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Chapter 35 - Silvershade Concord II

Chapter thirty five: Silvershade concord ii

Before she could answer, something cold brushed the back of her neck—like a breath too close, a shadow too familiar.

She turned.

Lucien stood a few paces away, the candlelight from the nearby chandelier cutting sharply across his features. His gaze wasn't on her. It was fixed, unwavering, on Vaeren.

"You certainly enjoy wandering off," he said, voice low, quiet enough not to draw attention—but with an edge honed like a blade. 

Elira straightened instinctively. "I was just—"

"You took too long."

His gaze never left Vaeren, but his words were for her. Possessive. Controlled. Measured, but coiled with something sharper beneath.

Vaeren didn't flinch. Instead, he offered a small, practiced smile. "A misunderstanding, I'm sure."

Lucien took a single step forward.

The air tightened.

Not loud. Not violent. Just pressure—quiet, deliberate pressure that made the space between the three of them feel too narrow, too charged. A silent warning, dressed in civility but sharpened with old power.

Vaeren held Lucien's gaze a beat longer than was wise.

Then—gracefully—he inclined his head. "I'll look forward to our next misunderstanding, Lady Ansleigh."

And just like that, he slipped away into the silver

Elira stared after him, something strange and humming caught in her chest. The moment hadn't ended—it had just been severed.

Lucien didn't speak.

He only looked at her.

And in that silence, something else flared between them—not anger, but the raw outline of it. He wasn't furious. Not yet. But he was close.

"I wasn't trying to vanish," she said softly, searching his face. "He spoke to me, I answered. I didn't plan anything—"

"You're not here to make friends," he said.

"No," Elira said, slower this time. "I'm here to be controlled."

His jaw ticked. Just once.

"Don't look at anyone the way you looked at him." he said, too quiet. 

Elira stilled.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Lucien's eyes burned into hers. Not with jealousy—it wasn't that simple. It was something older. A warning wrapped in something almost unspoken. Almost… personal.

"Do you even know what that look means to our kind?" he asked.

Elira's breath caught.

"I don't belong to you," she said, not angry—just tired. "You made that clear when you called me a pet."

His gaze flicked away briefly, as if that word tasted bitter now.

"I didn't say you weren't mine," he murmured. "I said what they needed to hear."

The reply knocked the wind from her.

But before she could speak, a commotion swelled near the far side of the ballroom—another noble party entering, a new distraction—music shifting again.

They stood there, the crowd moving in currents around them—masked nobles in red and ash-gray silks, laughter sharpened by wine and the copper-sweet scent of blood. But here, in this small pocket of stillness, the quiet between them said more than the noise around them ever could.

Elira glanced away, her eyes catching on a nearby table, its polished surface reflecting the soft shimmer of glasses and untouched wine. She didn't move toward it.

A voice cut through the swell of music — sharp, clipped, deliberate.

"Lord Vaelric."

Lucien turned his head, slowly. A vampire noble, dressed in dusk-grey formalwear with the insignia of the Inner Circle pinned to his chest, waited at the ballroom's edge. His mask was ceremonial — more crown than disguise — and his voice brooked no denial.

"The Court requires your presence. Immediately."

For a moment, Lucien did not answer. His gaze lingered on Elira, unreadable. The muscles in his jaw tightened, then released. He gave the faintest nod.

"Elira," he said, low, the syllables clipped. "Stay where I can find you."

And then, like a shadow folding into smoke, he turned and walked away.

She stood very still, the sound of his boots swallowed by velvet and laughter.

Alone.

For the first time that night, truly alone.

The ballroom shimmered around her — a blur of movement, silks brushing past her arm, perfumes blooming like strange flowers in the air. Without Lucien's presence beside her, something shifted. A tension released. Or perhaps a veil lifted.

Eyes turned toward her.

Not curious glances. Not admiration.

Hunger.

Predatory, velvet-wrapped attention. And not all of it polite.

She exhaled slowly, trying not to fidget. Her skin prickled beneath her gown's neckline, where her collarbone met the cold chain of the blood-seal. She touched it lightly, half-aware, then dropped her hand as a servant approached.

A tray. Goblets. Crystal, gleaming like cut bone.

"Wine, milady?" the servant murmured.

