“That sounds… really nice, actually,” I say. The thought of sitting somewhere calm and normal with Hanna feels like the perfect way to start the day. I hesitate, then add quietly, “Thank you. For making me feel better, I mean.”
He tilts my chin up, dark eyes intent as he studies my face.
“My blood magic should last five or six hours. If you feel any discomfort before then, you will tell me.”
It’s not a request—there’s a proprietary look in his eyes that should probably worry me. But somehow it makes me feel warm inside instead.
“I’ll tell you,” I promise.
“Good. And you needn’t worry about bleeding through your clothes,” he adds matter-of-factly. “The magic will prevent that until I can tend to you again.”
So I’ll be wearing the magical equivalent of period panties. The idea is strange—almost surreal—but instead of panicking, I find myself nodding.
“Okay,” I say. “I trust you.”
The words surprise me as soon as they’re out of my mouth, but I realize they’re true.
Lucian goes still for a heartbeat, then his expression softens into something quiet and intense.
“Thank you. That means more to me than you know, little one,” he says.
He rises from the bed and begins to dress with smooth efficiency, pulling on dark trousers and a crisp shirt, every movement graceful and controlled. Watching him feels oddly intimate, like I’m seeing something meant only for me.
“Breakfast will be served in the breakfast nook,” he says, fastening his cuffs.
I look at him in surprise.
“The Crimson Spires has a breakfast nook?”
He smiles faintly.
“Of course. The servants will show you and Hanna the way. I will join you afterward.”
He leans down and presses a final kiss to my forehead, then glides toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at me.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “And eat.”
Then he’s gone.
I sit up slowly, wrapping the covers around myself, listening to the fire crackle and wondering when my life became this strange, this dangerous… and this unexpectedly gentle.
What happens next? I wonder.
And for once, instead of fear, the question brings a flicker of anticipation.
45
Jules
Getting dressed turns out to be surprisingly pleasant.
That alone feels strange enough that I pause in front of the wardrobe, one hand still resting on the carved wooden door, just taking it in. Dresses and outfits hang by length and color. Shoes are lined up neatly on low shelves. Everything smells faintly of cedar and something floral I can’t quite place.
Okay, I think. No pressure—let’s just find something comfortable.
I reach for a red dress that immediately feels different from what I’m used to. It’s light and flowy, made of a soft, crimson fabric that drapes instead of clinging. It has a gently defined waist that actually sits where my waist is instead of somewhere up near my ribcage like so many plus-sized dresses seem determined to do. The skirt skims my hips and thighs without pulling and without riding up—and most importantly, without making me feel like I need to suck in my stomach just to exist.
I look at myself in the mirror and smile. I look good. Not “good for a curvy girl.” Just good—feminine, pretty, and comfortable.
