Chapter 91: His Warring Impulses
"Is this the hand," Lorraine’s voice dropped to a silken hiss, "that drew his blood?"
The edge of the fan hovered a hair’s breadth from breaking him. Where the metal hovered, a cold fire bloomed and his pulse answered like a drum under his ribs. He felt it everywhere: first in the hollow at his throat, then as a quickness under his jaw, a heat that moved down into his belly and turned the world narrow.
He should have pulled back. He should have yanked his hand away. Instead, he held her gaze, caught in the snare of those eyes. Icy. Merciless. And yet burning with something that drew him closer, like a moth circling a dangerous flame.
There was hunger there, not just for answers, and the unsettling truth was... he wasn’t sure if it was hers or his.
"I wanted to kill him," Damian said.
Lorraine pressed the fan to his face, right where Leroy’s scar ran. The blade grazed his cheek, cold and intimate. She dismissed the eunuchs with a flick of her fingers. Heads bowed, they retreated, leaving them alone in the charged air.
Damian didn’t move his hands. His breathing stayed even, eyes glazed with something almost fevered as he looked down at her.
"For me?" she asked, lowering the blade to his throat, right over his pulsing jugular. Standing so close, her breath fanned against his lips.
He made no attempt to push her away. She knew he could, knew he could hurt her back, and yet she stayed, dancing on the thin blade between danger and something else neither dared name.
A stifling silence settled.
Heat threaded Damian’s limbs. His palms went slick; the cool of the blade against him was the only thing that kept him from melting into the moment. He was conscious of the tiny noises his body made, a swallowed sound, the catch of breath, and of the absurd clarity of thought: I want to kill him.
The image flared, quick and ugly, but it did not stand alone. Wrapped within it was a different picture: her, free from pity, rules, and the careful plans of the courtroom... and him there, taking what had been denied, and rescuing her.
The two impulses braided: the black lust to undo the man who stood between him and her, and the hot, needy pull toward the woman who held steel to his skin. Each thought fed the other until he could no longer say which fueled which. Hatred sharpened desire; desire made hatred vivid. It was as if his blood had decided to speak in one language only: end it, take it, claim it.
The world had thinned to the line of her jaw and the glitter of metal. There was no applause, no courtly murmur; there was only the small, bright fact of her and the obscene little knowledge that he could imagine her free only if the other man were not.
Lorraine knew why Damian might want Leroy dead. She was killing Zara slowly; the feeling couldn’t be far from what Damian held toward her husband. But he hadn’t killed him. Or... to be precise...
"You couldn’t," she said, drawing the fan back with a scoff.
She might not know Damian’s full skill, but she knew her husband. Leroy was not someone easily taken down. That was why he bowed, because when he didn’t, destruction followed. She knew his power.
Damian’s brow twitched. She’d hit her mark. As good as he was, her husband was better.
She considered giving him the same wound, just to mark him, but that would demean Leroy’s victory. Why scar a man her husband had already defeated, especially when that man now stood willingly subdued before her?
"His presence or absence wouldn’t guarantee me your heart," Damian said.
Lorraine’s heart skipped before she could stop it. She wasn’t used to words like these. She had known only abuse and belittlement, never such raw confession. It would be a lie to say it didn’t move her. This prince... was dangerous.
He was right, though. She wouldn’t fall for anyone else. No one can make her heart tilt other than that man who called her useless and a mistake.
"That’s not the only reason," she replied with a smirk, snapping his fan shut and pressing it to his chest.
He chuckled, took it from her, and watched her retreat to her seat. His eyes darkened. He could take her husband from her. He could. Perhaps not in open combat, but a blade in the back didn’t need witnesses.
He held out his hand, tracing the fading outline of her shadow as she walked away. This—this was how close he could get to her. This meaningless game, this fragile closeness... existed only because he obeyed the line she had drawn.
Cross it, and she would vanish. And then he would have nothing... except the taste of her absence, sharp as blood on his tongue.
Let her think it was weakness. There were a hundred more reasons he couldn’t kill that man.
The truth was far simpler, and far more damning: he knew exactly what she would do if Leroy died. She’d either lose her mind or follow him into the grave.
He knew, because that was precisely what he would do for her.
Whether or not they had each other’s hearts, the hunger remained—an unshakable need to see, to exist in the same air, to feel their presence like a pulse beneath the skin.
It was enough to bind them tighter than any vow.
Hah. Unrequited love, no, obsession, was a cruel, laughing god, and he was already kneeling.
Lorraine shook a small silver bell, and a maid slipped in with a jar of wine. Without a word, Lorraine gestured for her to pour for Damian. The maid obeyed, never once turning her back to Lazira, and withdrew in silence.
Damian’s mouth curved. Truly, a ruler.
He lifted the glass, swirling the wine before holding it above his head, peering at the crimson through the light. Then he brought it to his nose, inhaling slowly.
"What is it this time?" he asked, tilting the rim toward her in mock suspicion.
Lorraine removed her mask, a faint smile playing at her lips. "It’s just wine."
His brows rose. She crossed to the table, poured herself a glass, and took a deliberate sip before lifting it toward him in toast.
"I don’t mind either way," he murmured, and downed his drink in one swallow.
She settled back into her seat, legs crossing with unhurried grace, lifting her own glass once more. But her eyes...those pale, cutting blues, suddenly sharpened like drawn steel.
"Now," she said, her voice cool, "tell me why you convinced the Emperor to host such a pompous tribute ceremony this year."
Damian’s hand froze midway to his lips. His eyes widened, barely a flicker, before a slow, knowing smirk slid into place.
"You overestimate me, My Dawn."