CHAPTER 70: TO PLAY WITH FIRE

"I..." Sylvia faltered. "You weren’t well. I thought—"

"If he was waiting," Lorraine said, not coldly, but like someone speaking through a door half-closed, "I would’ve gone."

The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. Still. Shameful. Even Emma, who’d only meant to bring good news, shrank beneath the weight of it.

Lorraine rose, slow and stiff, every joint a protest. Her nightgown clung to her back, damp with sweat. Her legs trembled slightly, but her voice didn’t.

Her gaze stayed on Sylvia. Unflinching.

"Next time," she said softly, "don’t protect me from the only thing that still matters."

Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but a knock interrupted her.

A footman stood at the door with a folded parchment. Sylvia took it, read the encrypted scrawl, and let out a small sigh.

"The Prince is causing trouble," she muttered. "He’s holding two women hostage and says he won’t leave until he meets you."

Emma gasped.

Lorraine’s brows furrowed. "Prince Damian, I assume?"

She didn’t know everything about Leroy. But she knew him well enough to be certain—he wouldn’t go that far just to see her.

Damian, on the other hand...

"Yes," Sylvia said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "He’s causing quite a stir."

Lorraine stood silent for a moment, weighing her thoughts. Then she gathered the parchments she’d been writing on and handed them to Sylvia.

"Get me dressed," she said. "We’re meeting him."

Sylvia blinked, uncertain, but she knew better than to question it. She was already walking a fine line regarding one prince.

And so they left, into the tunnels, into the dark.

-----

When Lorraine arrived, her black velvet robe trailing like spilled ink behind her, the chaos had already unfolded.

Prince Damian had turned the red-light district on its head.

The building he’d barricaded himself inside pulsed with tension. Eunuchs stood outside, panting from failed attempts to break in. Her guards—her personal guard—had been bested. One of them lay bloodied and unconscious near the stairwell. Another nursed a broken wrist.

Lorraine—no, Lazira, as they knew her here—surveyed the devastation with a slow, icy calm. Her blood simmered beneath her skin.

And yet she moved like royalty: untouched, unafraid.

The scent of vyrnshade blossoms clung to her robes, heady and intoxicating, but it was her rage that made people part like smoke before a wildfire. They didn’t bow. They didn’t speak. They simply moved—because when Lazira walked, even silence obeyed.

She knew, deep down, why Damian had done it. This wasn’t madness. It was a message.

To the world, he had been the bedmate prince—the soft hostage, the pampered shadow behind a stronger king. But today, in the house of secrets and courtesans, he had peeled back the mask. Not for anyone else. Just for her.

Lorraine’s jaw clenched.

So. He wanted her attention? He had it.

She strode up the corridor, her heels striking like declarations, and slammed the door open.

Inside, Prince Damian was in motion, one of her guards lunging, the prince deflecting with a flick of his wrist. The fan in his hand shimmered in the lamplight, dancing like a blade. No, that fan wasn’t just for show.

The two women were hurled in the corner, hugging each other and holding their breaths waiting for their chance to be rescued.

Lorraine’s breath caught.

This was the man who killed Cassian. She saw it in the ease of his stance, the coiled control, the cold focus behind his eyes. The elegance of violence.

This wasn’t improvisation. It was muscle memory.

How long had he hidden this? How had he played the fool for so many years?

Damian turned—and the moment his eyes found her, something in him ignited.

"Finally," he breathed, like a man reaching shore after a long swim through madness.

His lips curled upward, pleased, triumphant.

Behind him, a guard took advantage of the distraction, lunging with steel drawn. Without even turning, Damian flicked his wrist. His lacquered fan caught the blade mid-air, sending it spiraling toward the far wall. It landed with a clang, buried inches from the two women cowering in the corner.

"You’re here... Lazira," he said, his voice soft now, almost reverent.

Lorraine said nothing.

Her gaze slid over him like a knife’s edge—taking in the open shirt, the sweat-slick chest beneath it, the ripple of lean muscle. He wasn’t built like Leroy, no—he didn’t have the breadth or the gravity. But Damian’s allure was undeniable. Refined. Seductive. Dangerous.

Gone was the effeminate princeling from the ballrooms, the boy in silk and perfume. What stood before her now was a man—undeniably male, undeniably masked for far too long.

And he had made a spectacle of himself to summon her.

Lorraine stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

Damian opened his arms as if to receive her, confident, expectant.

And she slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip.

Sylvia gasped audibly behind her, a gloved hand flying to her veiled mouth. Even the guards faltered.

Damian staggered to the side, the strength of her slap taking him off-balance. Blood bloomed on his lower lip.

"No one," Lorraine said, her voice a blade, "shall treat my people this way."

The room stilled. Her guards rallied beside her, retrieving weapons. The two women in the corner fled, sobbing, skirts rustling like leaves in a storm.

More guards spilled in behind her, their presence heavy.

And yet Damian did not raise a hand to stop them.

He turned his face back to her slowly. Blood glistened on his lip, and for a second, it seemed he might retaliate.

Instead, he smiled.

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t even anger.

It was something worse. Something deeper. A secret he hadn’t told anyone. A secret only meant for her.

"You’re even more magnificent when you’re furious," he murmured.

"Hmph." Lorraine scoffed. "Then I’ll show you more of my magnificence."

Her hand arched through the air again, sharp and unforgiving. But this time, Damian caught it.

Faster than she expected.

His fingers closed around her wrist, not painfully, but firmly, and in one motion, he pulled her toward him.

Lorraine stumbled, her breath catching as she collided with his bare chest. Heat. Scent. Muscle. It was disorienting. Maddening. The sudden proximity sent a tremor down her spine.

Her eyes widened. His face hovered just above hers, his breath brushing her cheek. She could smell blood and spice and the faint trace of vyrnshade that clung to her, not him, but now it was between them.

"Let go," she said, but her voice came out softer than she intended.

He didn’t.

His hazel eyes shimmered with mischief and something darker beneath it. A knowing. A history.

Lorraine twisted in his grasp, trying to push away, but he held her like she was made of something rare. Precious. His hand slid gently down her wrist to her fingers, and he brought her palm of the hand she had raised to slap him, to his lips.

"Don’t waste this on fury," he whispered. "There are better things to do with fire."