The brass handle turned with the agonizing slowness of a guillotine blade.
Colette’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. Beside her, Lucien didn’t flinch. He didn’t scramble to hide the ledger, nor did he move to draw his weapon. Instead, he took a step closer to her, his presence suddenly overwhelming, invading the small space between them like a predatory shadow. His hand moved—not to his sword, but to the small of her back, his palm searing through the thin silk of her bodice. The touch was possessive, a silent command to play the part or perish.
"Remember," he whispered, his breath hot against the shell of her ear, "you are mine, and we are merely celebrating the night."
The door swung wide, admitting a slice of golden light from the hallway, followed by the imposing silhouette of Julian, the King’s primary inquisitor. He held a silver candelabra aloft, the flames dancing in the draft, casting long, grotesque shadows across the opulent study. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over the room before settling on them.
Colette froze, her fingers still hovering inches from the open ledger. She could see the names etched in cramped, elegant script—names of dukes and cardinals, linked by lines of ink that bled into the seals of the royal nursery. It was a roadmap of blood.
"A late hour for such intimate study, Comte," Julian remarked, his voice a rhythmic, velvet blade. He stepped into the room, the scent of stale incense and iron clinging to his heavy velvet coat. "And you, Mademoiselle Beaumont. I was under the impression the ball was still in full swing."
Lucien didn't pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against the small of her back. The sensation was electric, grounding Colette even as her mind reeled.
"The music was tedious," Lucien replied, his tone languid, bored, the picture of aristocratic indifference. "And Colette found the gardens too cold. We thought the warmth of my library—and the vintage of my cellar—would be a more suitable companion for the evening."
Julian’s gaze darted to the desk. The ledger lay open, its pages fluttering slightly in the draft. Colette felt her breath hitch, but Lucien smoothly shifted, leaning an arm against the desk, effectively shielding the document with his broad shoulders while simultaneously pulling Colette into the crook of his arm.
The attraction between them wasn't just a ruse anymore; it felt like a volatile chemical reaction. Lucien’s gaze caught hers, a dark, dangerous spark in his eyes that dared her to remain composed. He wanted her to be brave. He wanted her to be his accomplice.
"The King is concerned about the security of the East Wing," Julian said, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room for any sign of betrayal. He stepped closer, his boots clicking sharply on the parquet floor. "There are whispers, Comte. Whispers of a fox in the garden, looking to snatch the crown jewels from their cribs."
Colette felt Lucien’s muscles tighten beneath her hand. The tension in the room thickened until it felt thick enough to choke on.
"The King has a vivid imagination," Lucien said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously smooth. "Perhaps he spends too much time listening to his shadows."
Julian paused, just three feet away. He leaned in, sniffing the air as if he could smell the ink or the treachery. He looked at Colette then, his gaze lingering on the flush of her skin, the way her chest heaved with every shaky breath. He didn't see the terror; he saw the aftermath of a stolen kiss. He saw a man who had consumed a woman and a woman who was drunk on the act.
"And you, Mademoiselle?" Julian asked, his voice dripping with false concern. "Does the Comte treat you well? Or does he keep you as much a prisoner as he does his secrets?"
Colette looked up at Lucien. His eyes were hard, calculating, yet there was a flicker of something raw, something almost protective, lurking beneath the surface. She realized then that she wasn't just a pawn in this game; she was the piece he was willing to sacrifice—or the piece he would burn the world to protect.
She forced a smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. She stepped forward, deliberately moving out from behind Lucien’s shadow, placing herself directly in the inquisitor’s path. She reached out and smoothed the lapel of Lucien’s coat, her fingers lingering, daring, intimate.
"The Comte is... demanding, Monsieur," she said, her voice steadying as she leaned into the lie. "But he is far from a jailer. He is a man who knows exactly what he wants, and he makes sure he gets it. Why settle for a cage when one is treated like a queen in his domain?"
Julian watched them, his expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, the silence was total. Then, he let out a short, dry laugh.
"A dangerous sentiment, Mademoiselle. Careful that the crown doesn't feel too heavy for your head." He turned on his heel, his shadows retreating with him. "See that you join the rest of the court before midnight. The King finds solitude... suspicious."
He stepped out, and the heavy oak door groaned as it closed, cutting off the light and the threat.
Colette sagged against the desk, the strength leaving her legs. Before she could collapse, Lucien caught her. He hauled her up, his hands gripping her waist with such intensity it left bruises. He didn't offer comfort. He shoved her back against the mahogany desk, his body pinning hers, his face inches from hers.
"You played your part well," he hissed, his voice raw, his eyes darkening to a near-black. "Too well."
"I did what you asked," she gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders, the adrenaline making her head spin. "You said we had to look the part."
Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The space between them was charged with an unspoken hunger that made the ledger, the coup, and the King irrelevant. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers—a ghost of a touch, a promise of devastation.
"I didn't tell you to enjoy it," he murmured.
"I didn't," she lied, her pulse racing beneath his palm.
He pulled back, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw, his thumb dragging across her lower lip. "You’re trembling, Colette. And it isn't because of Julian."
He turned to the desk, snatching up the ledger. He flipped to the final page, his movements erratic. "We don't have long. Julian will be watching the hallways, but he’ll be back for this book by dawn." He pointed to a symbol etched in the margin—a weeping lily, the seal of the Queen’s own private guard. "Do you know who owns this mark, Colette?"
She peered at the ink. "The Queen's guard? They’re supposed to protect the children."
"They are the ones stealing them," Lucien said, his face a mask of cold fury. "And the signature below the seal? It’s not a Duke’s. It’s your father’s."
Colette recoiled as if struck. "That's impossible. My father has been dead for five years."
Lucien leaned into her, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "Your father isn't dead, Colette. And he’s waiting for us in the cellar."
The sound of heavy, rhythmic boots echoed outside the door again—not one pair, but a dozen.