The garden smelled like dusk, sweet with blooming lavender, edged with the soft bite of trimmed cypress. Lucas walked without direction, hands loosely tucked behind his back, letting the stone path carry him where it pleased. Windstone had offered to escort him, but Lucas declined. He needed the quiet. The air. Something ungoverned.
He was dressed in a Sahan traditional coat, a political gift, though no one had demanded he wear it. It was green, the shade of spring olive, embroidered in silver at the hems with curling symbols he couldn’t read. It had been tailored for someone taller and broader, but the weight of it was a comfort. The sleeves brushed his wrists just right. The fabric moved like smoke.
It was meant for an omega. But longer. More formal. Less ornamental. A style reserved for consorts, perhaps. Or sacrificial lambs dressed too finely before a banquet. Correct content is on NovelHub
The gravel crunched under his shoes. He passed under an arbor wired with electric lanterns disguised as white blossoms. The sun had begun to slide behind the western walls, casting long shadows through the columns, when he heard it—the sharp click of heels on stone. Not staff. Not friendly. He didn’t turn.
"I thought the palace gardens were for official guests only."
Lucas stopped walking. His reflection glanced back at him in the polished glass of the greenhouse doors ahead. Behind him, multiple figures. Not just one voice. A cluster.
Four women stood behind her, but it was obvious who led. Her dark red jacket screamed wealth; the tailored cut hugged her like armor, not fashion. Sunglasses—designer, undoubtedly—sat atop her head like a crown, even though the sun had long since moved on. She held a slim clutch with the precision of someone used to ending conversations with one look. The women behind her mirrored her movements like well-trained hounds—quieter, paler, practiced in their deference.
"I didn’t know the security in Saha was so lax," he said, voice mild. "Letting anyone with a wardrobe budget and a grudge wander the royal gardens."
The taller woman stepped forward, and her smile was the kind that never touched the eyes. "We’re guests."
"Are you?" Lucas asked, gaze flicking down to the faint scuff on her heel. "Funny. I thought the guest list was tighter."
Her expression shifted—just a fraction. Enough for the women behind her to stiffen.
She recovered with practiced ease. "I was scheduled to meet the King. Until, apparently, my luncheon was replaced. Without notice. For you."
Lucas folded his hands behind his back. "That’s unfortunate. Though I suppose if he changed his plans, it’s not really me you should be mad at."
"Oh, I’m not mad." She smiled again. "I’m curious. A foreign guest. No collar. No surname worth remembering. And yet here you are, dressed like a consort."
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. "You speak like someone used to being first in line and last to get picked."
Gasps rippled behind her, soft and scandalized.
"You think this is clever?" she asked, voice cool. "Parading around in silk and charm, trying to tempt both the King and his general?"
Lucas’s expression didn’t shift. "You think I want both?"
"I don’t entertain delusions."
She stepped closer, too close, eyes sharp. "You’re not royalty. You’re not even noble. You’re—"
"—someone who clearly outranks you now," Lucas said, cutting clean through her words. "I can’t take seriously someone who doesn’t even know I’m married to Grand Duke Fitzgeralt. And for the record—he’s a general of Palatine, not Saha."
He raised his left hand with quiet, deliberate grace. The ring on his finger caught the afternoon light, shifting color from deep violet to smoky green. It shimmered with the weight of truth—and of power.
One of the women behind her gasped audibly. The others leaned in, instinctively drawn to the glint of the gem. They knew what that stone meant. Who had access to it. Who could even afford it.
But the leader wasn’t done.
"You’re just a whore who thinks having both of them under your thumb makes you better," she hissed. "Or should I say—over you?"
Lucas tilted his head slowly, not so much shocked as disappointed. "You must be exhausted. Waking up every day thinking that status is earned through who you sleep with, only to be outclassed by someone who didn’t have to try."
She moved as if to step closer again, but this time one of her followers—smarter, or simply less suicidal—caught her wrist. Still, she wasn’t done.
"You are nothing without them!" she snapped, louder now, like she was trying to convince herself just as much as him.
Lucas didn’t even blink. He raised a brow, slow and with full contempt, the kind that didn’t need shouting. "Sure," he said lightly. "Let’s go with that. But tell me—who are you again?"
The woman straightened her spine, ready to reclaim the stage. "I’m Vanessa Vassinger," she declared. "Daughter of Nathaniel Vassinger. Diplomat. Member of the External Affairs Ministry."
Lucas smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You must be stupid to give me your full name."
That struck something—two of the women behind her shifted uncomfortably.
"Good," Lucas added, his voice dropping to something quieter. Deadlier. "Then you’ll be happy to know your brother, Caesar Vassinger, already met me in Palatine. He seemed perfectly reasonable. Civil, even. We had tea."
She looked like she’d swallowed stone, but Lucas wasn’t done.
"I was heir to House D’Argente before I married into Fitzgeralt."
Lucas’s voice was low, polished, and devastating. "I have no reason to sleep with someone for power."
The silence that followed was clean and cold—like the snap of frost across velvet. Vanessa didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Behind her, one of her entourage looked genuinely nauseous.
"I already had more than you ever will," Lucas continued, the faintest smile curving his mouth, "and I did it without whoring myself out to a garden ambush."
Her breath caught—whether from fury or embarrassment, even she didn’t know.
He stepped forward just slightly, not threatening, merely inevitable. "Now go back to whatever overpriced chaise you slithered out from. I’ve had enough insects for one afternoon."
A delicate cough interrupted them.
Windstone stood at the edge of the path, tablet under his arm, brows raised so high they nearly touched his graying hairline. He looked at the stunned group of women, then at Lucas, then back to the group.
"Did I miss something important?" he asked dryly.
Lucas didn’t even flinch. "Nothing that required security intervention. Just spring pests."
Windstone gave an approving nod, his gaze flicking to Vanessa. "Then I suggest you crawl back to the guest wing before you lose your privileges."
The entourage didn’t wait for her this time.
Vanessa turned without another word, fury curled in her spine—but fear now walked beside it.
Lucas exhaled slowly and resumed his walk, hands behind his back like nothing had happened.