s reclaiming something lost.

Lumine arches, moaning when he enters her, the world narrowing to heat and heartbeat. He fills her, surrounds her until there’s no space left for anything else.

“I adore you too,” Lyney murmurs, his voice frayed as he pushes inside her. She clutches at him, holding tight, her nails tracing down his back. “I don’t ever want to wake without you beside me.”

There is nothing gentle in what follows. It feels like being caught in a storm—too fierce to reason with, too consuming to escape. He moves with a single-minded force that leaves her no room to think, no room to breathe. The world narrows to rhythm and heat and the ache of him driving her past the point of sense, until she’s trembling, raw, boneless.

But he doesn’t stop. Each time she falls apart, he gathers her again, whispering her name, coaxing her past the limit of what she thought she could bear. Her body feels distant, blurred; only his voice anchors her, low and ruined in her ear.

Now, she lies on her front, fisting the blanket, and his hands are gripping hers, laced through the spaces between her fingers. He’s kissing down her back, nuzzling against her throat, and she’s still coming—has been for archons know how long.

Her body convulses, trying to make sense of this unending pleasure. Surely it’s impossible to keep feeling so much. To withstand all this sensation without crumbling to pieces.

“Lyney,” she gasps, tears slipping free. “I can’t—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, the sound rich with awe. “You’re beautiful when you lose yourself for me. Give me that again.”

Need is already stirring low in her belly. She yields without knowing why, her body obeying even as her mind frays apart. Her head turns to meet him for a kiss; he groans into her mouth and buries himself to the hilt, going still as he finally spills inside her.

Her end isn’t pain or pleasure but a flood that drowns everything else. His breath catches against her neck, his weight anchoring her to the bed, and for a long time, neither of them moves.

Only when the world begins to return—their breaths, the faint tremor of the air between them—does she feel the ache he’s left in her, the echo of his hands, the ghosts of his words blooming across her skin like bruised flowers.

He has his arms around her. She feels the brush of his mouth along her bare neck—soft, fleeting, almost gentle. Her mind is still reeling, still trying to catch up with what just happened between them.

“The game,” she whispers. Her voice is rough, nearly unrecognisable. “I… in the end, I didn’t—”

“You did.” Lyney draws her closer, folds her body against his, her back to his chest. A kiss ghosts over the curve of her neck; she tries not to shiver, and fails. “You gave me exactly what I wanted.”

She shuts her eyes, breath uneven, her heart still trying to find a steady rhythm. “Sex?”

“Not that,” he says. “You told me you love me. That you’ll stay with me forever.”

She stiffens, fingers curling in the blanket. Her heart lurches—she did say that, didn’t she?

His smile finds her nape, a sigh against her skin. “I love you too, you know,” he murmurs. “I love you, and I can’t bear the thought of you leaving me again.”

Then he takes her by the waist and turns her to face him. Violet eyes meet hers, gleaming with intent she knows too well. It makes something swoop low in her belly, tightening into a knot of fear and longing.

“You won’t go, will you?” he asks, voice gentle as honey. His fingers thread between hers, guiding her hand to his sternum. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat drums steady and sure.

She swallows. Her gaze drops to his mouth—soft, full, close enough to taste. There’s still so much she wants to do here, in this quiet village. So much she hasn’t said, hasn’t learnt.

But when she looks up again, he’s waiting, and the tremor in her chest betrays her. She smiles—small, wavering, as though unsure what truth it’s meant to carry.

“I won’t,” she says.

And he kisses her.

Notes:

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