Chapter 90: A Guarded Secret
Cedric stirred the soup slowly, though it was already mixed well enough.
"You know..." he began, his voice casual in the way a thief pretends to stroll past the guards, "in my time as a squire, I’ve heard many tales of married folk and... how they pass the hours."
Zara arched one pale brow, sipping the broth without looking away from him.
"There’s the lord who will not keep his hands from his lady, even at the supper table," Cedric continued, eyes fixed on the bowl. "Or the merchant who takes his mistress riding only so he may pull her into the woods halfway through." He risked a glance at her. "And... well, some speak of the sounds that carry through walls."
The corner of Zara’s mouth quirked, whether in amusement or warning, he could not tell.
Cedric cleared his throat. "Yet His Highness... is not one for... such displays." He fumbled with the spoon, nearly spilling it. "At least, I’ve not seen it and nor heard it. Not that I listen for—" His voice broke off, ears reddening. "Only... I wonder... is he always so... restrained?"
Zara held his gaze a moment longer, as if weighing how much he deserved to know. The silence stretched until Cedric’s heart thudded uncomfortably against his ribs.
"I mean," he added quickly, "it must be a blessing, not to be pawed at like some trinket. A comfort, perhaps... or... not?"
He tried to make it sound harmless, but the question hung between them like an unspoken confession: Tell me he has not touched you.
Cedric’s question hung in the air like smoke, curling into all the places Zara didn’t want to look.
She took another slow sip, her eyes fixed on the fire. "You speak of things that are not your concern," she said lightly, almost mocking. "A prince’s bride owes no details to a squire."
"I’m not asking for details," Cedric said quietly, although her words hurt. "Only truth."
Her fingers tightened around the bowl. "The truth," she echoed, as if tasting the word. "Truth is a malleable thing, Cedric. Men shape it to suit themselves."
"You think I’m trying to twist your words?" Cedric kept his voice soft, the way one might speak to someone standing on a ledge. "I only ask... when the doors were shut—when it was only you and him—did he... treat you as a husband treats a wife?"
"Yes," Zara’s gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment her poise cracked, the faintest shadow of uncertainty crossing her face. Then she looked away, toward the low-burning embers.
"But what does it matter?" she murmured. "Some bonds... are sacred beyond the flesh."
Cedric’s fingers curled into a fist. "Zara~"
She cut him off with a sudden, sharp breath, her tone rising like a warning. "You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never belonged to someone like I do. He—"
Her words snagged on silence. Her lips trembled with something that might have been longing... or madness. "It’s not about that. It’s about what he promised me. About what we are."
There was a glassy brightness in her eyes now, a feverish devotion that made Cedric’s skin prickle.
"What has he promised you?" he asked quietly. "Tell me his exact words."
But she only tilted her head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. "Words doesn’t matter," she said at last. "Men’s promises mean nothing when they want something. It’s their actions that matter."
"And his actions?" Cedric pressed.
Zara looked away. "I am his." That was all she gave him. Three words, heavy as chains.
"He is not even visiting you now that he’s back with his wife. What does that say?" he asked.
Zara’s lips trembled, and her eyes collected tears. She looked away.
He opened his mouth to push further, but she turned from him entirely, turning to the side as though shutting a door in his face.
"I want to sleep," she murmured, her voice drifting between a sigh and a command.
Cedric eased her down onto the pillow, his hand hovering for a moment before he let go. He sat in the dim light, staring at the shape of her back.
He could not tell if she was hiding a wound... or guarding a dream she would drown to protect.
------
In the same room where Damian had once barricaded himself against her, Lazira came to meet him, this time, of her own will.
Prince Damian entered with a bright smile on his lips, but his hazel eyes cut sharper than any blade. He had felt the shadow coiling around her like a living thing.
"I thought you wanted to spend time with me," he said, stopping two paces short. His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to pull her in, to kiss her, to test if the poison she’d slipped him last time had been worth the risk.
"Who was it?" Lorraine’s voice was cool, almost lazy, but her mask and black cloak turned her into Lazira, the figure he knew better than to underestimate. "Who cut Elyse’s hair?"
She stepped closer, her presence pressing against his chest before her palm ever did.
"I did." His smile didn’t falter, but something in his gaze glinted, daring her to strike. "For you."
Her hand landed on him. His breath hitched. His knees loosened, not from weakness but from the way her touch crawled under his skin like heat and venom at once. She moved her hand slowly, deliberately, as if tracing the heartbeat she might stop whenever she pleased.
The air shifted. It was no longer tense, but warm, heavy, almost romantic. The kind of moment that could tilt toward a kiss... or a killing. (He was with Lazira!)
Until...
"Now."
Lorraine stepped back.
Two eunuchs appeared from the shadows, their hands snapping around Damian’s arms. He didn’t fight. Instead, his eyes flicked to her as she reached into his inner pocket and plucked out the ornate fan he’d hidden there.
"Not again," he muttered, a sardonic tilt to his mouth. He thought those icy eyes of hers were searching his soul. Now he knew better—she was only ever after what she wanted.
"It’s heavy," she said, weighing the fan in her palm with a glint of admiration. A flick of her wrist opened it, revealing the gleam of sharpened steel. "Sharp," she mused.
Then the fan snapped shut—a sharp, metallic bite that sliced the silence.
Her gaze turned glacial, stripped of all pretense. "Tell me," she murmured, each syllable a blade in itself, "is this what marked my husband’s face?"
She pressed the pointed tip against his right hand—his dominant hand—letting the cold metal kiss his skin. "Is this the hand," her voice dropped to a silken hiss, "that drew his blood?"
The edge hovered a hair’s breadth from cutting him, a predator’s fang tasting the air. Her eyes never wavered from his, their icy hunger coiling around him like a snare, daring him to flinch.
The air between them was charged, too still, too hot, like the breath before a storm breaks.