Chapter thirty seven: A whisper away
The manor gates were distant by the time the gilded doors of the ballroom closed behind them.
Lucien offered his arm in silence. She hesitated only a second before taking it. His touch was warm beneath the night chill, and it unsettled her more than the cold ever could.
They stepped into the waiting carriage. The lamps inside flickered softly, casting golden halos on polished wood. Neither of them spoke at first.
The carriage ride was silent. Not awkward, not cold—but full of unspoken weight, the kind that wrapped around breath and sank into the marrow.
Lucien sat across from her, his posture elegant, restrained. The moonlight filtering through the curtained windows struck silver over his cheekbones and cast shadows beneath his eyes, making him seem carved from something ancient.
Elira sat still, hands resting in her lap, heart unsteady. The ballroom lingered on her skin—the scent of wine and candle wax, the sting of stares, the feel of his hand, of his gaze, of the moment that had unraveled everything.
She looked out the window, the countryside sweeping by in blur. "You danced with me," she murmured.
"I did." His voice was low, smooth, yet there was a rasp under it tonight, like velvet catching on a thorn.
The silence wasn't empty—it pulsed with everything they hadn't said on the dance floor.
Elira exhaled, finally. "I didn't know you could dance like that."
Lucien sat across from her, his posture precise, the shadows carving sharp lines along his jaw. "You never asked."
The carriage jolted into motion.
Outside, the world was hushed and blurred—the dark trees passing like ghosts. Inside, the tension remained like the echo of a heartbeat still racing.
"I've never danced like that," she said, quieter now. "With anyone."
Lucien's gaze didn't waver. "Nor have I."
She glanced at him. "Why did you dance?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He leaned slightly forward, eyes fixed on her, and when he did speak, it was with a quiet certainty that sank deep.
"Because if anyone else had touched you tonight," he said, "I might have killed them."
Her breath caught, heat rushing uninvited to her throat.
The weight of his stare lingered on her, and she felt its path like a caress she hadn't given permission for, but didn't want to stop.
"You belong to me tonight. I wouldn't have left you to wolves."
There was a pause.
Then: "Even the charming ones."
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Is that what you think Vaeren is?"
"I think he's clever beneath me of course but still clever. And clever men lie with prettier smiles."
"And you don't lie?"
Lucien's eyes glinted. "Not to you."
The carriage slowed.
The manor rose ahead—dark, stately, and tall against the moon. As they pulled through the gates, Elira's pulse hadn't slowed since the music ended.
Alaric was already waiting at the entrance.
"Milord. Milady." The butler bowed. "Welcome home."
She nodded stiffly, still trying to keep her balance from the ride, from the weight of everything unsaid.
"Could you… would you send Mirelle to my chambers?" she asked gently.
"Of course."
Lucien didn't speak as he helped her from the carriage. His hand lingered on hers, then slid away like moonlight off glass.
The corridors were quiet when they stepped inside, the weight of the night clinging to the velvet walls and old paintings. Their footsteps were soft on the carpet, their breaths louder than they should've been.
At the base of the stairs, she turned to him. "You don't have to walk me all the way up."
"I do."
It wasn't a courtesy.
It was a decision.
He ascended beside her, one slow step at a time. The same staircase where he'd seen her earlier—gowned, radiant, bare shoulders catching firelight.
She'd looked up then, uncertain, unaware.
And he'd wanted to ruin every shred of distance between them.
At the top, outside her door, she turned the handle. Paused. Her fingers curled around it but didn't twist.
"Goodnight, Lucien," she said softly.
He didn't respond right away.
Instead, he stepped closer, until the dark wood of the door was at her back and the air between them grew tight with something that curled and trembled and wanted.
His hand came to rest beside her head, not touching her but boxing her in.
Her breath caught.
"I should leave," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
She tilted her chin up, eyes meeting his. "Then why haven't you?"
Lucien's gaze dipped—not to her lips, but lower, over the arch of her neck, the pulse that beat beneath her collarbone. Slowly, his eyes returned to hers.
His fingers brushed the side of her cheek then—light, reverent. She leaned into it before she could stop herself.
"You were… breathtaking," he said, his voice roughening. "And utterly unaware of it."
A silence stretched, thick and aching. The space between them burned.
Lucien exhaled, as if reining himself in.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"I've tasted danger," he murmured, "but nothing like standing near you... and having to pretend I don't want more."
The moment stretched taut between them.
His thumb grazed her lower lip. Barely there.
"You are temptation, Elira."
The way he said her name—it was a claim, a confession, a caress.
And then, softer, more dangerous:"If I don't leave now, I will do what I've wanted since I saw you at the top of those stairs."
Her breath shivered out of her.
He lingered a second more.
Then he stepped back.
His gaze held hers until the last moment.
And when he turned and walked away, it felt like the whole hallway exhaled—like something hot and ancient had been held at bay by sheer force of will.
Elira opened her door with trembling fingers, stepped inside, and leaned back against the wood once it shut behind her.
Her pulse hadn't yet settled.
And for the first time, she wondered:
What would he have done...
If she'd asked him to stay?