Chapter 3 What the Sea Knows

Lucien stood there for a long time, listening to the silence after her exit. But silence wasn't empty-not in this cursed Keep. It whispered.

It remembered.

He tore off his soaked coat and let it drop to the floor. His muscles ached from the storm, from the rage, from the heat she stirred in him with just a look. He walked to the balcony, flung the doors open, and let the sea wind slap him in the face like a warning.

Waves crashed below, wild and merciless.

Just like him.

Just like her.

He gripped the stone rail, jaw clenched. His breath turned to steam in the cold. Below, the ocean roared-angry, ancient.

"You remember her, don't you?" he murmured to the sea.

The sea didn't answer. It only screamed louder.

He remembered being sixteen, banished to the outskirts of the Crimson Isles, forbidden from stepping foot in Dreadmour again. He remembered wondering if she cried when he was gone.

He doubted it now.

She didn't cry.

She punished.

She commanded.

And she stayed.

Lucien pulled out the medallion he wore beneath his shirt. It had once belonged to Aldric-his father. A crown carved from obsidian, wrapped in the tentacles of a kraken.

It burned cold in his hand.

He squeezed it hard enough to bleed.

"Why did you die so easily, old man?" he whispered.

Behind him, the wind shifted. A whisper coiled around his ears like a lover's breath:

"Because she let him."

Lucien turned, but no one was there.

Just the firelight flickering.

Just the bed waiting.

Just the memory of her saying-

"You were always mine."

Midnight crawled over Dreadmour Keep like ink across parchment.

The storm had passed, but something darker still lingered in the air. Not thunder. Not wind.

Desire.

Lucien didn't sleep.

He poured himself dark rum from the decanter by the hearth. Sat shirtless on the velvet armchair. The fire painted golden shadows over his chest, dancing across the scars earned from battles and betrayals.

He heard it again.

Footsteps.

Soft. Bare.

He didn't look up.

He just said, "Couldn't stay away?"

Isolde stepped into view like a ghost refusing to be buried.

She wore black silk. Nothing else. The robe hugged her waist, dipping low over her chest, and fell open just enough to show the curve of her thigh.

Lucien took a slow sip of rum, keeping his eyes on her face. Not her body.

Yet.

"I came to talk," she said.

He smirked. "At midnight? In that?"

Isolde's eyes narrowed. "Don't be childish."

"I haven't been a child since the night you told me to leave and didn't stop him."

The tension between them snapped like a sail in full wind.

She stepped closer. "You don't understand what was at stake."

"No," he said, rising slowly, "but I will."

He stalked toward her, stopping inches away.

Her breath caught.

"I remember everything, Isolde," he said, voice low. "The way you looked at me when you thought no one saw. The way you touched my hair when you thought I was asleep. You played your part so well."

She backed into the table.

He caged her in with a hand on either side.

"Is this part of the game too?" he asked. "Or are you finally tired of pretending you're not mine?"

Her lips parted.

But the only thing that came out was silence.

And then-

She kissed him.

Fierce.

Dangerous.

Wrong.

Perfect.

Midnight crawled over Dreadmour Keep like ink across parchment.

The storm had passed, but something darker still lingered in the air. Not thunder. Not wind.

Desire.

Lucien didn't sleep.

He poured himself dark rum from the decanter by the hearth. Sat shirtless on the velvet armchair. The fire painted golden shadows over his chest, dancing across the scars earned from battles and betrayals.

He heard it again.

Footsteps.

Soft. Bare.

He didn't look up.

He just said, "Couldn't stay away?"

Isolde stepped into view like a ghost refusing to be buried.

She wore black silk. Nothing else. The robe hugged her waist, dipping low over her chest, and fell open just enough to show the curve of her thigh.

Lucien took a slow sip of rum, keeping his eyes on her face. Not her body.

Yet.

"I came to talk," she said.

He smirked. "At midnight? In that?"

Isolde's eyes narrowed. "Don't be childish."

"I haven't been a child since the night you told me to leave and didn't stop him."

The tension between them snapped like a sail in full wind.

She stepped closer. "You don't understand what was at stake."

"No," he said, rising slowly, "but I will."

He stalked toward her, stopping inches away.

Her breath caught.

"I remember everything, Isolde," he said, voice low. "The way you looked at me when you thought no one saw. The way you touched my hair when you thought I was asleep. You played your part so well."

She backed into the table.

He caged her in with a hand on either side.

"Is this part of the game too?" he asked. "Or are you finally tired of pretending you're not mine?"

Her lips parted.

But the only thing that came out was silence.

And then-

She kissed him.

Fierce.

Dangerous.

Wrong.

Perfect.

Cliffhanger-

A sharp knock shattered the moment. Once. Twice. Then silence.

Lucien froze, his breath hot against her skin. Isolde's fingers tightened.

No one knocked on the King's door.

Not at this hour. Not in this Keep.

He slowly turned his head toward the sound-toward the darkened threshold where the firelight dared not reach.

Another knock.

But this one came from inside the room.

From the wardrobe.

Isolde slid off the table, silk whispering against her thighs.

Lucien's hand reached for the dagger beneath the hearthstone, eyes locked on the ancient oak doors of the armoire.

Then-

A creak.

The doors parted-just an inch.

And a voice, hollow and cold, drifted out:

"She wore the crown before you. And she never gave it back."