Chapter 12
For once, I do what I’m told.
I avoid Lord Luceran at all costs.
I rise before dawn and head straight to the tower before I can even risk hearing his footsteps in the hall.
I bury myself in numbers, ledgers, and ink stains until the sun sinks low.
Then, when the castle’s shadows grow long and blue and the cold creeps beneath the door, I tidy my desk and retreat to my room.
I do not cook for him.I do not set his table.I do not step foot near the dining hall if I hear the faintest clink of silverware.
Atilia has changed her schedule to accommodate this arrangement, her way of shielding me, I suppose, but what I thought would be a relief, what I told myself would be a relief, becomes something else entirely.
At first, I felt justified. Righteously furious. After the Aurevault, the lake, the library… after that beautiful, beautiful book torn down the spine… how could I want to see him?
But days pass. Five. Six. Seven.And somewhere in those dizzying, empty hours, a familiar ache returns. Not longing. Not exactly.
Guilt.
It curls up my spine whenever I catch sight of the rose garden out the window or walk down the halls where Lady Frostwyn’s portraits once hung.
I try to shake it. Try to reason with myself, but the thought gnaws deeper each day.
If Lord Luceran is not a murderer, then going into that library wasn’t innocent curiosity.
It was an act of pure disrespect.
That place was a tomb. His wife’s tomb.
A sanctuary sealed away behind a locked door, preserved so the world could never touch what remained of her, and I barged in, danced in her dust, curled into her chair by her fire, treated it like a private retreat built for my amusement.
That chair. Lady Frostwyn’s chair, and I had sat in it like I owned it. Like it was mine.
No wonder he was furious.No wonder he tore the book apart with his bare hands.
For days that realization burns at me, searing its truth behind my eyes every time I blink. Of all the foolish things I have done since stepping foot into this cursed castle, not one was meant with malice.
I never meant to hurt him.
I never meant to tread on a memory that still bleeds inside him.
But intention means nothing when the wound is already open, and I can’t stop replaying the look on his face, not rage alone, but something deeper. Something raw. Something that looked almost… wounded.
And now the guilt he left me with has become a weight I cannot set down.
I was not the victim in that library.
I was the one who trespassed on grief.
It would be as if someone had taken an axe to my mother’s wardrobe back home.It might just be a clattered-together thing now, old, half-rotten wood, termite-bitten edges—but it is all I have left of her.
When I run my hands over its warped grain, over the same places her hands touched, I feel connected. Loved. Remembered.
It is probably why I find so much comfort in the wardrobe here.It has never known her touch, but the sentiment is the same. A small, enclosed space where memory lives. A place where I can fold myself small and feel something like safety.
Now I understand what I did to Luceran.I walked into the one place where his memories live and dragged my careless footprints all through it.
Another week passes where we avoid each other.Atilia is the one who speaks to me now, her voice giving my orders, her footsteps guiding my days.
She tells me when to catalogue shipments at the Aurevault, the days Luceran will not be there, when to stay in the tower, when to keep out of sight entirely. She insists it’s for my safety.
But somehow… this is worse than his yelling.Worse than his fury.Because fury at least is acknowledgment.
Silence is erasure.
One morning, cold even by Castle Frostwyn standards, a familiar itch starts beneath my skin, and I decide I have had enough. Of the silence. Of the avoidance. Of my own damned guilt.
I wake at dawn, dress quickly, and head to the kitchen. Atilia is already there, stirring a pot of oats over the fire. She glances at me, eyebrow arched.
“What are you doing here? He will be down soon.”
I straighten my spine. Lift my chin.“I will bring him his breakfast.”
Atilia does not look impressed. She rolls her eyes and turns back to her pot.
“Go back upstairs, girl,” she sighs.
I frown and march toward her. Before I can second-guess myself, I reach around and take the wooden spoon right out of her hand.
She gasps as if I’ve stolen a family heirloom.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snaps, snatching it back with surprising strength.
But I’m already committed. I grab it again. She gasps louder this time.
When she reaches for it once more, I jerk the spoon out of reach.
“It is bad enough that I must live my days here in this icebox,” I say, breath shaking with a mixture of fear and determination, “with terrors inside these walls and outside. But I will not creep around like a mouse. I will not cling to shadows and hide behind corners. I will not become another ghost of this place.”
