Chapter 18 #6
So Cormac kept going. “Her mother kept her far from this world, but she knows her place. She listens. She’d give you the peace you need. A clean start. An obedient legacy.”
My stomach turned—not because of the girl. She was a pawn. A ghost in silk probably raised on promises she never had a say in.
No, it was the assumption that Rafael would ever want someone who listened more than she lived. Someone who existed to be used like a title on paper.
Rafael finally lifted his gaze to meet Cormac’s fully. His tone was flat. Cold. “I’m not interested.”
Cormac blinked once. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
The older man gave a slow exhale through his nose, lips pursed. “You haven’t even met her.”
“I don’t need to,” Rafael said. “I don’t want a stranger. I don’t want a legacy built on someone else’s silence.”
My throat tightened. He didn’t look at me. But I felt every word like it was etched into bone.
Cormac raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a man already spoken for.”
Rafael’s expression didn’t change. “I sound like a man who knows what he wants.”
There it was. Clean. Brutal. Final.
Cormac studied him for a moment longer, then glanced once more at me—still no emotion, just calculation.
“I see,” he said. Then added, “Still, the offer stands. Think about it.”
He turned with a nod and walked away, the sound of his steps fading back into the noise of the gathering.
And we were left in silence again. But this time, it felt different. The fire in my chest wasn’t burning me anymore. It was steady. Focused. And I couldn’t stop thinking about what Rafael had said.
I don’t want a legacy built on someone else’s silence.
Neither did I.
And maybe, just maybe, we were building something that wasn’t made to be inherited. But earned .
We didn’t speak at first. Rafael’s eyes remained on the path ahead, but I could tell his mind wasn’t there. Not completely.
Mine wasn’t either.
Cormac’s words echoed in my chest like an unwanted song stuck on repeat. Wife. Heir. Legacy. All of it said in front of me as if I didn’t exist. As if I was something temporary in Rafael’s life. A placeholder until something more pure and obedient came along.
But he hadn’t humored it. He hadn’t even considered it. He shut it down with a sharpness that still hummed beneath my skin.
And yet… I needed more than silence. I needed the space between us to close, not in distance, but in clarity.
Rafael turned slightly, leading us down a corridor lined with stone archways and dark wooden doors. The music from the main hall had faded into a distant murmur, and here, the air felt cooler, quieter. Safer.
He pushed open one of the heavy doors with ease, revealing a smaller room—a private study of sorts.
Books lined the walls, old leather and faded spines.
A fireplace lay dormant, but the scent of smoke still lingered, like it had held secrets once.
The air was thick with the kind of silence that invited honesty.
He didn’t say anything as he stepped inside. Neither did I. Not until the door clicked shut behind us.
I watched him for a moment, his back to me as he glanced at the shelves like he was reading titles he’d memorized years ago.
And then, finally, I spoke—quietly, but with intent. “So… do you always get offered a wife like that at parties?”
He paused, just slightly, before glancing back over his shoulder at me. His mouth pulled into something that almost resembled amusement—but not quite.
He turned fully then, leaning back against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, the low light casting sharp lines across his jaw.
“More than you’d think,” he said. “Less than I used to.”
I raised a brow, stepping further into the room. “That sounds like a very carefully rehearsed answer.”
“It’s the truth.” He held my gaze. “Men like Cormac… they deal in power. And in our world, power means bloodlines. Control. Legacies they can breed into obedience.”
He said the word breed like it tasted wrong in his mouth. And I felt something cold curl in my chest.
“But they don’t offer wives because they care about marriage,” he continued. “They offer control. Influence. A tether.”
My arms folded loosely over my chest as I leaned against the opposite wall. “And here I thought this was all just romantic old-world chivalry.”
That earned me a low chuckle, barely audible. “Hardly. I’ve been offered daughters, nieces, once even a mistress who was ‘trained to keep quiet and smile.’”
I blinked. “Jesus.”
“Exactly.”
His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted again—this time heavier. More deliberate.
“They offer women to men like me because they think we’re missing something. That without a family, without an heir, we’re vulnerable. Replaceable. Easier to erase.”
I swallowed. That made sense. Too much sense.
“So you’ve never considered it?” I asked, voice quieter now.
He was still for a moment. Too still. “I considered it once,” he said. “A long time ago. Before I knew what it cost.”
I waited, letting the silence stretch. But he didn’t elaborate. And I didn’t push. Instead, I asked the other question that had been burning in the back of my throat since Cormac first opened his mouth.
“You don’t have a wife,” I said slowly. “And you don’t have an heir. So… do you even want that? Kids. A family. All of that.”
