CHAPTER 105: HIS ACCEPTANCE

Lorraine rose slowly, her golden hair tumbling down in a silken cascade that brushed against her hips, catching the sunlight as if spun from fire. Leroy watched her, transfixed, his green eyes drinking in every curve of her small and delicate body that carried storms in her veins, as she stepped closer.

He picked up his clothes and placed on the bed. Standing on the bed, she reached for him, her slender hands dressing him piece by piece, her movements both dutiful and intimate. He was tall, and from that height her body brushed against his, soft skin gliding over hardened muscle, a quiet offering with every touch.

As she fixed the collar of his shirt, the soft swell of her perky breast grazed his cheek. She froze, only for a breath, before feeling the warmth of his exhale ghost across her skin. His fingers tightened at her waist, curling into her flesh with barely contained hunger. Then his mouth found her tip, lips drawing her in with a tenderness that made her shiver back in surprise.

But he held her still, his gaze lifting to hers, dark and consuming. She didn’t mind his desire at all. Her lips pressed against his brow in answer, tender, yielding, as his tongue teased against her sensitive peak until her body quivered in his arms.

When...

A sharp knock split the moment.

Leroy broke away with a frustrated sigh. Lorraine’s face flared crimson, her laughter stifled behind her hands, caught between shame and delight.

And then, without meaning to, she turned to fetch his belt. Her golden hair slid forward over her shoulder in a silken fall, baring the curve of her back to him.

Scars.

They riddled her pale skin, cruel strokes of an old belt carved by her father’s hand, and deeper still, the sharp and long, wicked scar left by a lady’s jeweled hairpin, an old wound that never healed clean. No candlelight this time to blur them into shadows. In the full blaze of day, they were stark, unflinching, each mark a story of pain she had carried in silence.

Her chest tightened, but she did not cover herself. She knelt on the bed, letting him see, letting him know. It was more than skin she offered, it was the truth of her, the pieces no one else was allowed to witness.

Leroy’s breath caught. His hand rose, almost reverent, and she felt the heat of his palm hover just above her scars, not touching yet, as though afraid that the weight of his hand might break her.

She trembled, not from fear, but from the raw vulnerability of it, as though she had stripped her very soul bare before him.

Leroy’s hand came to rest on her back, fingers trailing over the ridges of old wounds with reverence. She winced at first, but he pressed his palm firmly against her, grounding her in his warmth.

It tore at him to see those scars. Every time they came into the light, he felt that same crushing helplessness—the realization of how useless he was, as though he should have been there, as though he should have bled in her place. If he could turn back time, he would have shielded her, even if it meant his own back bore every lash. Or perhaps he would have killed the hands that dared touch her at all.

He could not see his face, but he could sense her shame reflected in her silence and he way she crunched down. He understood it too well. The world was cruel; scars on a man became medals of valor, yet scars on a woman, even unwilling ones, became marks of humiliation.

And then his lips found her skin.

One by one, he kissed the scars. Softly. Patiently. Reverently. Each touch spoke the words he could not utter aloud: I see you. I want you. I take you as you are.

To him, the scars were beautiful and uniquely hers, as much a part of her as the scent of vyrnshade clinging to her skin. Proof. When he had held her in the tower, those scars had told him he was not dreaming, that she was truly his wife. How could he not love them?

Lorraine felt it. Felt his devotion in every kiss, felt the warmth sinking into places she had long buried. Not once did he flinch from what she considered her disfigurement. His lips made her feel... normal. Wanted. Accepted.

Tears welled in her eyes. She turned, and he gathered her face in his hands, brushing tender kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, catching the tears before they fell. The weight on her chest eased, replaced with something light... almost freedom.

When her hands steadied, she finished dressing him—fastening his belt, smoothing his hair. He let her fuss as she pleased, and when she brushed out his hair, she did not tuck the braid behind as he had. Instead, she let it fall proudly across his shoulder, tying only the unbraided length. That braid was his pride, his honor earned in blood. He should display it, as a prince of Kaltharion.

She stood back and smiled, her chest full. Perfect. Her husband looked perfect. And she would protect him with all she had.

Leroy cupped her face one last time. He almost asked if she wished to come with him, but her eyes already answered. So instead, he kissed her lips—lingering, reluctant—before he turned and left the room.

-----

Lorraine adjusted her linen coif as she settled into a seat in the stone auditorium, Sylvia close at her side. In her weathered clothes she looked no more than a tired commoner woman, no one would dare suspect a princess sat among them. She hadn’t expected the crowd to swell so quickly, but the arena filled to the brim; under tyrants, even empty pageantry offered a welcome reprieve from hunger and fear.

The Emperor’s section gleamed above, shaded beneath a jeweled canopy. Directly below, on the open ground, a raised wooden platform had been built for the tributes. At each offering, the structure would be hoisted high enough for the Emperor to touch the gift with his sword—his version of "acceptance," an act of spectacle as much as power.

When the Emperor finally arrived with his heavy procession, the arena roared. Gold dripped from his robe, his crown catching the sunlight like a cruel jest while his people starved. The Empress followed at his side, drowning in layers of jewels and clinking chains of gold, her steps slow under their weight. Behind her followed the crown prince, clutching at her skirt with grubby hands, refusing to let go.

Lorraine’s mouth curved in a thin, humorless smile. At that age, Leroy was already fighting in the warrior games for Elyse... and this boy can’t even unclutch his mother’s gown.

Her eyes slid past them to the Dowager, a step behind. Regal, inscrutable as always, the old woman’s chin lifted high, pride etched into every line of her bearing. Pride...and something else, tightly concealed, as though she alone remembered the crown’s fragility beneath all that gold.

Lorraine’s patience thinned with every blast of the trumpets, every unnecessary flourish the Emperor had orchestrated for his own glory.

The crowd pressed behind her as more poured in. She shifted, giving way... until one man refused to move past, his arm brushing close against her shoulder.

Lorraine drew breath to snap at him, but then he bent low, his voice curling into her ear.

"This scent on you... You reek of Venus’ games. Why didn’t you invite me?"

Her head snapped sideways, her indignation rising hot... until her eyes landed on him.

Of course. Who else would dare?

Prince Damian, half-concealed beneath a hood, grinned at her like the devil himself.

Lorraine pressed her lips into a hard line. "You aren’t joining your father?" she whispered back, sharp as a blade.

He only shrugged, the curve of his mouth infuriatingly casual. "I’d rather be here. With you."

She rolled her eyes so hard she thought she might faint under the blistering sun. But her heart... betrayed her with the tiniest hitch.

The trumpets blared again. One by one, kingdoms approached the dais, their tributes announced with pomp. Lorraine’s gaze sharpened, her breath tight in her chest, as she waited for his—for Kaltharion’s offering—to be carried forward.