The days that followed Lucien's warning blurred into quiet tension.
He didn't speak to me again—not a single word—but I felt him everywhere.
In the way the air shifted when he entered a room.
In the faint pull of the bond that refused to loosen its grip.
In the eyes of those who now watch me differently, as if waiting for something to break.
Lucien trained longer now, spending hours on the field until the night fell, and sometimes not returning until dawn. When he did, I often heard the door to his study shut and lock, the sound echoing faintly down the west wing.
And though he ignored me completely, I couldn't shake the way his words had haunted me.
Wanting you is not the problem.
I tried to bury them, to smother the memory, but they lingered in the corners of my thoughts like smo
