Chapter 234: Stolen Sliver of Peace
Lorraine didn’t know what Leroy had planned. She truly hoped his vision for their future would work, though deep down, the picture he painted felt almost too perfect, too fragile for the world they lived in. Still, a part of her clung to that hope, like reaching for sunlight through the cracks of a storm.
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against her skin, warm and steady. His voice was low and certain when he whispered against her lips, "I’ll protect you. Both of you."
A shiver ran through her, delicate and involuntary, at the weight of those words. She pressed closer, her body molding against his as if seeking to anchor herself in that promise. Safety and longing mingled in the space between them, quiet but intense, a restrained fire simmering beneath the softness of their embrace.
Their connection was electric yet tender, intimate yet careful, an unspoken pact wrapped in shared breath and warmth. The world beyond their bedchamber dissolved until all that remained was the brush of hands, the heat of skin against skin, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, and the unwavering certainty of his love.
They lingered like that for what felt like hours, neither rushing nor retreating. Every breath, every subtle shift, every fleeting glance became its own quiet confession. Restraint only sharpened the edges of their closeness, made each heartbeat against the other’s chest thrum louder, made every small touch burn deeper.
Lorraine’s fingers traced idle patterns across his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths beneath her palms. His hand rested protectively along the curve of her back, thumb drawing slow, reassuring circles on her skin. Between them stretched a silence that was neither awkward nor empty, but full... so full it felt alive.
In that silence, Lorraine understood something profound. Desire and care did not exist at opposite ends; they could entwine, nourish each other, thrive in the same heartbeat. And that understanding deepened the tenderness between them, making it richer, more real.
Wrapped in his arms, lulled by the slow, deep rhythm of his chest beneath her ear, Lorraine finally let her mind quiet. The weight of her schemes, the Dowager’s looming shadow, the uncertain future, all of it faded to the edges. Here, in this private cocoon, there was only the quiet fire between them: longing tempered by patience, love strengthened by restraint.
And there, in the press of bodies, in the shared rhythm of breath, in the unspoken promises that flowed like currents between them, they were home.
When morning came, the first pale blush of dawn seeped through the curtains, softening the edges of the room. As usual, Leroy stirred before the sun fully rose, his senses sharpening with the coming day. He shifted slightly and felt the familiar weight of her curled atop him.
His lips curved into a smile. There she was, his little Mousling, sleeping soundly, tangled against him as if he were the only refuge she trusted. Her hair was a wild halo around her face, soft strands brushing against his bare chest. Beneath the tangled blankets, her nightgown had ridden up to her waist, and her legs were tucked between his, her warmth seeping into him. She slept like someone who had given her entire heart away without hesitation.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there, breathing her in. She murmured something faint and unintelligible in her sleep, burrowing closer, seeking his warmth instinctively.
Lean on me, little Mousling, he thought, the words heavy with quiet devotion. I will protect you.
He tightened his arms around her gently, careful not to wake her, savoring the rare stillness of the moment. Outside, the world was waiting: politics, responsibilities, dangers, but here, in the soft cocoon of their shared warmth, he allowed himself this stolen sliver of peace.
For just a little longer, he could be a man holding his wife close, not a prince burdened with crowns and destinies.
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The next few days, Lorraine was occupied from dawn to dusk, overseeing the countless preparations for the upcoming Candlelight Ball. Silk banners were being embroidered, floral garlands measured, chandeliers polished until they gleamed like captured starlight. Her staff scurried through the corridors, their hurried footsteps echoing against the marble floors like the rhythmic pulse of a heart preparing for something grand.
Even amidst the bustle, Lorraine’s mind was elsewhere. She had quietly dispatched her shinobis to keep a close eye on the Dowager. Their reports came back unsettlingly uniform: the Dowager had withdrawn into the prayer room of her mansion and had not stepped out for days.
The court, too, was eerily calm. No sudden summons. No suspicious gatherings. Even the red-light district, usually a humming web of whispered secrets and political undercurrents, was quiet. It was a fragile, unnatural sort of stillness, as though the entire city were holding its breath.
Was it Hadria Arvand’s death? Lorraine wondered. Or Osric Vaelith’s return?
She could not tell. The capital seemed cloaked in a golden, watchful silence.
That evening, as the sun sank low, staining the autumn sky in hues of burnished gold and rose, Lorraine finally stole a rare moment of solitude. She wrapped a light shawl around her shoulders and stepped out to the west terrace, choosing a seat that overlooked the palace gardens.
The air was crisp, carrying with it the faint, sweet scent of drying leaves and distant hearth fires. A breeze swept through, stirring the ivy that crept up the stone balustrade. Beneath her, the garden stretched in gentle terraces, hedges sculpted into elegant shapes, flowerbeds edged with marigolds and asters in their last autumn bloom. The dappled light caught on the fountain’s spray, scattering it like shards of amber.
Somewhere in the servants’ quarters, Sylvia’s laughter echoed faintly. Lorraine recalled that Sylvia had gone to Aldric’s room to help him tidy up, a task that was, judging by Aldric’s temperament, always more dramatic than it needed to be. He claimed, with the usual mock solemnity, that his mess was intentional, that it helped him "protect his secrets." Lorraine could imagine Sylvia rolling her eyes at his theatrics, as she always did.
The memory coaxed a small, involuntary smile from Lorraine’s lips. These little domestic absurdities, the kind that would have been unthinkable in her younger, colder days, had become oddly precious to her.
Her gaze drifted toward the garden below. Emma stood by the dove cot, her pale skirts glowing faintly in the last golden light. She scattered grains with practiced grace, and a flurry of white wings rose around her like a soft storm. But Emma was not alone.