Amaya
Lucian’s eyes have been following me since dawn. I pretend not to notice, but I feel them everywhere, across the courtyard when I haul buckets, down the west hall when I polish silver, even in the kitchen doorway while I peel potatoes.
He thinks he’s subtle, but he isn’t.
Fine. If he wants to circle like a hawk, let him. I’ve decided I’m done being prey.
By midmorning, I’ve scrubbed half the servants’ wing just to burn off my irritation. When I straighten to stretch my aching back, he’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, watching me like he’s got all the time in the world.
I don’t let him speak first. “You know,” I say coolly, wringing out my rag, “you’re going to make people talk if you keep lurking like that.”
One dark brow lifts. “Talk about what?”
“About why the A
