Chapter 154: Normal
Chapter 153
Ciel
"Ciel, are you okay?" Her hand is still on my wrist, grounding me. "You seemed out of it for a moment."
I force a smile. Small. Apologetic. "My apologies. I should watch my glasses of champagne."
She studies me for a moment. I can see her weighing the lie, deciding whether to call it. She doesn’t.
But her hand doesn’t leave my wrist.
"That’s quite alright," she says smoothly. "The champagne here is stronger than it looks."
I hold her gaze. She holds mine. And in that small space between us, something passes—acknowledgment, maybe. Understanding. She knows I’m lying. She’s letting me.
Then Laurent speaks again.
"A pleasure to meet the famous omega belongingto the begotten prince."
He offers his hand.
The words land like stones. Belongingto. As if I’m something that was given. Something that was acquired. Something that can be taken back.
I don’t take his hand.
It hangs in the air between us, suspended. I can feel the weight of it,the expectation, the demand, the silent command that I should. That I must.
But despite how composed I’m looking right now, I don’t think I would be this composed if I held his hand.
Something flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe. He drops his hand.
"I’ve heard about your beauty," he says, and his smile doesn’t waver, but there’s an edge to it now, a blade beneath silk. "But certainly not your attitude."
"Duke Duvall." The Crown Princess’s voice is cool, measured. A warning.
He inclines his head, just enough to acknowledge it. "My apologies, Your Highness."
He looks at me one more time. A long look. A measuring look. The kind of look that catalogues, that files away, that waits.
"It was a pleasure," he says. "I will see you again soon."
He walks away.
I watch him go. The crowd parts for him the way it always parts for men like him. People smile. Nod. Pretend they didn’t see anything.
Harriet places a handkerchief into my hand. I look down.
"Your hands," she says quietly. "They’re bleeding."
I look down. My nails have cut crescents into my palms. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything except him, his voice, his eyes, the way he said my name like he still owns it.
I take the handkerchief. Wrap it around my fingers. The silk is soft. Cool.
"Thank you," I whisper.
My knees buckle.
Harriet catches me before I fall. Her arm is around my waist, her grip firm, her body a wall between me and the room. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.
"Walk," she murmurs. "Now. Before anyone notices."
I walk.
She guides me through the crowd, past the clusters of nobility, past the tables of untouched food, past the servants with their silver trays and their careful, trained faces. We move toward the far side of the room, toward the doors that lead to the quieter corridors, the emptier halls, the places where the performance ends.
I don’t look back.
By the time we reach the doors, my legs are shaking. My hands are shaking. My chest is tight, my lungs are burning, and I can’t—
"Sunshine, I’m here."
The voice cuts through the panic like light through fog.
I look up.
His eyes are dark, searching, scanning my face, my hands, the blood on the handkerchief wrapped around my fingers.
He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t demand an explanation. He just opens his arms.
And I throw myself into them.
His arms close around me. Tight. Secure. His hand comes up to the back of my head, pressing my face into his chest, blocking out the light, the noise, the world.
"I’ve got you," he murmurs against my hair. "I’ve got you, sunshine. You’re okay."
I hug him tighter. I feel so safe around him.
The way his arms lock around me, the way his hand cradles my head, the way his body blocks out everything else,it’s like stepping into a room and finally being able to breathe.
He surrounds me in his pheromones. Lavender. Warmth. Safety. It wraps around me like a blanket, pushing out the lingering traces of smoke and turpentine, filling my lungs with something that doesn’t burn.
I hold the back of his suit jacket in my hands, fists clenched in the fabric, like if I let go I’ll dissolve.
"It’s okay," he says, his voice low and steady against my ear. "Let’s get you to the room."
"But the party—" I start. The king. The nobles. The eyes that are probably already watching, already whispering.
"It’s fine," he says, and his voice doesn’t waver. "I’ll be back."
He shifts, one hand sliding under the back of my knees, and then I’m off the ground, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing. His jacket is warm under my cheek. His heartbeat is steady under my ear.
"I’m sorry," I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck.
"Shhh." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "You have nothing to apologize for, sunshine."
He starts walking. I close my eyes.
Jack’s arms tighten around me. His pace is steady, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world.
I burrow closer. His scent fills my lungs. His warmth seeps into my bones.
The corridor is quiet. The party fades behind us, the music and laughter swallowed by stone walls and distance.
"You’re okay," he says again, quieter this time, like he’s reminding himself as much as me. "I’ve got you."
"I’m sorry," I say again.
The words come out before I can stop them, small and broken, and I hate them. I hate how many times I’ve said them tonight. I hate that I can’t stop.
Jack doesn’t answer. He doesn’t tell me to stop apologizing or say that I don’t need to be sorry. He just holds me. His arms are steady, his chest is warm, his heartbeat is slow and sure under my ear.
I wish I could be normal.