The words weren’t harsh.
But they left no room for argument.
Lyra blinked, the moment slipping away from her as quickly as it had come. The name lingered for a second longer — Joseph Knightly, marked, unfinished — then softened, blurred, faded under the steady weight of the potion and his presence. The suspicion tried to hold on, but it felt slippery, ungraspable, like trying to remember a dream after waking.
A second servant entered carrying something smaller. Folded. Sealed.
Lyra noticed it immediately. Curiosity flickered — faint, fragile, pushing through the haze for just a moment.
The servant hesitated.
Just slightly.
Then extended it toward her.
Caelum took it before it reached her hand.
His eyes scanned the contents quickly, expression unchanging.
Lyra leaned forward slightly, catching only a fragment of elegantscript —
—not safe—
The paper crumpled in his fist with a soft, deliberate sound.
“Irrelevant,” he said, voice cool and dismissive. He dropped the remains onto the tray without another glance.
The servant removed it without question, melting back into the silent halls of the estate.
Lyra’s curiosity flickered once more — then dimmed, smoothed over by the potion’s warm haze and the steady pressure of his hand returning to her thigh, sliding higher beneath the hem of her skirt until his fingers brushed the lace edge of the panties he had chosen for her that morning. The touch was sensual, deliberate — not demanding release, but reminding her exactly who she belonged to.
“You’re not like them,” he said after a moment, drawing her back down beside him, closer this time. His arm wrapped around her, pulling her into his side with possessive ease. “They pushed you because they’re afraid of you. Of what you’re becoming. Of what we are together.”
Lyra looked up at him, green eyes searching his face, still carrying the faint echo of that name — Joseph Knightly — and the suspicion it had stirred.
“They are?”
“Yes.” His thumb traced slowly over the darkest mark at her throat, pressing just enough to make it throb pleasantly. “They don’t understand what you are. What you’re capable of. What I see in you. They only see a threat. But I see perfection. My perfect girl.”
The words settled into her easily.
Warm.
Heavy.
Replacing the fleeting suspicion with something far more comforting.
He drew her even closer, his hand sliding further up her thigh, fingers brushing higher, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath the lace. The touch was slow, sensual, a deliberate reminder of ownership.
“Stay here with me,” he murmured against her temple, lips brushing her skin. “Just for a few days. Let the Collegium wait. Let them all wait. This place is ours. No one will interfere. No one will question. No one will try to take you from me.”
It didn’t feel like a command.
It didn’t need to.
Lyra didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t question it.
