CHAPTER 29: THE SILENCE BETWEEN HEARTBEATS

[Rynthall Estate—Outside Silas’s Chambers]

The marble corridors, usually silent and pristine, now buzzed with hushed whispers. Maids huddled near the archways, voices trembling like autumn leaves in a storm.

"Did you hear?" One of them whispered, wide-eyed.

"The Baron," another gasped, clutching her apron. "He was kidnapped!"

A third maid leaned in, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. "Yes... and our Lord... our Lord carried him in his arms."

"I was in the hall when it happened," said another, eyes shining with both fear and awe. "He burst through the front gates—covered in blood, yelling to summon the physician and the priest. I’ve never seen Lord Silas like that before. It was scary."

There was a beat of silence.

"...And did you see?" One of them whispered, "He was trembling."

The others turned sharply.

"Trembling?"

She nodded, hand at her chest. "Like he was holding his whole world, and it was falling apart right in his arms."

Gasps fluttered like petals through the corridor.

***

[Outside the Silas’s Chamber]

Meanwhile, just outside Silas’s chambers, Marcel stood rooted to the spot—tearful, pale, hands wringing together as if he could squeeze time backward. His breathing came in short, rapid gasps, and he kept repeating the same words under his breath.

"He was bleeding... gods, he was bleeding so much... I shouldn’t have brought him out... I shouldn’t have... Why did I take him to the burned warehouse? I should’ve gone by myself.... What was I thinking—"

A gentle but firm hand touched his shoulder.

Marcel jolted.

It was Elize, her face tired but calm, her voice low and steady. "Marcel," she said softly, "It’s not your fault."

"I-I should’ve protected him. He was my resposi—" Marcel’s voice cracked.

"Hey," Damon cut in gently, squeezing his shoulder. "He’s strong. And he’s not alone. He has all of us—and Lord Silas. He’ll be okay. Do you hear me?"

Marcel nodded quickly, wiping his cheeks, but his gaze remained glued to the heavy doors in front of him.

***

[Inside Silas’s Chamber]

The room smelled of ointments and candle wax. Tension hung in the air like storm clouds ready to break.

Lucien lay on the grand bed, pale and still. The blood had been wiped away, but the sight of him—lips cracked, skin clammy, eyelids fluttering—was enough to make a grown man break.

And Silas?

Silas sat beside him, unmoving, hand clutching Lucien’s limp fingers like a lifeline. His usually icy composure was shattered. The faint tremor in his grip refused to stop, no matter how tightly he clenched his jaw.

A man who had once commanded armies—undefeated, unshaken—was now wordless beside the person he couldn’t afford to lose.

The priest stood over Lucien’s body, chanting softly, golden light spiraling from his forehead and sinking into the bruised, trembling figure.

At last, the glow faded.

The priest exhaled—long and weary—and turned to Silas with a respectful bow.

"My Lord," he said gravely, "I have healed what I could. The external wounds are closed. His internal strain... will take time."

Lucien stirred slightly at that, lips twitching into a half-conscious frown.

Silas opened his mouth to speak, but Callen—the ever-steady assistant—stepped forward instead.

"Thank you, Father," Callen said with a short bow. "You’ve done more than enough. Please... rest."

The priest nodded, though he lingered for a moment longer—his eyes drifting from the fragile form on the bed to the man gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Then the priest paused at the doorway, his brows furrowed in quiet confusion. He murmured to himself, "Why... why did I sense another presence within him?"

His gaze lingered on Lucien for a long moment, as if searching for something invisible. A whisper of unease crossed his features.

"I must inform the High Priest," he muttered under his breath, almost as if afraid the walls might hear.

Without another word, he turned and departed, his boots falling silently against the thick carpet—leaving behind a chamber steeped in silence and prayers that clung to the air, unfinished and unanswered.

The moment he left, Frederick—his coat stained with herbs and his face drawn with fatigue—stepped in.

"I will check the child now," he said, his voice brisk but not unkind.

Silas nodded, not once looking away from Lucien.

Frederick pulled out his instruments and gently placed a hand on Lucien’s belly, murmuring to himself as he worked. Time ticked by in agonizing silence.

Finally, Frederick’s expression softened.

"The baby seems to be... strong," Frederick said with a soft smile, his fingers still gently resting over Lucien’s faint bump. "Resilient little bean. The heartbeat is steady. No damage detected."

