CHAPTER 102: ANGER AND REALIZATION

Lorraine was shocked to see Leroy standing at her threshold, already dressed in full regalia.

Too early. Far too early for him to be dressed like that. And worse, he shouldn’t be here. Not in her chambers. By now, he ought to be at the tower, waiting for the Divina.

Her chest tightened. She had sent him the message herself, inked on the Divina’s parchment, sealed with the swan feather. A warning, careful and veiled, in High Veyrani script. He should have alerted about the threat to his life, and should be at the tower to discuss more about it to the Divina who looked out for him.

So why was he here?

Had he ignored the letter? But it should have been obvious. Why was he here? Wasn’t he avoiding her? Wouldn’t he like to spend time with the "Divina"?

The thought clawed at her.

She had even considered slipping into the tower under the Divina’s veil to warn him in a detailed manner. But she overslept. Only a little. Just enough to miss her chance.

Now, seeing him here instead of there, a strange chill slid down her spine. Had her delay cost her? He needed to be warned.

Sylvia moved aside, head bowed, as Leroy stepped into the room. His stride carried no hesitation, no courtesy. He came as though he owned the air she breathed.

Lorraine’s pulse leapt. Emma was still in the bedchamber, fussing over the bedspread, oblivious. Lorraine had no chance to prepare before Leroy’s gaze fixed on her. The mask hid his expression, but his eyes that were unyielding, and searching, struck her like a blow.

What does he want?

He raised his hand. A crumpled parchment slipped from his fingers and landed between them. Lorraine bent to pick it up, smoothing it open with trembling hands. Her breath caught.

The letter. The one she had sent as the Swan Divina.

Her mind reeled. So, he read it. But why was he here?

Leroy studied her in silence, her confusion only sharpening the anger coiling inside him. She looked at him as if she hadn’t written it, as if that letter wasn’t an invite to her tower, as if she hadn’t once whispered she would rather be his mistress than his wife.

Did she think he hadn’t understood her invite? That he hadn’t wanted her? When he first found the letter, he had smiled. Of course, it was her. Of course, she had known what he needed before he could ask.

But he didn’t go. He had waited. Because he would not crawl to her. He would not encourage her as his mistress. He wanted his wife. Let her come to him. Let the "Divina" suffer a little disappointment. Perhaps that would drive his wife into his arms, where she belonged.

Yet here she was, not in the tower, not waiting for him, but standing here—calm, unreadable, always holding herself apart.

"You’re not getting ready?" His voice cut through the silence, too sharp, too tight.

Lorraine blinked, caught off guard. He had never brought her to ceremonies. Why today? What had changed?

She shook her head. Quiet. Steady. A refusal.

She was not going to go and he couldn’t drag her there. If he pressed, she would only fold into some fainting fit and win her way to remain behind. If she went at his side, she would lose sight of whether her plan was unfolding as it should.

No, she would go, but not as his consort. She would slip into the crowd in plain dress, another nameless face, not his wife. She would have better access to protecting him by staying away from him. She couldn’t be useful as his wife, but as a shadow, she could be useful.

Leroy’s jaw tightened. Again. Always again. She would not stand by him.

Anger flickered in his chest, hot and bitter. Why was it so difficult for her to walk at his side? Did she think him so weak, so unworthy, that she could not even bear to be seen with him?

Yes, once, he had kept her away. Not from shame, but to keep her from cruelty. He could not stomach watching her smile as knives of gossip cut into her. They had thought her deaf, and she had pretended not to hear. But he had heard. He had bled for every word spoken against her.

And now she believed the lie that he had been ashamed of her.

That was why he wanted her there, beside him, where the world could not ignore her. Where he could draw strength from her presence, as he always had. That was why he brought her before his family, even when he knew they’d sneer. Because without her, his head, his resolve, slipped.

But here she was again, stepping back, choosing distance.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. Why couldn’t she be with him? Why was it too much to ask?

He was so enraged. When he tried to get close, she runs away. He tried his best and always was gentle with her and each time, she get startled by the mere sight of him. She loves him so much and yet trusts him so little that she could only be with him as someone else.

Why? Why couldn’t she see his love just like he does?

He didn’t want to linger. His patience was fraying, pride rising like a blade he couldn’t sheath. If he stayed, he might wound her with words he could never take back.

But then... he looked. Truly looked.

Her eyes, rimmed with fatigue. The faint smudge of ink on her fingertips. She had been up through the night—plotting, writing, weaving ways to protect him. She wasn’t refusing him out of defiance. No... she was fighting for him in silence.

His little porcupine, bristling at the world, yet soft when she thought he wasn’t watching.

Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted, brushing against her cheek. The warmth of her skin stilled him. He might not live to see another dawn. Yes, he would keep his sword sharp and his senses sharper, and yes, she would spend every breath she had to guard him. But still—death might come.

And if it did, he could not leave this world with distance in his heart. Not when she was here, so close, so unbearably his. Pride was a hollow shield compared to this... this one fleeting touch, this ache of wanting her, wholly, before it was too late.

He reached for her almost without thought, tugging loose the strand of hair that always curled stubbornly by her ear. It slipped straight beneath his fingers, refusing its usual shape, as if even her hair resisted him tonight.

What was he waiting for? What was she? Did it matter who crossed the distance first? Pride, hurt, all the little wars they fought... Weren’t they small against the simple truth of being together?

The questions tangled inside him until they left no air, no reason. He bent, surrendering to the pull he had buried too long, and before he knew it, his lips were lowering toward hers.