Chapter 173: Silence
Leroy opened the door with measured calm. Aldric stood there, bowing slightly, his expression unreadable. "Your bath is ready, Your Highness," Aldric informed him in that familiar, steady tone.
Without a word, Leroy turned back to Lorraine. His fingers found hers, gripping tightly as if anchoring himself to the only solid thing in his turbulent world. He led her out of the room and into her personal chamber.
"There should have been a door between our rooms," he muttered under his breath. That way, they would have ease of access to each other.
When his servants approached to assist him, he locked the door firmly in their faces. His eyes landed on Lorraine. He looked calm now, his usual stoic strength returning to his face. And it made her realize.
He was not wearing his mask! He never walked out without wearing his mask.
"Help me," he murmured, his voice thick with need, with unspoken weight.
The atmosphere shifted, no longer heavy with despair, but charged with an intimate gravity pulling them together.
Lorraine’s hands trembled slightly as she began to help him out of his coat, sliding it from his shoulders. His skin was warm beneath her touch, taut with tension. The lines of his muscles, sculpted from years of discipline and hardship, rippled under her fingertips. His chest rose steadily, his sharp collarbone visible as his shirt fell open, exposing the breadth of his torso.
He didn’t avert his gaze. Instead, he stared at her, deeply, intensely, as though memorizing every curve of her face, the delicate arch of her fingers, the gentle way they moved.
That stare, raw, unguarded, sent a tremor of desire through her.
Her fingers moved lower, untying his trousers. Her touch lingered just long enough to awaken his skin, to remind him of her presence.
It felt natural.
Normal.
Like a couple married for ten years, bound by shared history, mutual trust, and quiet resilience.
"Now is the time we should stand united," she murmured, her voice steady but carrying a weight that made her chest ache. "News of this will get out, and... she won’t let us be. No matter what."
He said nothing about the pregnancy, not a word of acknowledgment. But Lorraine let her own feelings spill into the silence, trusting they would reach him.
His lips remained shut, his eyes still locked on hers, and the quiet between them stretched endlessly. What did his silence mean? She could only wonder.
Without a word, he began to help her undress. His hands moved deliberately, peeling away the layers of her garments, each touch a silent affirmation of their bond, until only the soft, clinging fabric of her chemise remained, delicate and intimate against her skin.
Then, wordlessly, he stepped into the steaming bath. The water embraced him like a lover—warm, soothing, alive. It lapped gently at his skin, as if it, too, sought to ease the tension that weighed on his shoulders, to carry away the silent torment of his soul.
He held her hand and pressed a kiss on her wrist. Lorraine stepped in and sat at the edge of the tub, the heat mingling with the growing intimacy between them. Her fingers found his stiff shoulder, massaging gently, coaxing the knots of strain to dissolve beneath her touch.
He leaned into her, his head settling between her thighs as if they were the only place he could find peace. His eyes closed, his breath evening out.
Her hands moved with deliberate tenderness as she cupped his scalp, fingers gliding through his damp hair, washing away the weight of the day. Every motion was sensual, unhurried, each touch a silent declaration of love, of shared vulnerability.
In that quiet moment, suspended between sorrow and solace, they found each other again.
Lorraine smiled softly as she watched him relax, his neck exposed in this rare, vulnerable state.
"Don’t let me slap you again," she teased gently, a softness in her voice that belied the ache in her heart. "Stop me before I hit you again."
Her fingers traced the curve of his cheek, tender and deliberate, as though trying to erase the memory of the harsh grip of her hand. She pressed her lips on the mark on his cheek. There was no mark, no bruise left on his skin, only the sting in her chest from having hurt him.
She pressed her lips to his forehead, a gentle, apologetic kiss. "I’m sorry," she mumbled, her voice breaking as another kiss followed, softer, more desperate. Tears slipped from her eyes, trailing down her cheeks and falling onto his skin like quiet absolution.
Finally, he opened his eyes.
"You are one silly woman, aren’t you?" His voice was low, teasing, but tinged with affection.
"I am troubling you a lot these days..." she confessed, her throat tight with emotion.
"I am ashamed of myself," she added, her words heavy with regret.
He lifted his hand slowly, the water cascading in a thin curtain from his taut muscles as he reached toward her face. His fingers brushed her cheek with deliberate tenderness, and Lorraine lifted her head to meet his gaze.
Those green eyes, always intense, always piercing, made her heart skip.
"Ashamed?" His voice rumbled deeper, laced with a quiet bitterness.
"Useless and now ashamed?"
Another tear slipped down his cheek. Unable to meet his eyes, Lorraine wrapped her arms around his neck. His head rested between her thighs, warm and heavy, and she pressed her lips to his forehead once more.
"I hurt you so badly by being silent, didn’t I?" he murmured, voice laced with sorrow.
Lorraine pulled back slightly, looking at his face. His eyes were clouded with grief, and she longed to erase the pain that weighed on him.
His hand, still resting lightly on her cheek, slowly slipped down her neck, then lower...
She hadn’t realized until then that the gentle pressure of her breasts was resting against his head.
His fingers hovered just above her, tentative, reverent. She saw his face upside down and his lips curved into a slow, teasing smirk.
"What happened to my mouseling," he murmured, "the feisty one who asked me to touch her tits in exchange for touching my braids?"
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, carrying both tenderness and mischief, as though the memory of that night still teased him.
"It’s all on me now..."
Lorraine’s eyes dropped to her own hand, now tangled in his braid, holding it loosely yet possessively.
Without warning, his hand tightened around her breast, squeezing unapologetically, unashamedly as an assertion of possession, of dominance, as if claiming what was already his.
"Ah," she moaned, the sound slipping out before she could stop it, soft and breathless.
Her face flushed crimson, her ears burning. Her skin tingled where his fingers pressed, a sensation both achingly tender and impossibly arousing. Her breasts were still tender these days, swollen and sensitive from the pregnancy, but his touch... it ignited something deep, something primal.
How could he bring that up, now, of all times?
It took a moment for the truth to strike her, sharp and undeniable.
Her eyes lifted slowly, and with a smirk that barely concealed the tremble in her voice, she asked,
"You know it was me?"
Her question hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.
Did he know, then? Did he realize that it was she who stood beneath the vyrnshade shrub that night, the one who had changed the course of both their lives?