Chapter 71: Drifted
They walked in silence through the east wing, the lamps casting soft gold across the hallway’s stone floors. The warmth of the day still clung to the walls; ceiling-high windows let Lucas see the city beneath the estate of Fitzgeralt, scattered with lights and shaped by distance. He hadn’t had the time to take in the view when they landed and hadn’t looked for the silhouette of the castle. But something told him it wouldn’t compare—that even the Imperial Palace couldn’t compare to this.
This wasn’t a fortress dressed up as power. It was power dressed down as home.
The corridor was long and quiet, designed for discretion. No staff. No sound beyond their footsteps. Lucas’s hand was still on Trevor’s arm, fingers light but steady. He was used to walking alone, used to holding his own weight—politically, physically—but tonight, he didn’t pull away.
He was tired. And the meal, as light as it had been, only made him sleepier.
"Should I carry you princess style until we reach the bathroom?" Trevor asked, voice low and amused, not bothering to hide the fact that he’d been watching Lucas drift step by step into something dangerously close to sleep.
Lucas’s eyes narrowed with the slow, reluctant defiance of someone too tired to be properly offended.
"I’m not drunk," he said, flatly.
"Didn’t say you were," Trevor replied. "Just sleepy. Lightweight."
"I had rice and tea."
"A deadly combination. Here." Trevor stopped in front of the double doors and pushed them open with one hand, the polished brass handles catching a slice of corridor light.
The bedroom was... huge.
Lucas stepped in, slow enough to register the sheer scale of it. High ceilings, soft lighting, wide-plank wooden floors that radiated warmth even without shoes. A dark rug ran along the base of the bed, woven, expensive in a way that didn’t need to show off. The walls were a muted cream, the furniture was minimal. No clutter. No wasted lines.