Atilia scowls down her nose at me, folding her arms as she assesses my foolish bravery.
“So what exactly do you plan to do?”
My shoulders sag as all the bravado drains out of me.“I will apologize for the library. He will forgive me, and things will go back to how they were.”
Atilia blinks once. Slowly.
“Really? How they were? You think your situation was so much better before?”
“Of course not,” I groan. I push in front of her so I’m standing at the pot, fingers tightening around the spoon. “But I felt as if he was starting to… I thought that…”
Atilia laughs, a sharp, cutting sound that slices right through me. Shame floods my cheeks, burning hot in the cold kitchen air.
“Is your head that full of dreams, girl?” she says.
“You see things that are not there. Luceran is the Lord of Winter, and this place,” she sweeps a hand to the frost-laced walls, the breath of cold drifting in from the windows, the hearth that fights to stay alive, “is the reflection of him. Frozen. Hollow. He feels nothing. So whatever glimmers you think you’ve seen are nothing but illusions you’ve spun for yourself. ”
Her words sting like sleet against bare skin, but I refuse to flinch. I step fully into her place, nudging her aside as I stir the oats with more force than necessary.
“Perhaps I have more faith in Lord Luceran than you do,” I mutter over my shoulder.
Atilia exhales a mocking, pitying breath. “Silly little humans,” she sighs. “So dramatic. So sentimental. How easily you misplace your affections. How you yearn for torment. How you ache for things you cannot have.”
My head snaps toward her, glare sharp enough to shatter ice.“I do not want him.”
“Of course you don’t,” she says breezily, untying her apron.
“Why would you? A male like that?” Her tone is wickedly amused, as if she knows more than she should.
She lays the apron on the bench and moves toward the door.
“Since I’ve had to cover so much for you lately, I think I’ll take an extended break from service. Good luck, Neve Devlin.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
Want him. How ridiculous.
Yes, he is attractive. Anyone with functioning eyes knows that. But I’m not foolish enough to mistake attraction for anything deeper. I may have daydreams, but I live in reality, and reality is simple: We are nothing but lord and servant.
All I want is to make amends. To ease this bargain enough that he won’t hate the sight of me. To calm the storm that rages whenever we cross paths.
Because if I can behave myself, for once in my damned life, then maybe the kindness I’m sure is buried somewhere beneath all that frost will rise to the surface.
Maybe Lord Luceran will let me see my father again.
Just once.
I stay in the kitchen, tending the oats over the fire, a pot of tea simmering beside it. I keep the heat steady with the same methodical focus I use when tallying numbers in the tower. This has to be perfect. It’s the only chance I have.
Footsteps echo down the hallway.
My head snaps toward the sound and I move. Quickly. Purposefully.
I rush into the dining hall, straighten the linen cloth, smooth every wrinkle until it lies flawless across the table.
I place the plate, align the silverware, adjust the goblet so even its shadow falls neatly.
Then I bring out the oats and tea, steam curling from the dishes, tangling with my nervous breath.
When I hear him at the door, I retreat to the service entrance and wait silently behind it.
Luceran enters. His boots strike the stone with heavy, measured steps. Winter follows him, sliding under the door and chilling my ankles. I hear the scrape of the chair, the shift of his weight as he sits, the low exhale he makes once he’s settled. A pleased sound.
My heart lifts, just for a moment.
Silverware clinks. Tea pours.
I push open the door.
His eyes snap to me instantly. His whole body goes rigid. His jaw clenches, nostrils flare, and he throws the silverware aside as if my presence has soured his appetite.
He slumps back into the chair with a heavy thud, arms hanging loose over its sides.
“What are you doing here? Get out.”
“Please,” I say, stepping closer.
“No.” His voice cracks like a whip. “Where is Atilia?”
“She has left,” I tell him. “I took care of your breakfast this morning.”
One of his eyebrows lifts as his tongue presses against his cheek. “I thought it tasted decidedly disappointing.”
Heat rises up my neck, but I don’t let him rattle me. Not when I finally understand the depth of what I’ve done.
“Please,” I try again. “I want to apologize. I never should have gone into that library.”
“But you did,” he snaps. “Just as you spoke out at the Aurevault. Just as you ran onto the lake.” His hands clamp around the arms of the chair as he leans forward, the collar of his linen shirt falling open, runes blazing across the hard planes of his chest.