Lucas didn't answer right away.
He didn't understand the question because it was too complicated. Not when his name was already echoing in drawing rooms he'd never stepped foot in. Not when every pair of noble hands that had once dismissed him as disposable might now reach for him like an inheritance come to life.
He studied Trevor.
Not the title. Not the offer.
Just the man standing there, patient in a way that felt cruel and kind all at once.
And then, in a voice softer than the scrape of silver against porcelain, Lucas asked, "Was there even a choice to make?"
The words hung there, not bitter, not angry—just tired.
"I either bond," he said, more to himself than to Trevor, "or I'm sold. Again. This time to someone with better manners and worse intentions. A prince. A king. A name with enough weight to keep me locked behind walls no one dares question."
