17. 16
Mabel stirred first, the soft tap of talons hopping along her bare skin pulling her from sleep.
Whisper.
She sent him a playful glare, but her hand reached for him anyway, fingers brushing his feathers with affection.
Lance still held her, his arm heavy around her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder. He hadn’t let go once. They’d escaped back to the quiet of her room after snow dared to fall on their peace, bundling in each other to fight off the frost that clung to their bones.
She watched him sleep, studying the way peace softened his features when the weight of the court wasn’t pressing down on him. Her lips found his cheek, trailing gentle kisses across his skin.
He grumbled, brows knitting. “Baby,” he groaned, voice thick with sleep. “Too early.” He buried his face against her neck, inhaling her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this moment.
“You have your mission today,” she hummed, one hand stroking his back, the other keeping Whisper from pecking at her collarbone.
Lance let out a long, dramatic groan, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes roamed her skin, slow and hungry. “If only I could wake up to this every morning,” he purred, hand slipping beneath the sheets.
Whisper let out a sharp caw and pecked at his wrist.
Lance glanced back, then rolled his eyes. “This is my woman.” He swatted gently, and Whisper fluttered to the bookshelf with a disgruntled trill.
Lance turned back to Mabel, his hand continuing its descent until it met warmth and softness.
She gasped, breath catching.
But then his brow furrowed. He pulled back the sheets, and a soft laugh escaped him.
Blood. Not much. Just a trace. But enough. It stained her thighs. Her sheets. Mabel sat up quickly, eyes wide. “No—”
His lips were on hers before she could finish her panic, pressing her gently back into the mattress, his mouth warm and grounding. “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
She blinked up at him.
“You’re mine,” he stated. “That’s all that matters.”
She huffed playfully, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned, catching her wrist and kissing her palm. “And you’re beautiful.”
The sheets rustled as he shifted, pulling her beneath him again. Their mouths found each other, slow. No words passed between them. Just breath. Just touch.
Time unraveled into warmth and skin again, into the ache of closeness. He took his time, worshipping every inch of her, every sound she gave him—soft gasps, whispered pleas, the music of surrender.
And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, hearts steadying, the morning light had crept across the floor, golden and quiet, like it, too, had been waiting for them to fall back into each other.
Lance sighed, forehead resting against hers. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t.”
She smiled, fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw. “Then stay.”
“You know I can’t.” He kissed her once more, soft, lingering, before rising from the bed, gathering his clothes with reluctant hands.
Whisper fluttered down from the bookshelf, landing beside Mabel with a trill that sounded suspiciously like judgment.
Lance glanced back at them both, one hand on the doorframe. “I’ll come back to you,” he said, voice gentle. “No matter what the mission brings.”
He pulled on his clothes and then he was gone.
Lance moved through the halls with a swagger, a smile tugging at his lips. Let Theodore join the mission. Let the court whisper. It didn’t matter anymore.
He had Mabel. Her heart. Her body. Her choice. No vow could erase that.
He stepped into the winter air, boots crunching through fresh snow, the cold biting but not enough to dull the heat still lingering in his chest.
Ahead, carriages were being loaded—supplies stacked, soldiers bustling.
Theodore stood waiting, arms crossed, gaze sharp.
Lance brushed past him, a smirk carved into his face.
“It would be like you to show up late for your own mission,” Theodore said, voice clipped.
Lance turned, eyes gleaming. “Apologies, brother. I had something far more important to attend to.”
Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “And what might that be?”
Lance let out a low, cruel laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He turned away, hands already reaching for the nearest crate, the smirk never leaving his face.
Theodore watched them load the final crates, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. When the last latch was secured, he climbed into the carriage behind Lance, the air between them already thick.
The interior was lavish—deep maroon velvet, gold trim, the kind of opulence meant to soothe tempers and mask tension.
It failed.
Lance settled into his seat with maddening ease, legs crossed, posture relaxed. Like he hadn’t just shattered something sacred.
Theodore entered slowly, eyes locked on his brother. He sat across from him, spine rigid, gaze burning through the calm facade Lance wore like armor. The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over snow. Outside, the world blurred into white.
Inside, Theodore’s thoughts roared. She’d told him it was nothing.
She’d made him feel insane. He’d gone out, slept with a whore, as he always did.
It didn’t make the rage any quieter, it never did.
