The worst part was not being moved like contested royal property.
The worst part was that some treacherous piece of her body had eased the moment Lucien entered the chamber.
She hated that.
She hated him a little for making it true.
The guarded suite stood near the royal wing, down a corridor lined with old portraits and guarded by men who wore crown blue instead of temple black.
The room itself was beautiful.
Of course it was.
Large windows, locked. Thick carpets. A sitting area before an already lit fire. A bed dressed in dark blue. A writing desk. A private washing chamber. Better locks. Fewer approaches.
Privilege made a fine cage.
The guards remained outside.
Lysa stepped in after Sabine, took one look around, and said, “I will inspect the room.”
“Do,” Sabine said.
Lucien entered last and closed the door.
For a moment none of them spoke.
Lysa went to the washing chamber, then the hearth, then the windows, checking latches and panels with brisk fury.
Sabine turned on Lucien.
“You just handed Serast the story he wanted.”
“Yes.”
The answer was so immediate it took some of the force from her anger.
She stepped closer anyway.
“We agreed you could not move too soon.”
“I moved when the alternative was letting you be suspended through forged evidence and a drugged bride.”
“You made the bond look excessive.”
“I know.”
“You made me look like exactly what that forged page said I was. A bride who could be removed by you before final selection.”
Lucien’s control remained cold, but something moved beneath it. Not anger at her. Fear wearing its best uniform.
“I recognized the pattern too late with Isolde.”
Sabine stopped.
Lysa went still near the hearth but did not turn.
Lucien’s voice lowered.
