Trevor rose from his chair in one smooth motion, arranging the fall of his black pants with the patience of a saint, as though the mere act of standing required presentation. He unrolled his sleeves with deliberate precision, each fold smoothed down like he was preparing to look decent again, though the gleam in his eyes made it clear decency had nothing to do with his plans.
Lucas tracked the movement, head tilting just slightly, the faintest hum escaping him as if weighing whether the performance was worth rewarding.
Trevor stepped around the desk at a pace that could only be called indulgent, closing the space between them one careful stride at a time. "You know," he said, voice dipping low, "I could have left with you. Sat at the table like a well-trained husband. But I didn’t."
Lucas arched a brow, his calm unshaken. "And here I thought you were working."
"I was," Trevor said easily, stopping just close enough for the faint warmth of his pheromones to tease the air between them. "Working on making sure no one forgets who you married."
Lucas’s lips curved, not quite into a smile, more like the shadow of one. "I doubt anyone’s in danger of forgetting that."
Trevor’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, the sort of look that wasn’t just about ownership, it was about enjoyment, about knowing exactly what he had and refusing to hide it. "Good," he said, the word smooth as silk. "Because I fully intend to remind them anyway."
Lucas made a small, thoughtful sound, tilting his head in mock consideration. "And here I was worried marriage would make you less obvious."
Trevor leaned in slightly, just enough for his voice to brush over Lucas’s skin like a warm breath. "Darling, marriage only made me worse."
Before Trevor could make good on that promise, the office door swung open with the quiet precision of someone who’d been listening for the exact wrong moment to enter.
Windstone stood in the doorway, posture impeccable, expression somewhere between long-suffering and politely scandalized. His pale green eyes flicked over the scene, Trevor leaning in, Lucas seated with the kind of calm that made it clear he wasn’t going to move, and the butler let out the faintest sigh, the kind usually reserved for weather forecasts predicting three more weeks of rain.
"Sir," Windstone said, tone carefully level, "if you plan to ruin another couch, I should warn you the delivery delay for replacements has tripled."
Trevor didn’t even look at him. "You’re assuming it would be the couch."
Windstone’s brows lifted a fraction, the only sign he’d heard something truly horrifying. "Dining is served. In the dining room." His gaze shifted between the two of them with all the patience of an uncle who had, regrettably, been present for every stage of Trevor’s life and knew when to intervene.
Lucas rose without argument, smooth and unhurried, brushing past Trevor with just enough of a glance to suggest this wasn’t over. Trevor lingered, eyes narrowed in faint amusement at being shooed like a schoolboy.
"Up," Windstone added pointedly, the word carrying the weight of three decades of unspoken authority.
Trevor finally moved toward the door, his smile slow and entirely unrepentant. "You’re very lucky, Windstone," he murmured as he passed. "Domesticity looks good on me."
Windstone did not dignify that with a response. He simply held the door wider and herded them both toward the dining room like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Windstone moved through the dining room with the efficiency of someone who’d run Fitzgeralt dinners since before half the staff had been born. One server adjusted the angle of the overhead lighting so it cast a soft gold over the white linen, another set the wine to breathe, and a third checked the temperature of the food waiting on the warming trays.
The table itself had been reduced to something far more personal than the endless, intimidating spreads of state dinners, a polished walnut surface laid for two, with heavy silver flatware and crystal glasses catching the light. The scent of roasted rosemary chicken and fresh bread carried in from the kitchen, warm and savory.
By the time Lucas and Trevor walked in, everything was exactly where it should be. Windstone gave a last once-over, smoothing a nonexistent crease in the table runner, when the side door opened. An attendant in tailored black stepped in, tablet in hand, his expression the careful neutrality of someone delivering a message that might rearrange an evening.
"My lord," he began, eyes flicking briefly toward Lucas before settling on Trevor, "we’ve just received a direct call from the Almira Villa. The King of Saha, His Majesty Dax, is requesting the immediate presence of Mia Malek, attendant to House Fitzgeralt."
Trevor’s brows lifted a fraction, the easy lines of his posture not quite disguising the shift in his attention. "And?"
The attendant’s grip on the tablet tightened almost imperceptibly. "And she is the younger sister of Christopher Malek. His Majesty said the matter was personal and time-sensitive."
Windstone’s pale eyebrow arched in a way that could have sliced glass. "He’s blackmailing Christopher into staying put by keeping his younger sister within reach?"
"I was informed," the attendant said carefully, "that it is just for dinner."
Trevor leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest as if this were simply an entertaining footnote to the evening’s plans. "Should I oppose him just for fun?"
Lucas didn’t even look up from his plate. "No."
Trevor’s brow quirked, a faint, dangerous smile pulling at his mouth. "Why not?"
"Because," Lucas said, his tone calm but edged with quiet finality, "I don’t want her feeling threatened, not by nobles, and certainly not by royalty who think intimidation counts as courtship. She’s an attendant, not a pawn in one of your games with Dax."
That earned him a long, unreadable glance from Trevor, the kind that said he might still argue, just to see if he could win, but beneath it was something quieter, an acknowledgment that Lucas had already decided the matter.
Trevor exhaled slowly, the smile thinning but not disappearing. "Fine. I’ll play nice."