Elira hesitated.

The scent that rose from the cups was… almost floral. Sweet. And underneath it—

Blood.

She drew back half a step. "No. Thank you."

The servant bowed and vanished into the crowd.

She turned, uncertain of her footing. Unsure of where to go — where she was allowed to go. Lucien hadn't said.

And the space he had vacated now felt much too large.

Near a side alcove, just beyond the reach of the chandelier light, two figures stood far too close. A noble leaned in, whispering something to the woman in his arms. She was human, her dress artfully torn at the shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips to her throat.

No pain. No fear.

Only surrender.

A second pair stood beside them — roles reversed. A male servant this time, offering himself with a tilt of his neck, while the vampiress drank with slow precision. Her lips curved, red and soft, as she sipped like from a lover's wrist.

Elira turned away quickly. Her stomach knotted — not from disgust, but something more tangled. Fascination. Dread. Curiosity.

"You shouldn't stand still too long," came a voice behind her. "You'll draw attention."

She looked back.

Vaeren.

He stood with a glass in hand, his posture utterly relaxed, as if they were simply at a garden party and not surrounded by blood and elegance and something darker thrumming beneath it all.

"You again," she said softly, not quite smiling.

"You sound disappointed." He took a leisurely sip. "I was hoping I'd be the familiar face in a crowd of monsters."

She arched a brow. "And what does that make you?"

"An unusually charming monster."

Elira studied him more closely this time. In the haze of light and shadow, Vaeren stood apart. He didn't lean into the theatrics the way the others did. No elaborate collar, no ornamented mask. Just midnight blue velvet, a single black ring, and eyes that missed nothing.

"You're different," she said before she meant to.

He inclined his head. "I could say the same. You're not afraid. Not the way they expect you to be."

"Should I be?"

"Yes," Vaeren said, without pause. "But not of them."

She frowned. "Then who?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he offered her his glass.

"Don't worry. I've already sipped the dangerous part."

She didn't take it. "I don't drink blood."

"I saw the way you held your own when he left. That's not a pet. That's someone deciding not to run." he said quietly. 

She blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone.

"No leash," he added, voice dipping slightly. "Only chains you choose to carry. That matters."

Before she could answer, the air chilled. The subtle press of presence — commanding, precise.

Lucien.

He didn't speak, not immediately. But she felt him before she saw him — like a shadow returning to its source.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Controlled.

"I told you to stay where I could find you."

Elira turned slowly. "I didn't move."

His eyes shifted to Vaeren, but the air between them was not as sharp as before. It was colder.

Vaeren offered a low nod, almost mocking in its elegance. "Twice interrupted.

Lucien took a single step forward.

Just one.

The space between them rippled. Not visibly — but in a way that made even the distant conversations hush for a breath.

Vaeren inclined his head again, this time with a faint, ironic smile. "I'll look forward to our next… misunderstanding. Lady Ansleigh."

And then he vanished into the crowd.

Silence settled between Elira and Lucien.

Not empty.

Just... brimming.

Her gaze dropped for a moment, then rose again. "You didn't need to come back. I wasn't in danger."

Lucien's stare was unreadable. "Not yet."

The words landed between them, heavy.

"I'm not a child," she said, more tightly than she intended.

"No," he agreed, too fast. "You're not."

And then — without a word — Lucien extended his hand.

Not abruptly. Not with ceremony.

Simply, as if the decision had been made long before the moment arrived.

Elira stared at it, uncertain. The hush between them thickened.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

His gaze met hers — sharp, endless, and cool as moonlight pressed against stone.

"I'm claiming what they've been eyeing all night," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Dance with me."

It wasn't a plea.

It wasn't even a request.

It was a vow, wrapped in velvet and iron.

She didn't move. Not yet.

"I never learned," she confessed, her voice barely a breath. "Not properly. I'll make a fool of myself."

Lucien stepped closer — not quite touching, but near enough that her breath caught.

"Then follow me," he said, his voice dark silk. "I don't need your grace. Only your attention."

She hesitated a heartbeat longer — and then slowly placed her hand in his.

The contact was quiet, but charged. His fingers were cold, precise. Her pulse fluttered.

Around them, the crowd stirred — parting in deference without being asked.

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