Sabine felt the violation like a hand around her throat. The mark burned where Solhain touched it. Her pulse hammered against his fingers. She tried to pull free. His grip tightened.
“Release me.”
“When you answer. What did you offer him?”
“Lord Solhain.”
The voice cut through the chamber like iron through silk.
Lucien Vhalor descended from the dais.
He did not run. Did not shout. He simply moved with the kind of absolute purpose that made every other body in the room irrelevant.
Sabine felt the air change before he reached her. Felt the weight of his presence like a shift in atmospheric pressure. Felt the mark flare hot beneath Solhain’s grip as if recognizing something the rest of her could not yet name.
Lucien stopped one pace away. His gaze locked on Solhain’s hand.
“Release her.”
Solhain’s smile faltered. “Your Highness, I merely sought to—”
“Release. Her.”
The second repetition carried no inflection. No anger. Just absolute certainty that refusal would cost more than compliance.
Solhain let go.
Lucien stepped between them, his body angling to block Solhain from Sabine entirely. When he spoke again, his voice remained low, controlled, and utterly uncompromising.
“Only the chosen may touch what the rite has claimed. That is law. That is sacred structure. You will not place your hands on any marked bride again without invitation. Do you understand me, Lord Solhain?”
The chamber held its breath.
Solhain’s face went carefully blank. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”
“Then you will return to your seat.”
Solhain inclined his head and withdrew.
Lucien turned.
For one suspended instant, he and Sabine stood alone in the center of the causeway with the entire court watching.
She could see the fine tension in his shoulders beneath formal black. Could see the muscle tight along his jaw. Could see his eyes, pale gray-green and unreadable except for the faint line of something harder underneath the control.
He did not touch her. Did not offer his hand. Did not soften the moment into chivalry.
He simply looked at her once, gaze dropping briefly to the mark on her wrist where Solhain’s grip had left faint pressure marks, then back to her face.
“Continue,” he said.
It was not a suggestion.
Sabine’s heart kicked against her ribs. The mark pulsed hot where he had looked at it, and for one irrational second she thought it would answer him the way it had during the Selection, heat spreading, lines darkening, her body betraying recognition her mind refused.
She forced herself to move.
One step. Another. Past Lucien. Past the space he had carved out for her in the center of the court’s appetite.
