Chapter 150: To Handle Him
Beneath the mask, Lorraine could sense something. Leroy’s voice was sharp with bitterness, yet softened with love. The jealousy wasn’t subtle, though she couldn’t fathom why.
"Real weapons are heavy," she said softly, glancing at his sword. "Too heavy for me and beats my purpose. What Damian has is light. Here..." she reached to take the contraption from Damian, her lashes fluttering as she tried not to meet her husband’s burning gaze, "...you’ll know once you feel it."
But Leroy did not even glance at the device. His eyes were only on her. She could feel it in his eyes... an intensity that pinned her more tightly than any hand.
Her heart skipped. They were only talking about weapons... weren’t they? Yet the way he bent to her level, the way his gaze lingered... he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cold. He was something else.
And she did not understand. But he looked so adorable.
So, Lorraine did the only thing that came to her; something both reckless and certain. Beneath the oak tree, as dawn painted the sky in strokes of molten gold, she tugged gently on the braid that fell across his shoulder and pressed her lips to his. A lingering kiss, tender yet claiming.
He breathed against her, a low hum escaping his chest. When she pulled back, his eyes had gentled, his mouth curved into a smirk, as if the kiss had unraveled the storm inside him.
"Ow!" Damian yelped dramatically, throwing a hand over his eyes. "In public? Before breakfast? Saints preserve me."
Lorraine laughed under her breath, but she wasn’t finished. From her pocket, she drew out the emerald pin, the single thing she had chosen to keep, above all else. She fixed it in her hair where the morning light caught the green, so it glimmered even beneath her hood.
Leroy’s gaze followed the motion, his smirk softening into something deeper. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out and touched the pin where it rested against her golden hair. His gloved fingers lingered for a breath, brushing a strand aside as if to mark her with his claim and his care both.
Only then did he let his hand fall away, the quiet satisfaction in his smile saying everything words could not.
And for her, that was enough.
Lorraine turned toward the leper house, her cloak sweeping softly at her heels. The sun caught the emerald pin in her hair, a flash of green before the hood shaded her face. They had no time to waste. If the prisoner was truly inside, every heartbeat mattered.
Behind her, Leroy extended a hand toward Damian without a word. His palm was steady, expectant.
Damian blinked, his hands pausing from dusting his cloak. "What?" he said, brows arching. "Did you lose something? Or...wait! Are you keeping something in your mouth? Is that why you’re so damn silent? You think it’ll spill out if you talk?"
Leroy didn’t even glance at him. His hand remained outstretched, his golden mask turned ever so slightly, pointing toward the small contraption Damian cradled in his arm.
"Ohhh..." Damian’s lips curved into a slow, mischievous smirk. "Now you want it? Sorry, princeling, but this little toy’s mine." He cradled it like treasure and, with a mocking pout, turned on his heel to follow Lorraine.
He didn’t get far. Leroy’s gloved hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him back with a soldier’s precision. Damian twisted, laughter bursting out of him, sharp and unbothered.
"I don’t mind giving it to you for a kiss, Princeling," he taunted, lips curving in a wicked smirk.
Leroy’s jaw flexed beneath the mask, the muscle tight as a blade’s edge. He said nothing, but his silence carried more threat than any word could.
Steel flashed between them as Damian struck back in reflex. They collided in a blur, a flurry of compact movements, every strike too crisp, too practiced, too dangerous to be mistaken for a boyish scuffle.
And yet, anyone watching would see only two princes circling like predators over a trinket.
Lorraine glanced over her shoulder, sighed, and shook her head. To her eyes, they might as well have been boys squabbling over the same toy in the dirt. She ignored them and walked on, her steps purposeful.
Leroy, however, was relentless. In two deft movements, he twisted Damian’s wrist, pried the contraption free, and stepped back. The golden mask gleamed as he held the strange weapon up, inspecting it with a calculating eye.
He weighed it in his hand, turned it over, and traced the rose-shaped darts with a faint tilt of his head. Up, down, side to side... testing the balance. For a moment, it seemed as though he might actually keep it.
Then, without warning, he tossed it back.
The contraption spun once in the air before Damian caught it against his chest. He stared, blinking. "What... just happened?" he muttered.
Leroy said nothing. He simply turned and followed Lorraine, his cloak snapping in the wind.
Damian looked from the crossbow in his hands to Leroy’s back, utterly baffled. "Did he just...? Did he fight me just to... give it back?"
He stood there for a beat, half amused, half indignant. Then, grinning despite himself, he jogged after them.
Lorraine froze at the threshold. The stench hit her first; iron thick on the wind, clinging to her throat like a curse. Then her eyes caught the ruin: bodies heaped and broken, limbs twisted, viscera glistening in the pale morning light.
The apothecary’s servants had barred the leper house doors, but their muffled screams still seeped through, shrill and desperate.
Her breath faltered. She was no stranger to violence. She had ordered death before, commanded it with steady lips, but she had always turned away before the steel bit deep, before the blood ran. She had never lingered long enough to witness this. She wouldn’t be able to see much in the darkness of the tunnels, anyway!
The world tilted. The sight pressed into her skull until her stomach revolted. She doubled over, clutching her abdomen, retching until only bitter emptiness clawed its way up.
Her vision blurred, the air spinning, every sound sharpening into a needle. Even her head felt heavy, as if the weight of it no longer belonged to her.
"Lorraine!"
Leroy’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and desperate. The ring of his boots on blood-wet ground drew closer, steady as a vow.