Chapter 212: After the ceremony
The manor had gone quiet.
Not the clipped, professional quiet of staff resetting tables, nor the strained quiet of nobles out of words for the evening, but the deep, lived‑in hush of a house breathing again after being stretched to its limit. Far off, lanterns still flickered on the terrace, their glow soft through the tall windows.
Lucas padded across the carpeted floor of their private suite, the plush robe cinched at his waist and damp hair curling against his neck from the long bath he’d allowed himself. The small bowl of ice cream in his hand had already begun to sweat in the soft lamplight, but he didn’t care. He perched on the edge of the couch, tucking one leg under him, letting the sugar calm the adrenaline still humming in his chest.
Through the crack in the en‑suite door came the hiss of running water shutting off, then the muffled sound of Trevor’s voice, low, a curse muttered under his breath, followed by the soft scrape of a towel.
Lucas spooned another bite, the sweetness sharp on his tongue, and let himself breathe. He had smiled all night. He had laughed, danced, thanked, and endured the toasts and the watchful eyes. And underneath it all there had been that single, dark pulse of danger after Dax’s words in the hall, a quiet weight in his chest that hadn’t gone away.
Trevor had left shortly after to make sure that the others that had interacted with the poison were under arrest by the end of the celebration.
Now Trevor was back.
The en‑suite door swung open, letting out a curl of steam that softened the lamplight. He stepped through with a towel slung around his neck, dark hair damp and pushed back, his shirt loose in one hand as if he hadn’t decided yet whether to bother with it. The faint scent of soap and hot water drifted with him, a cleaner note against the lingering spice of wine and candle wax that clung to the room.
Lucas’s eyes lifted from his bowl, quiet, watchful. "You’re late," he murmured, though there was no reproach in it.
Trevor tossed the towel onto a chair and worked his arms through the shirt, rolling the sleeves to his forearms as he crossed the room. His movements were fluid, but Lucas saw it, the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders hadn’t quite loosened.