Chapter 10
Sia
The whispers began softly just like they normally did.
Sia heard them in corridors when footsteps slowed just a fraction too long behind her. In the kitchens when conversation dipped the moment she crossed the threshold. In the gardens when gardeners pretended to admire roses while discussing succession as if it were the weather.
“It has been nearly a year.”
“Perhaps she cannot.”
“A king cannot wait forever.”
At first, she told herself it was just her imagination. Castles had echoes and silence could distort things into cruelty.
Until the murmurs grew sharper and less cautious. No one worried anymore that she might overhear.
One afternoon, as she turned the corner near the library, she halted as the sound of her own name drifted through the archway.
“…sleeping in the same chambers, of course,” a lady murmured.
“Then why no child?” another replied. “Perhaps she is not capable of conceiving.”
Not capable.
The words struck like thrown stones. Sia stepped back before they could see her. Her pulse thundered in her ears and tears ran down her cheeks.
They were right about one thing. She and Lucas did share a bed.
What they did not share was touch.
Night after night, they lay inches apart. Close enough that she could feel his warmth through the soft linens. Close enough to sense the steady rhythm of his breathing. Close enough that, if she shifted even slightly, their arms would brush.
Which they very seldom did.
Lucas always positioned himself carefully at the edge of the mattress, as though mindful of boundaries she had not drawn but felt nonetheless.
His body remained still, disciplined, and controlled.
He had not reached for her in his sleep after that one instance, nor did he ever turn unconsciously toward her warmth.
Sometimes she lay awake and stared at the canopy above, acutely aware of the space between them. Sometimes she wondered if he was awake too.
It made it harder that there was no anger between them. No harshness or cold words. Only restraint because Lucas was not attracted to her. And restraint, in the eyes of the council, was failure, and the weight of it settled squarely on her shoulders.
Of course it was her fault.
Dian had given him daughters. Three beautiful, bright girls with Lucas's eyes and their mother’s easy laughter. Dian had not struggled. She had not endured months of quiet speculation.
Perhaps she had also possessed something Sia did not. A softness. A warmth. A beauty that invited touch rather than endured it.
Sia had seen her own reflection often enough to know she was not delicate. Not luminous. She was taller where others were petite. Reserved where others were effortless. Her smiles required thought. Her laughter came measured.
She was composed. She might be the girls’ aunt, but she was nothing more than a replacement.
Lucas probably laid rigid beside her because he felt nothing at all. Or worse, he was disgusted by her.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had that thought, but now it crept in quietly and refused to leave. She replayed small moments, dissecting them mercilessly.
The way his hand had withdrawn that evening months ago when her fingers had brushed his by accident and the way his jaw tightened when she changed behind a screen, as if even the suggestion of her body unsettled him.
The way he never looked at her for too long. Men looked when they wanted, but Lucas didn’t look at all.
When the rumor reached her that the council had begun urging him to consider another marriage, something inside her went frighteningly still.
Not shattered, just still, as though her heart had simply given up and decided not to feel too much at once.
She didn’t cry or rage. The council wasn’t cruel, they were just practical. A kingdom required an heir and she had known that was why they got married. She just hadn’t anticipated the rejection.
What justification remained when she had never been given the chance? That evening, she requested a private audience.
Lucas stood near the fireplace when she entered their shared chamber. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to reveal forearms dusted with ash from the firewood he’d been adjusting himself. He looked tired.
There were faint shadows beneath his eyes. A tightness at the corners of his mouth that had not been there a year ago.
“Sia,” he said quietly. He always said her name as though it required care.
She clasped her hands before her to stop their trembling. “I have heard,” she began carefully, “that the council is concerned.”
His jaw tightened. “You should not be listening to gossip.”
“It is not gossip if it is true.”
Silence stretched.
The fire crackled softly between them. She forced herself to continue before courage failed her entirely. “If the kingdom requires an heir… and I have failed to provide one… then you should not be bound by obligation.”
His gaze sharpened instantly. “You have not failed. It’s not possible to fail when an attempt has never been made.”
The certainty in his tone should have soothed her. Instead, it deepened the ache. The attempt had never been made because he didn’t want to.
“But if I can’t have a son…”
“You don’t know that you can’t. We haven’t tried.”
Her throat tightened as she lifted her chin. “Then take me properly as your wife.” There. She had thrown it out there, wanton as it may have been.
The words fell into the space between them. Bare. Unarmored. Lucas went utterly still.
Sia felt heat creep up her neck but did not look away.
“If duty is required,” she continued, voice soft but steady, “then let’s fulfill it. I won’t shrink from that.”
What she didn’t say was even if you don’t want me. Even if it’s unpleasant.
Lucas's expression changed. It was shock at first, then turned to something darker and pained.
“Sia,” he said slowly, “I won’t use you.”
As though the only possible way he could approach her was exploitation.
“I’m offering,” she whispered.
Offering herself like an obligation. Offering herself because surely desire was out of the question.
“I know.” His voice roughened. “And I am refusing.”
The rejection landed quietly but cleanly. Refusing. Not postponing. Not waiting. A flat out refusal. A sharp flare of humiliation burned beneath her ribs.
Of course. Of course he refused. She had made it easy. Framed it as duty. Made herself small and practical. What man would desire that?
“And so,” she said with a forced steadiness she did not feel, “you must accept another.”
His head snapped up.
“I will step aside,” she continued before she lost nerve. “I will leave before the girls grow more attached. It would be easier now.”
Easier for him. Easier than sharing a bed with a woman he did not want.
“No.”
The word cracked through the room. It startled her despite herself. Lucas stepped closer. Not touching, but closer than they had stood in months. Close enough that she could see the faint scar at his temple. Close enough that his warmth reached her without obstruction.
“You will not leave,” he said, voice low and unsteady in a way she had never heard before. “You are not a placeholder. You are not a bargaining chip. And you are not leaving my daughters.”
“Then what am I?” she asked before she could stop herself.
The question escaped raw and vulnerable. Because if she was not a wife in truth, and not a mother by blood, and only a political necessity, then what worth was she?
His gaze flickered. Conflict. Heat. Something that made her breath hitch without understanding why.
“You are…” he began. And stopped.
He dragged a hand through his hair as his composure fractured.
“You are not the problem,” he said instead. “There will be no new wife. No exile. No replacement.”
Replacement. The word sliced through her. They both heard it. She already owned that title.
Neither spoke of Dian.
But she felt her presence in the silence that followed. Lucas stepped back first, as though proximity itself had become dangerous.
“We will endure the council,” he said quietly. “Together.”
It should have comforted her. Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unnamed. Because together still meant distance. Together still meant inches of untouched space in a wide bed.
That night, when they lay once more beneath the canopy, Sia stared into the darkness and listened to the careful rhythm of Lucas's breathing.
She imagined what it must be like to lie beside a woman you did not want., to feel obligated, to restrain yourself not out of discipline, but disinterest.
She turned her face slightly toward him and watched the faint outline of his profile in moonlight. He was close enough to reach. Close enough to test her fear.
But she didn’t move. If he desired her, he would come to her.
And in the silence, as the space between them remained unbroken, Sia understood one thing with painful clarity. The throne might demand an heir, but what stood between her and Lucas was not absence of effort.
It was reluctance.
And she was no longer certain whose.