CHAPTER 33: PERSISTENCE

Ilaria wanted to look him in the eyes and say nothing was wrong, but truthfully, nothing was right either. To him, it must have seemed like she was being bratty again, a spoiled princess sulking over some trifle. If only it were that simple.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the tome as she looked at the words, muttering, "Why would it matter to you?"

Levan’s jaw flexed at her answer. He had no idea what happened but he thought Lysander and his wife may or may not have decided to gang up on him. He said, "Because you sit there glowering at me as if I’ve committed some grave offense. If you have a grievance, speak it. I don’t waste time with sulking and guesswork."

Ilaria pursed her lips. It was a good thing she was not facing him else he would see her expression. "I told you, I’m reading," she insisted. "Just leave me alone, it has nothing to do with you."

And there goes his irritation.

Levan had never done this before. He had never chased after words unsaid, never lingered long enough to ask. He did not even know what fault he was meant to bear, only that Lysander’s meddling gaze had branded him guilty without explanation. And yet here he was, standing in front of his fretting wife, utterly lost and irritated, but unwilling to turn away.

"If you’re going to be difficult about this, then let me be clear—I won’t tolerate it," he said. "Whatever is wrong, you’re telling me."

Tch.

"Persistent," she muttered under her breath, thinking it was only to herself until the silence told her otherwise. Her eyes widened slightly as she realized the word had slipped out without meaning to.

Then slowly, almost against her will, she peeked over her shoulder. Sure enough, Levan was still staring at her, unreadable as ever. Heat rushed to her cheeks that she immediately whipped her head back around, burying her face toward the tome with exaggerated focus as if the ink on the page was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

Her lips jutted forward in the faintest pout, flustered now. This is humiliating, she was supposed to be angry!

But if the princess thought she could mask herself behind the pages, she was sorely mistaken. Her body speak more than her mouth ever could. Her shoulders will jolt at the sudden thought or an unexpected word from him, then sag when something sorrowful crosses her mind, or droop at his harsh remark.

Her head would tilt downward if she was embarrassed, and her fingers would fidget along the edges of the pages whenever she tried to steady herself. Even the restless jiggling of her knee gives away her impatience, and the way she leans too close to the tome when frustrated reveals just how unsettled her mind truly is.

Levan observed all of it unflinching like he would a very detailed war plan. Every little movement of her, every subtle sway and every tiny shift spoke volumes he did not need her to say aloud. And in that quiet scrutiny, she was laid bare before him. She was far too expressive to fool anyone, least of all him.

"If you think hiding behind that tome will work, then you’re gravely mistaken," he stated with his usual calmness. Although she could not see him, she can feel his piercing gaze penetrating from the back of her head. "I can read you like an open book, you know. You are far too animated to hide anything."

Ilaria’s shoulders jolted at that, her lips pressing together. "...I am not animated," she muttered, though the slight quiver in her voice said otherwise.

"Not animated," he repeated, tilting his head. He could tell she was surprised by his observation. "You just muttered ’persistent’ out loud and looked at me like I was the one who said it," he deadpanned, causing her to shift in her seat.

"I— that...slipped! It doesn’t count if I didn’t mean it!" She stammered, her cheeks flaming. She tried to bury herself deeper into the tome, as if it could swallow her whole.

Levan exhaled a heavy breath through his nose. Watching her fidget was like watching a guilty offender pretending to be innocent. "Everything you do counts, princess, even the things you try to take back."

She hunched herself further at the statement, mortified at the thought that he was piecing her like some puzzle that does not make sense. "...You watch me that closely?" came her soft, barely there question.

"Of course," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. "I’ve known you long enough to read the back of your head better than you can read yourself."

Honestly, it was not him; she was the one who allowed herself to be read by anyone.

Ilaria went silent at that. All the words she wanted to say caught somewhere in her throat, unable to be let out. She stared down at the heavy tome which somehow weighed heavier than when she first placed it there, not even pretending to read anymore, just staring, her mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions as she tried to make sense of herself.

Why am I like this? she thought bitterly.

Jealous, petty, sulking like a child...and for what? A husband who does not love her the way she imagined. A husband who already has someone else lingering in his past. She knew this from the start. She knew it, and yet, why do she let it twist her up like this?

I shouldn’t be jealous...you aren’t even mine.

Her fingers clenched the edge of the book, her nails pressing into the leather. She was the one who chose to love him despite the signs. She was the one who chose to ignore Melyn’s warning and chase after his affections like some naïve lover girl. And yet she found herself blaming him for simply being calm and detached while she struggle with the feeling she could not control.

It was like planting flowers against a stone wall, knowing full well that no roots could ever take, and yet daring to hope they might bloom anyway. And now she had the audacity to feel sad, even though every actions of him, every whisper of reality, had told her enough from the very beginning. It was so unfair.

It’s not even his fault...

The quiet hum of the library seemed to stretch endlessly, suffocating her in the weight of her own heart. It was a good thing no scholars dared approach the alcove; otherwise, Ilaria had no idea how she would have pretended to be interested in speaking to him at all.

Ever the no-nonsense husband, Levan’s voice cut through the silence. "Don’t ignore me," he stated upon met with her prolonged silence.

Ilaria was snapped from her thoughts, cheeks flushing as her lips parted. "I’m not ignoring you," she said, though the shudder in her voice betrayed her, every syllable soaked with the weight of unsaid things.

As if to prove her point, she pressed her palms against the edge of the table, pivoting carefully in her chair so the heavy tome would not topple. Slowly and reluctantly, she lifted her gaze toward him, but her eyes darted everywhere except his. "See..." she muttered, almost to herself, "I’m not ignoring you..."

And in that motion, so small yet deliberate, there was a confession: she wanted him to see, to notice, to at least show a little bit of care. She wanted to tell him about the jealousy that gnawed at her, the ache of seeing Seraphine even in memory, and the absurd hope that he might notice her despair. But fear and pride chained her heart, leaving only this fragile, trembling admission.

And Levan stared.

His gaze remained fixed on her as he watched her twitching on the chair as if not knowing what to do. He did not want to think about it but the thought slipped in anyway. Because if only she was like Seraphine — straightforward, blunt, and provocative — then perhaps he would know what to do, then perhaps he would know what to say.

At least then, there would be no guessing, no endless hesitation. There would be no cryptic sighs, and definitely no hiding behind adamancy despite how annoying it was to deal with her relentless claim on something that was far from factual.

But Ilaria was not like that. She would twist, she would falter, and she would hide herself behind careful movements despite how every tilt of her head and every slight slump of her shoulders betraying more than her words ever could. She thought she was hiding it well, but she was far too alive for that.

He let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, the weight of it barely brushing the tense air between them. Because yet, he cannot force her. He cannot command feelings like a troop on the battlefield. He could only see the hesitation and the quiet ache she buries behind that wilfull little act of sulking.

Levan finally stepped closer, each movement slow and measured. He leaned his back against the edge of the table just beside her chair, arms crossed, tilting his head slightly down to meet her gaze, looming at her like an unmovable shadow, close enough to feel, but careful enough not to touch.

His eyes held hers as she tentatively, yet surely, lifted her head, trapped between the urge to flee and the impossible pull of his gaze as the familiar scent of him — rich leather, a hint of pine, and the faint musk that always seemed uniquely his — wove around her like a tether she could not escape.

"Stop hiding behind that book," he said, voice gravelly and controlled. "And tell me what’s truly on your mind, or I’ll find out myself."

Ilaria’s heart stumbled in her chest as her eyes went wide, caught off guard by the absence of the usual biting edge in his tone.