Chapter 2 Beneath the Veil

Lucien stared into her face, searching for something familiar.

But Isolde was unreadable.

Always had been.

Rain slid down her cheek like a tear she would never allow herself to cry. Her skin looked like moonlit marble-cold, smooth, untouchable. But her lips... those lips had haunted him for years. He remembered the way she used to press them into his forehead like a curse when he was just a boy.

Now, she pressed them into a line.

"I wasn't expecting you so soon," she said, turning and walking toward the Keep without asking if he'd follow.

Typical.

Even in mourning, she moved like royalty-graceful, calculated, untouchable.

Lucien followed.

He shouldn't have noticed the sway of her hips beneath the drenched black dress.

He shouldn't have imagined what lay beneath the corset laced tight enough to crush a man's ribs.

He shouldn't have remembered the scent she always wore-sandalwood, sea salt, and secrets.

But he did.

Because he was no longer a boy.

And she was no longer his queen.

Not truly.

Not unless he made her.

They entered the torch-lit corridor of Dreadmour Keep. The air was thick with damp stone, old blood, and silence.

Lucien couldn't take it.

"You're not going to ask how your king has been?"

Isolde stopped, slowly turning her head.

Her eyes locked onto his like blades.

"I asked the sea," she said softly. "It told me... you've grown dangerous."

He stepped closer. Too close.

"I learned from the best."

A flicker of something crossed her face-pain? pride? lust? He couldn't tell.

She looked away.

"Go change, Lucien. You're dripping all over your father's floor."

"And you're still pretending this place belongs to him," he growled.

She didn't answer.

Because they both knew the truth.

The old king was dead.

But the most dangerous ghost in the Keep...

...was still breathing.

The halls of Dreadmour Keep hadn't changed.

Same flickering sconces. Same sea-salted stone walls. Same scent of iron and old war.

But everything felt different.

Because he was different.

And because she was still here.

Lucien pushed open the heavy doors of his old chambers. Dust curled in the air like ghosts startled awake. His boots echoed over the marble floor as he stepped into the place where he once dreamed of being a man...

Now, he was one.

And the dreams?

They were much darker now.

The bed was larger than he remembered. Crimson sheets. Black velvet canopy. Fit for a king. Or for something much more sinful.

He ran his fingers over the frame, then turned to the mirror near the fireplace.

A fire flickered low. Shadows danced across his face. His jaw was sharper now. Eyes darker. Hair longer, tied back in a pirate's knot. The sea had carved him like a blade-ruthless, cold, beautiful.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn't turn.

He didn't have to.

He saw her in the mirror.

Isolde stood in the doorway like a dream resurrected.

"Your chambers were kept ready," she said softly. "He insisted. Even after he exiled you."

Lucien chuckled darkly. "How generous of him."

She walked further inside. Not close. Not yet.

"He loved you, Lucien," she whispered.

He finally turned, eyes burning.

"No. He loved his throne. He loved his power. And he loved you."

Silence stretched like tensioned rope between them.

"You were just a boy," she said.

"And you were just my father's bride," he replied, voice thick. "Yet here you are-in my room."

She flinched. Barely.

But he saw it.

Felt it.

And that made him bold.

He took a step forward.

"These walls remember things, Isolde. Every whisper. Every footstep. Every time you tucked me into bed and touched my hair like I was yours."

He was close enough now to see the gold flecks in her irises.

"You were always mine," she said, barely audible.

Lucien's breath hitched.

But before he could speak-

She turned and left the room.

And left his heart pounding like war drums behind her.

The halls of Dreadmour Keep hadn't changed.

Same flickering sconces. Same sea-salted stone walls. Same scent of iron and old war.

But everything felt different.

Because he was different.

And because she was still here.

Lucien pushed open the heavy doors of his old chambers. Dust curled in the air like ghosts startled awake. His boots echoed over the marble floor as he stepped into the place where he once dreamed of being a man...

Now, he was one.

And the dreams?

They were much darker now.

The bed was larger than he remembered. Crimson sheets. Black velvet canopy. Fit for a king. Or for something much more sinful.

He ran his fingers over the frame, then turned to the mirror near the fireplace.

A fire flickered low. Shadows danced across his face. His jaw was sharper now. Eyes darker. Hair longer, tied back in a pirate's knot. The sea had carved him like a blade-ruthless, cold, beautiful.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn't turn.

He didn't have to.

He saw her in the mirror.

Isolde stood in the doorway like a dream resurrected.

"Your chambers were kept ready," she said softly. "He insisted. Even after he exiled you."

Lucien chuckled darkly. "How generous of him."

She walked further inside. Not close. Not yet.

"He loved you, Lucien," she whispered.

He finally turned, eyes burning.

"No. He loved his throne. He loved his power. And he loved you."

Silence stretched like tensioned rope between them.

"You were just a boy," she said.

"And you were just my father's bride," he replied, voice thick. "Yet here you are-in my room."

She flinched. Barely.

But he saw it.

Felt it.

And that made him bold.

He took a step forward.

"These walls remember things, Isolde. Every whisper. Every footstep. Every time you tucked me into bed and touched my hair like I was yours."

He was close enough now to see the gold flecks in her irises.

"You were always mine," she said, barely audible.

Lucien's breath hitched.

But before he could speak-

She turned and left the room.

And left his heart pounding like war drums behind her.

Cliffhanger-

Lucien's heart thudded once-loud, hard.

Then silence.

He scanned the room. Nothing. No footsteps. No shadow. No trace.

But the whisper lingered like perfume-familiar, intimate... impossible.

He crossed to the bed. The sheets were untouched. The fire cracked, innocent.

But on the pillow-pressed into the linen-was a single imprint.

Lips.

Smeared in crimson.

And beneath it, scratched faintly into the wood:

"Mine still."

Lucien didn't sleep that night.

Something in the Keep had woken up.

And it wasn't just him.