And then, just steps from his quarters, a servant had pulled him aside, eyes wide, whispering of what had unfolded behind closed doors.
Lance.
Mabel.
The rage had been instantaneous. Blinding. But beneath it, something colder curled—a sick, bitter laugh. Of course it was Lance. Of course it was betrayal.
He had every right to forbid them from speaking. Every right to strip Lance of his rank, his title, his access. But none of that would undo the image burned into his mind of Mabel, flushed and breathless, tangled in sheets that weren’t his.
He’d rehearsed the confrontation all morning. Words sharpened like blades. But now, faced with Lance’s infuriating calm, they stuck in his throat, sour and useless.
Lance stared out the window, as if the snowfall deserved more attention than the fury seated across from him.
As if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
And Theodore wasn’t sure if he wanted to speak. Or strike.
Lance shifted in his seat, clearing his throat, dismissive. Not an invitation.
Then Theodore spoke, voice slicing through the stillness. “I know you’ve been sneaking off with my fiancée.”
Lance didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on the blur of snow-dusted trees beyond the carriage window. But inside, something twisted. Who told him? How much did he know?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Lance said, tone smooth, laced with mock innocence.
Theodore’s jaw clenched, fury flashing in his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
Lance finally turned, slow and cocky, meeting his brother’s gaze with a smirk that only made the fire burn hotter.
“You bastard,” Theodore spat venomously. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The air between them crackled.
The word hit harder than it should’ve. Lance froze for a heartbeat. Something flickered behind his eyes, a shadow of something unspoken. Old wounds never quite healed. The echo of whispered court rumors, of backhanded titles and names that never belonged to him.
It only honed the edge of Lance’s voice. “Oh, right—Mabel,” he purred, letting her name roll off his tongue like it was laced with venom. “She really is something, isn’t she?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t know. Not really.”
Theodore’s spine stiffened. “Excuse me?”
Lance’s smile widened, cruel and unrepentant. “Now who’s playing dumb, brother?” He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into something darker. “You treated her like a pawn. Like a prize to be claimed.” He laughed, bitter. “And you lost her the moment you made her feel disposable.”
Theodore’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. He growled, “You know nothing about us—”
“Correction,” Lance said coolly, glancing toward him. “I know everything.” His voice was calm, but the words cut deep. “It’s you who knows nothing. Not her thoughts. Not her dreams. Certainly not her desires.”
Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “And you do?”
Lance’s smile curled, mocking. “I really shouldn’t say too much.” He sighed, casting a sidelong glance.
“Because you don’t have anything to say,” Theodore scoffed. “You must’ve forgotten you weren’t the one who spent weeks at her side.”
Lance cocked his head. “You weren’t the one in her bed this morning.”
Theodore surged forward, fury igniting. He slammed Lance back against the wooden frame of the carriage, the entire compartment shuddering with the force.
Lance grunted but didn’t fight back. Not yet.
Theodore’s breath came hot and fast, chest heaving, fists clenched at Lance’s collar.
Lance just looked at him, unflinching, unrepentant. “You asked.”
“Stay away from her,” Theodore growled through clenched teeth.
Lance’s smirk deepened, sharp and calculated. “If you can keep her away,” he said, voice cool and coiled with arrogance.
He watched Theodore closely; the danger behind his charm unmistakable. And in his eyes, there was no apology, just challenge. A fuse lit with one sentence, daring Theodore to strike the match.
Theodore’s grip tightened. “You arrogant—”
“Temper,” Lance warned, voice restrained, though the flicker of fury behind his eyes betrayed the calm. Then, in a blink, he vanished, teleporting from Theodore’s grasp to the opposite side of the carriage.
Theodore spun, jaw clenched, fists still curled, breath ragged.
“We’re on a diplomatic mission, brother,” Lance said, straightening his coat with maddening ease. “Show some diplomacy.”
Their eyes locked—two storms held in check by velvet walls and royal obligation. And then, as if nothing had happened, Lance sat again, legs crossed, gaze drifting back to the snow-laced window.
The wildfire beneath Theodore’s skin burned hotter. “This isn’t over,” he growled.
“Of course not,” Lance replied, voice smooth as satin. “But tell me—do you think it wise to arrive at a welfare mission bruised and bloodied? What message would that send?”
Theodore froze, the words catching like ice in his throat.