I wasn’t sure why my chest tightened as I said it. But it did.
He didn’t look away. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I used to think I did. Then I saw what happens when people bring children into a world like mine and expect them to survive it.”
There was something heavy in his voice now. Something old. Wounded.
“I’ve seen too many men raise sons to be soldiers and daughters to be currency. And I swore I’d never be one of them.”
My throat ached, but I forced the words out. “But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be different.”
He looked at me—really looked at me—and something shifted in his eyes. Not softness. Not vulnerability. Something deeper.
“If I ever had a child,” he said, voice lower now, “I’d want them to be free. Strong. Ruthless if they had to be—but only because they chose it, not because I gave them no other choice.”
I felt the weight of that settle in my chest. Because I knew he meant it.
I stepped closer, slow and quiet, until we stood only a breath apart. “And what about now?” I asked. “Do you think you could want that now?”
His gaze didn’t move from mine. “With the right person… maybe.”
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t look away either. Because somehow, despite everything—despite the blood, the history, the fire still smoldering between us—this felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
Not a kiss. Not a touch. But truth. And I wasn’t sure what scared me more—what it meant for him… Or what it meant for me.
He didn’t move. Neither did I. We just stood there in the stillness of that study, beneath the flicker of a sconce that cast shadows along the curve of his jaw and the dark glint in his eyes.
Something shifted in the space between us—not sharp or sudden, but slow… like the pull of gravity. Unavoidable.
My heart thudded, steady but hard, my body thrumming with something I didn’t want to name. Because naming it made it real. Made it matter more.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I felt it— that pause —before he lifted his hand. Fingers brushed against my cheek, and his thumb rose, slow and deliberate, to trace along my lower lip.
It wasn’t just a touch. It was a question. An answer. A possession.
My breath hitched, but I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. I held his gaze, let him feel the heat in mine, the challenge, the truth I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
His thumb lingered. And then I spoke, voice quiet but edged in something sharp. “For someone who isn’t sure he wants kids…” I tilted my head slightly, just enough to catch the glint in his eye, “you’re awfully reckless.”
His hand stilled on my face. But he didn’t drop it. A faint smirk ghosted his lips—not mocking, not arrogant. Just aware. Of exactly what I was referring to. And the weight of it settled between us like a loaded gun on velvet.
“I know,” he said simply. Low. Measured.
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
“I didn’t need to.”
“I’m not on anything,” I added, because I wanted to see if it rattled him.
It didn’t. Or at least, he didn’t let it show.
His thumb moved again, a light stroke along the curve of my lip. Slower this time. “I know,” he said again, and that answer landed harder than I expected.
I blinked. “You knew?”
His eyes didn’t waver from mine. “I pay attention.”
That stirred something in my chest—frustration, disbelief… maybe something softer too, though I wasn’t ready to examine it.
“You were willing to risk it?” I asked, voice lower now. A challenge, not a plea.
He let his hand fall then—not in rejection, but with purpose, slipping it into his pocket like he needed it there to hold back everything else.
“I didn’t think about risk,” he said. “I thought about you .”
I swallowed. Because he wasn’t speaking about the act. He was speaking about the moment. The choice . The heat that had overtaken both of us and stripped us bare without a second thought. The way we’d collided like a storm breaking over the sea—violent, inevitable, real.
“And if I got pregnant?” I asked, the words tasting foreign in my mouth. “Would you still be unsure then?”
A flicker passed through his eyes. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just thought.
“I would never let you face that alone,” he said quietly. “Not for a second.”
That shouldn’t have been enough. But it was. Because I believed him.
I believed every word, every inch of him, even when I didn’t want to. Even when trusting anyone in this world felt like pressing a blade to your own throat and daring them to cut. And he didn’t stop there.
“If that ever happened,” he said, his voice low and sure, “I’d protect you. Both of you. No matter what it cost.”
My stomach twisted at the weight of it. Not from fear. From something dangerously close to hope.
I looked at him, really looked at him—at the man who never flinched, never blinked, never gave more than he intended… except with me . And I wondered if he realized how much he’d already given.
“I’m not saying I want that,” I said, because I didn’t know what I wanted. Not yet. “I’m not planning anything.”
“I know.”
“But I won’t be anyone’s legacy.”
His eyes darkened. “You’d never have to be,” he said.
The words sank into me, threading themselves through every wall I’d built.
And then he stepped closer—close enough for his presence to wrap around me, familiar and consuming. “We should go,” he said, voice softer now. “Before someone else tries to auction me off.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, but the heat between us didn’t ease.
Because the truth was— There was no going back.
Not from this. Not from him.
And definitely not from us .