Chapter 222: No One Can Disrespect His Wife
Lorraine turned slowly to face Aralyn, meeting the woman’s gaze head-on. Aralyn was looking at her with what might, at a superficial glance, be mistaken for motherly guidance. But Lorraine knew better.
No matter how generously she tried to interpret it, there wasn’t a trace of warmth in Aralyn’s tone, nor even a flicker of affection in her eyes. What radiated from her instead was something far sharper: an imperious anger, steeped in the quiet certainty that she had the right to be angry. Pride. Ownership. As if the very walls of this house bowed to her by ancestral right.
Lorraine understood, at least in part. Aralyn had the blood of the Dragon in her veins. You could exile a royal from the palace, but you could never wash the royalty out of their blood. That kind of pride was bone-deep, older than crowns, and impossible to feign.
The question was, did Aralyn know of her blood? Or was this commanding presence simply instinct, echoing through generations of the Aurelthar lineage?
Lorraine’s thoughts tangled as she studied the older woman. Perhaps Aralyn felt a kind of rightful possession; after all, this was her son’s mansion. A dowager mother was due a certain authority, wasn’t she? Her presence here could easily be interpreted as natural, even inevitable.
And yet...
This was her home. Lorraine had built these halls stone by stone, managed its affairs, ruled its rhythm for years. She was the one who had held this household together when everything else crumbled. Could she now share that power simply because Leroy had found his birth mother?
How did one balance blood and legacy? Title and labor? Heart and history?
She wasn’t sure. But she felt, keenly, the fault lines beneath her feet beginning to shift.
And perhaps... she wasn’t meant to decide. This choice should belong to Leroy. He was the bridge between past and present, between her and the woman who had borne him. All she could do was trust him with the truth and let him choose where his loyalties would fall.
She laid her hand gently on his chest, urging him back toward their chambers. They needed to speak, away from watching eyes, away from Aralyn. Leroy glanced down at her, and just like that, the fire in his eyes dimmed, giving way to something softer. He trusted her judgment.
He placed his hand over her hand on his chest, ready to leave the argument behind, when Aralyn’s voice cut through the corridor like a whip.
"What spectacle is this? Even the maids blush at your lack of restraint. I know you were denied a mother’s guidance, but that does not pardon such indecency. You are bound to royal blood now. Remove your hands and take your place behind him, as any well-bred wife would."
Lorraine flinched, as though struck. The sheer audacity of Aralyn’s words, which were sharp, imperious, and laced with disdain, sent heat crawling up her spine. She tasted the bitterness of the insult on her tongue but held herself back.
She didn’t need to answer.
Leroy had already turned, his expression shifting like a stormfront rolling in. His voice, when it came, was low and glacial.
"Mind your tongue," he said softly.
The quietness of it was worse than a shout.
"You are a guest under my roof," Leroy continued, each syllable crisp, deliberate. "And in my house, you will show my wife the respect she is due. I tolerate no less—from servants, from nobles... or from anyone."
The weight of his authority filled the corridor; not loud, not theatrical, but absolute.
His gaze didn’t waver. He wasn’t angry in the way that flares and fades. He was cold and composed; dangerously so.
He had regretted not protecting her all these years. He wouldn’t ever allow someone to berate his wife right in front of him. If that woman were not someone his wife liked, he wouldn’t have minded chopping off that tongue that dared to accuse his wife of... What exactly? Holding his hand?
"As for virtue," Leroy added, a faint, cutting smile ghosting across his lips, "it is best upheld by example, not lecture."
The silence that followed was deep and brittle, like the pause before glass shatters.
Lorraine’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Did he just—?
He did. He’d just called out Aralyn for being a mistress.
She glanced at Aralyn. For once, the formidable woman was struck speechless, her lips parted, but no sound escaped.
"Leroy!" The word burst from Lorraine before she could think. Her heart lurched; this wasn’t right. He didn’t know the truth yet. By shaming Aralyn, he was, unknowingly, shaming the circumstances of his own birth.
He turned slightly toward her, but his expression hadn’t softened; his smirk was fading, replaced by a colder, harder edge. His hand lifted, finger pointing at Aralyn as if to press the attack.
She didn’t let him. "She’s your mother," Lorraine blurted, voice firm but quiet, like a blade slipped between ribs.
Leroy froze. His hand trembled midair, the pointed finger faltering. Slowly, his wide eyes dropped to her face, searching.
Behind Lorraine, Aralyn’s stunned voice broke through the thick air.
"You can talk?"
Lorraine barely heard her. Her attention was locked on Leroy: the shock on his face, the way the ground had just been ripped out from beneath him. She could feel the tremor in his chest as she pressed her hand gently against it, grounding him.
"Come," she murmured softly. Her eyes flicked toward the bedchamber door. This wasn’t a conversation to have under Aralyn’s scrutiny.
Leroy’s head dipped, as though the weight of the revelation had suddenly grown too heavy to hold upright. For the briefest moment, his composure cracked.
Without a word, Lorraine slipped her arm around his waist, the only way she could hold him properly, given their height difference, and steered him gently toward their chambers. He didn’t resist.
The door closed behind them with a solid thud, and the lock clicked into place.
Outside, Aralyn stood frozen, staring at the closed door in stunned silence, as though the ground itself had tilted beneath her feet. For years she had dreamed of this moment, imagined how it might unfold. Yet the reality had struck like a thunderclap, swift and unforgiving.
"You found your son after all these years..."
The quiet voice drew her out of her daze. Aralyn turned sharply to find Aldric leaning against a column in the dim corridor, his arms folded, his gaze steady.
She pressed her lips together, struggling to summon her usual poise. "So it seems," she said finally, though her voice lacked its usual edge.
Aldric’s expression didn’t soften. "If you keep this up, you’ll lose him again, this time for good. The Great Dragon himself knelt before his wife. How much more do you think his heir would do so?"
Her brows lifted, a faint flicker of indignation crossing her features. But Aldric’s words landed like stones dropped in still water, their ripples spreading slowly through her thoughts.
"He has Aurelthar blood in him?" she asked, her voice low now, almost reverent.