Chapter 21: The Messenger
Lucas stood before the mirrored wardrobe doors, fingers grazing the hem of a soft grey shirt laid across the bed.
Something simple, Serathine had said.
Trevor didn’t like pretense.
Lucas wasn’t sure he believed that, not fully. No man who held as much territory as the Grand Duke of the North got there without knowing how to play some kind of game. But still... something about the way she said it stuck.
He stood before the open wardrobe, fingers brushing over soft fabrics, folded collars, and gilded cuffs that caught the light like promises.
A faint smile touched his lips.
He thought of wearing something elaborate—ornate, excessive even. Velvet so deep it almost looked black, embroidery stitched by hand, the kind of outfit designed to make old men choke on their wine and alphas forget their bloodlines.
He pictured walking into the conservatory draped in it, all cool elegance and pointed mockery.
He wondered what the Grand Duke would do. Blink? Stiffen? Pretend not to stare?
Sera had told him, firmly, "You get to choose now, Lucas. Not them. Not me. Not the Empire. You."
It had taken days for those words to settle.
To sink past the bruises and silence of another life, past the reflex to ask, ’what do you want me to be?’ before even daring to ask, ’what do I want?’