He straightened, brushing his hands down his robe. "But both the baron and the child need rest. Warmth. Nourishment. And absolutely—absolutely—no more chair-leg duels for at least a week."

That last part was meant to lighten the air, but it barely stirred a reaction.

Silas, seated by the bedside like a stone figure chiseled by worry, finally exhaled. It was a slow, heavy breath—the kind that comes from hours of clenched fear.

"...When will he wake up?" His voice was hoarse. Quiet. Almost afraid to ask.

Frederick looked at Faylen, standing nearby, who had been unusually quiet until now. Faylen gave a long sigh, his eyes thoughtful.

"It depends, my lord," Faylen said at last.

Silas frowned. "Depends? On what?"

Faylen stepped closer, his gaze softening with a quiet, almost sorrowful tenderness as he looked down at Lucien. "It depends on him, my lord," he said gently. "Only Lord Lucien can choose to wake. The rest... is beyond our reach."

Silas blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

There was a pause. Then Faylen spoke, slowly—carefully.

"The Baron is not unconscious due to physical injury. Not anymore. His body is healing. But his mind..." Faylen’s gaze shifted back to Lucien. "His mind has... withdrawn."

Frederick folded his arms, nodding gravely. "Trauma. The attack, the fear, the pain—especially in his condition—it was too much for him. It seems his consciousness has retreated to protect itself."

Silas’s brows furrowed deeply. "But... that would be dangerous for the baby, wouldn’t it? He’s carrying..."

He trailed off, eyes flickering down to the tiny curve of Lucien’s stomach—barely there, but real

. A miracle he hadn’t dared to believe in before.

Faylen’s voice was gentle. "Yes, my lord. Prolonged psychological retreat can affect the bond between carrier and child. Their connection is delicate, especially in the early weeks. If the mother’s stress remains unchecked..." He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

Silas’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists on the edge of the mattress.

"...What can I do?"

Faylen stepped closer, looking at his pale lord. "You need to be near him. Let him feel your presence. Your alpha pheromones may help keep both him and the child regulated—calm and stable. It may even coax him to return if he senses you’re still here... waiting for him."

Frederick chimed in, softer this time. "Touch is powerful, my lord. Talk to him. Remind him he’s not alone. Remind him he’s safe."

There was silence. Only the sound of Lucien’s faint breathing and the distant flicker of candlelight.

Faylen’s voice grew lighter, almost wistful, as a faint smile tugged at his lips. "Don’t worry, my lord. I have a feeling our Baron will wake up soon. Because..." he glanced at Lucien, then back at Silas, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"We all know he is rather possessive when it comes to his chi—" he paused, chuckled softly, "—no, I mean... his little wobblebean."

A slight glint of amusement stirred in Silas’s eyes, but it was brief—overshadowed quickly by aching tenderness.

He looked down at Lucien again. So pale. So still. His usually expressive features were slack, eyelashes resting like feathers on his cheeks. He looked... young. Fragile.

Then, almost reverently, Silas reached out and rested a hand over the barely-there bump.

His voice was low. Trembling.

"...My child," he whispered, fingers spreading gently, protectively. "My precious wobblebean..."

His other hand reached for Lucien’s, curling their fingers together like he was anchoring both of them to this moment, this world.

"Please..." his voice cracked.

"Please help your mommy come back to me. I know you’re there... both of you. And I swear, I will protect you. I will never let anything harm you again. But I need him—your mommy—to wake up."

He swallowed hard, brushing his thumb across Lucien’s knuckles.

"I need him to hear me. To feel that I’m here. That he’s safe. That nothing—not even death itself—could take him away from me."

The room was silent.

Then, slowly, Silas leaned down, pressing a trembling kiss to Lucien’s temple.

"I’m not leaving your side," he whispered. "Not now. Not ever."

No one spoke.

Even the flickering candles seemed to quiet themselves.

The whole estate held its breath.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no distant crash, no urgent summons, no dramatic yelling from a certain fiery baron demanding pastries or hurling threats at terrified staff.

It was too quiet.

Unnervingly quiet.

As if the walls themselves missed the chaos. Missed him.

The silence stretched, heavy with prayers, worry, and longing.

And in the heart of it all, Silas stayed—his hand gently resting over the curve of Lucien’s stomach, anchoring both of them with that fragile hope.

Waiting for the time when the noise would return.