CHAPTER 187: SOMEONE IN YOUR POSITION

The next morning arrived with the muted grey of an overcast sky, as if the heavens themselves anticipated the storm brewing within the Blackthorne estate. Liora awoke to the faint clinking of porcelain, the subtle aroma of tea seeping through her chamber. She sat up, the silken sheets sliding from her shoulders, and found a tray already placed upon the small table near the window, bread still warm, honey glistening in a small dish, and a pot of dark, fragrant brew. Edgar’s efficiency never failed to surprise her.

She dressed without a maid’s assistance, preferring the quiet moments to collect herself. The gown she chose was modest but finely made, soft green with understated embroidery along the cuffs. Today, she told herself, she would not simply drift through the corridors like a shadow. She had questions. And she would begin seeking answers.

Descending the staircase, she paused when she heard voices in the study. The door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow gap she could make out Lucien’s figure, standing by the desk with Rowan beside him. The two spoke in low tones, but their words carried just enough for her to catch fragments—mentions of "the docks," "unwanted visitors," and "a shipment that must not be traced."

She leaned ever so slightly forward, straining to hear more. Her pulse quickened. These were not the concerns of a disgraced prince seeking only a quiet exile. There was something else at work here, something deliberate. The sound of footsteps behind her jolted her, and she straightened instantly, turning to find Edgar approaching with his usual calm.

"Good morning, Lady Liora," he said, offering a shallow bow. "His Grace will join you for the midday meal. Would you like me to prepare a tour of the estate in the meantime?"

Her lips curved in a polite smile, masking the tension in her chest. "That would be most welcome."

If Lucien thought she would remain ignorant of whatever games he played, he underestimated her. For now, she would play her role, walking the halls with Edgar, nodding at the staff, and learning the estate’s every passage and corner. But when the moment came, she would know where to listen, where to hide, and how to uncover the truths he kept so carefully locked away.

By the time the midday sun broke through the clouds, she was seated at the long dining table, watching Lucien enter with a stride that seemed to draw the air toward him. His eyes flickered to her briefly...an unreadable glance...before he took his seat. No words of greeting, no unnecessary courtesy. Just that cool, controlled presence.

But Liora, beneath her calm demeanor, was already planning her next move.

Liora’s steps slowed as they approached a bend in the corridor, where a draft curled around the corner. Edgar paused before it, listening intently, his head tilting just slightly as though catching some distant sound.

When they turned, the hallway opened into a high-ceilinged antechamber. The air here was heavier, the stone darker, as though it had absorbed centuries of whispered secrets. Along the walls hung a series of paintings, portraits of past kings and queens, their eyes following her with unnerving precision.

The light from a single iron sconce flickered, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Somewhere beyond, a faint metallic clang echoed, quickly swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Edgar’s voice was low when he spoke. "We are close."

They reached a pair of heavy oak doors bound with black iron, their intricate hinges shaped like curling vines. Edgar stepped forward, his gloved hands pressing against the cold metal.

For a heartbeat, Liora thought he would knock...but instead, he pushed one door inward just enough for her to see inside.

The chamber beyond was dim, lit only by the glow of a fire in the massive hearth. Shadows stretched across the stone floor like grasping hands. At the far end, a tall figure stood with his back to them, broad shoulders framed by the flicker of flames. His coat, dark as midnight, bore the faint gleam of embroidery along the edges.

Even without seeing his face, she knew...this was Lucien Blackthorne.

Edgar’s voice was a murmur at her ear. "Go on, my lady. He’s expecting you."

Liora’s pulse thudded against her ribs. She had prepared herself for this moment during the entire ride, rehearsing what she might say and how she might appear calm and unshaken. Yet standing here, on the threshold of the disgraced prince’s chamber, all that practice evaporated like mist.

She stepped forward, her shoes sinking slightly into the thick, faded rug that stretched across the stone. The air inside was warmer, but it carried a sharp undercurrent of metal and smoke, as though the fire had been stoked too often and too hard.

Lucien didn’t turn immediately. He remained by the hearth, one hand resting lightly on the mantel, fingers brushing over a small silver dagger that gleamed in the firelight. The motion seemed absent, almost idle, yet something about it made her throat tighten.

"You kept me waiting," his voice came at last, deep and smooth but edged in something cold. He didn’t raise it, yet the words carried easily across the room, striking her with more force than if he had shouted.

"I... arrived as quickly as I could," she said, forcing her tone steady.

Slowly, he turned. The fire cast his face in shadow and light, revealing sharp lines, a mouth set in a hard curve, and eyes, dark, steady, and assessing. For a long, unbearable moment, he simply looked at her, as though weighing her very presence.

"You’re smaller than I expected," he said at last.

Her spine stiffened. "And you’re exactly as I expected, Your Highness."

His brows lifted slightly, though whether in amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t tell. He stepped away from the mantel, the faint whisper of his boots on the rug sounding louder than the crackle of the fire.

Lucien stopped a mere arm’s length away, close enough that the heat from the fire seemed to follow him, yet not close enough to be intimate. His gaze roamed over her deliberately, head to toe, without the courtesy of hiding it.

"You speak boldly for someone in your position," he murmured.

"And what position is that, exactly?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with steel. "A concubine sent here without choice? Or a pawn placed at your side for reasons neither of us are foolish enough to ignore?"

A flicker, there and gone, touched his expression. "So you’re aware."

"I’m not blind," she replied, holding his gaze. "Nor am I naïve enough to believe my arrival here is simply... tradition."

His lips curved, but it was not a smile; it was the ghost of one, sharp and humorless. "Good. Naïveté is a weakness I have no patience for."

"Then we’re even," she said before she could stop herself. "Because patience is a courtesy I rarely extend to strangers who measure me like livestock."

The silence between them thickened, stretching until she could hear her own heartbeat. Lucien’s jaw shifted slightly, and then, unexpectedly, he chuckled. The sound was low, almost disbelieving.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you’ll prove more... interesting than I anticipated."

Lucien’s chuckle faded, leaving behind a measured stillness that felt more dangerous than any raised voice. He stepped closer, the faint scent of leather and steel clinging to him, until the edge of his shadow cut across her boots.

"You stand here, speaking as if you have a choice," he said quietly. "Tell me, Liora Miral if I decided this very moment that you would kneel, would you obey?"

Her chin lifted instinctively. "If I kneel, it will be because I choose to. Not because you command it."

The air between them tightened, sharp as a drawn bowstring. For a long beat, he simply stared at her, his gaze a storm barely restrained. Then, with a movement so swift she almost missed it, he reached out, fingers brushing her chin, tilting her face up.

"You mistake tolerance for leniency," he said, voice low enough that the fire’s crackle nearly swallowed it. "I don’t tolerate insolence, Liora. I simply haven’t decided yet whether yours is worth crushing."

She swallowed, refusing to break eye contact. "Then perhaps you’ll discover it’s not so easily crushed."

Something flickered in his eyes again not quite amusement, not quite warning. He released her abruptly, as though the touch had been nothing more than an afterthought.

"Edgar," Lucien called without looking away from her, "show Lady Liora to her chambers. Make sure the door locks from the outside."

The corridor to her chambers stretched on like a gauntlet, cold stone walls, dim sconces throwing warped shadows, and Edgar’s steady footsteps trailing just behind her.

When they reached the door, the steward stepped ahead to open it. The hinges gave a soft groan, and the stale air inside made Liora hesitate before crossing the threshold.

"His Grace instructed this to be locked," Edgar said, his tone devoid of judgment, merely delivering fact. "You will find fresh water and linens. Supper will be brought shortly."