Chapter sixteen: A glass of quiet ruin
The drawing room was drenched in soft light, filtered through crimson-dyed glass. The colors bled across the walls—wine and rose, blood and dusk. Nothing in the room was out of place. The tea was already poured.
Lady Ravienne sat in a high-backed chair, posture regal. Seliora stood beside her, arms loosely folded, eyes trailing Elira's every step as she entered.
"You may sit," Ravienne said, voice smooth as velvet pulled taut. "I dislike towering over conversation."
Elira obeyed. Her spine remained straight, hands folded politely in her lap.
For a moment, there was only the clink of porcelain as Seliora poured a second cup of tea. The scent was foreign—blackthorn and winter pear. Not the kind served in the manor's usual affairs.
"Elira," Ravienne began, eyes glinting like obsidian beneath her veil of raven-dark hair. "That is your name, is it not?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Tell me. Do you enjoy your place here?"
A question framed as casual, but Elira could feel the subtle edges of it. Like a blade wrapped in lace.
"I do not presume to enjoy or dislike it," Elira answered carefully. "I fulfill the role I've been given."
Seliora smiled faintly. "That is fortunate. I've heard the manor can be... unkind to outsiders."
"Unkindness," Ravienne said, "is often a reflection of one's inner state. Don't you think, Elira?"
The use of her name made Elira's stomach knot. Ravienne rarely addressed her directly—always through the servants, through letters, through Lucien. The shift meant something. Something sharpened.
"So obedient," she murmured. "Do you speak like that to Lucien, too?"
Elira met her eyes. "I speak to Lord Vaelric with the respect he is due."
Something unspoken shifted in Seliora's gaze. A flicker of displeasure, quickly concealed by a half-smile.
"Respect," Ravienne echoed, swirling the tea in her cup. "That word changes depending on who speaks it. For some, it is reverence. For others, fear."
"You see," Ravienne went on, "it worries me, truly. My son has always had... peculiar tastes. But keeping a little dove in a gilded cage? That's not like him."
Elira turned slightly. "I don't understand."
"Oh, child. Don't pretend," Ravienne purred, and leaned in, lips nearly at her ear. "We both know you're more than what you seem. And Lucien—he doesn't take pets. He takes secrets."
Elira didn't reply.
Ravienne set her cup down without drinking. "You are wearing the collar."
Elira's hand instinctively brushed her throat. "Yes."
"And he hasn't removed it."
"No."
"Then you are still his property," Ravienne said, her voice soft and final. "Whatever illusions you may have otherwise, do not mistake his interest for favor. Lucien does not love. He keeps."
Elira's pulse quickened, but she kept her expression smooth. "I am aware."
"Are you?" Ravienne tilted her head. "My son is not cruel by whim, but by design. He is patient. He studies. And when he is finished, he discards."
Seliora leaned forward, chin resting on her hand. "Tell me, Elira—did you think you were the first?"
"I don't think anything that would insult Lord Vaelric's judgment," Elira said.
A pause.
Then Ravienne rose, moving with graceful deliberation. "You are clever. That much is clear. But cleverness in a pet is only admirable until it begins to bite."
Elira stood as well, as propriety dictated. But Ravienne crossed the space between them and lifted a gloved hand to trace the edge of the collar.
The contact did not burn, but it felt like it should.
"You are tied to him now. But bonds can fray. Or be cut."
She stepped back, gaze unreadable. "You may go."
Elira turned, but Seliora's voice stopped her.
"I don't think she knows," she said casually.
Elira froze.
"She doesn't understand what she is. Or why Lucien took her. I can smell the ignorance on her. It's almost sweet."
Elira's fingers curled. She did not speak. She walked out without another word.
The corridor was colder than she remembered. The manor seemed to shift around her as if to swallow her whole.
By the time she reached her chamber, the pressure behind her eyes had become unbearable. She shut the door, placed her hands against the wall, and tried to breathe.
But her breath wouldn't come.
Not until a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"You shouldn't have gone alone."
She turned. Lord Thorne stood by the window, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but his eyes burned.
"She summoned me," Elira said. "With your seal."
"That was forged."
A beat passed. Then another.
Her breath stuttered. "You knew she was here."
"Yes."
"And you let her speak to me like that?"
"I wanted to see what she would say."
"So I was bait." Her voice didn't rise, but it trembled with something bitter.
"No," he said. "You were tested."
"Tested for what?"
"To see if you would break."
"She always tests her prey before she strikes." He turned finally, eyes like frostbitten steel. "Be careful what you say in that house."
"I was careful," she said, crossing her arms.
His gaze lingered on her face, something stormy flickering beneath his restraint. "You shouldn't have gone alone."
"You weren't here," she answered, sharper than she meant to.
Silence.
Her hands clenched at her sides. "And did I pass?"
Lord Thorne stopped before her. Closer than usual. His gaze was sharp, and the bond between them pulled taut like a thread caught on thorns.
"You endured," he said. "That is enough for now."
"I'm not your puppet," she whispered. "You cannot use me as a shield against your family."
"You are not a shield," he said lowly. "You are the storm that comes after."
She didn't understand. Not fully.
But then he reached for her hand—and this time, when his fingers brushed hers, the collar did not pulse with threat, but with warmth.
"Elira," he said, her name a quiet vow. "You are not what they think you are. You never were."
I won't be staying," he said then, abruptly.
"What?" The word felt like ice on her tongue. "You just returned."
"There are matters in the East I must attend to. I'll be gone before sunrise."
She tried not to show anything—hurt, fear, disappointment. "Of course. You're always leaving."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Don't miss me."
"I won't," she snapped, too quickly.
He stepped toward her. She backed away without meaning to. The distance stung.
"I told you once," he murmured, "that bonds can change."
"I remember," she whispered.
His eyes searched hers for something neither of them dared name.
Then, without a word more, he turned and walked out of her chamber, the door clicking shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.
Elira sat on the edge of the bed long after he left.
Something in her ached—not because he was cold, but because there had been something else in his voice. Something buried.
The collar at her neck warmed faintly, as if reacting to the last trace of his presence.
Outside, a wind picked up, rustling the garden trees. Shadows moved differently now.
She didn't know it yet, but Lucien's absence would not go unnoticed by his enemies.
And Ravienne was not finished with her.
Not yet.