Chapter 32: The Silence
Trevor had never wanted to come to this event.
Not really.
He’d shown up because Serathine told him to—and because refusing her always cost more than it was worth. And when she’d gestured subtly across the ballroom and said, stand near him, he’d obeyed with the same sharp-edged civility he used on battlefields and in courts—because that was what he was, wasn’t he? A shield. A sword. Something to stand beside, not care for.
And at first, that was fine.
Lucas hadn’t needed protection. He hadn’t asked for it. He stood like the room had been built around him, eyes too sharp for someone his age, words too precise, posture too controlled. Trevor had watched him with faint curiosity—the way one watches a painting they don’t understand but can’t quite look away from. Serathine had polished him like glass, wrapped him in D’Argente silk, and handed him to the world as if daring it to look too closely.
Trevor had been prepared for fragility. For trembling. For some wide-eyed, skittish thing clinging to nobility like borrowed armor.
But Lucas wasn’t fragile.
He was terrifyingly intact.
Too intact.
Like a doll in a glass case—perfectly composed, perfectly quiet, perfectly poised to shatter.
And when he left the terrace, Trevor didn’t follow. Not immediately.
Because Lucas had said no. And Lucas had looked fine.