Chapter 217: Chapter 217: He heard it
Lucas stepped around the corner before either of them could get clever with metaphors again.
The silence that followed was casual, which only made it worse. Dax turned first, of course, with that damned grin already curling at the corners of his mouth like he’d been expecting this exact moment and had already drafted ten alternate punchlines in his head.
"Ah," Dax drawled, all charm and amusement. "Saved by the husband. Good timing, Lucas, we were just discussing interior design."
Trevor didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look guilty either. His gaze met Lucas’s the way it always did: steady, measuring, waiting for Lucas to ask.
Lucas’s eyes narrowed faintly. "I like this hallway. I’d prefer if we didn’t paint it with someone’s ceiling art."
Dax let out a low whistle. "He did hear it."
"I have ears, Dax. And a fairly vivid imagination."
"Dangerous combination," Dax murmured, but he was already stepping back, brushing imaginary lint from his coat as though he weren’t the one who’d just flung a conversational grenade into the hallway. "Well, I should go. Someone’s expecting me. Preferably fed. Possibly mad."
Lucas didn’t look at him. "Try not to start another war while you’re at it."
"No promises," Dax said brightly, already retreating. "I hear northern princes are into drama this season."
Trevor waited until the footsteps faded before speaking.
"I was going to tell you."
Lucas didn’t answer right away. He crossed the space between them, stopping close enough that Trevor had to look down to meet his eyes.
"How bad?" Lucas asked quietly.
Trevor didn’t sugarcoat. "He was working with both Christian and Agatha."
"And the ceiling?"
"An accident," Trevor said flatly. "Sort of."
Lucas huffed, not quite a laugh. "You don’t do accidents."
Trevor’s jaw ticked. "I do certainty. And I was certain he wouldn’t stop."
There was silence then, the kind that filled itself with more than words, trust, history, the weight of bloodlines and shared bedsheets. Lucas didn’t flinch from it. He let it stretch until the tension in Trevor’s shoulders gave just slightly.
Then, voice low: "Next time, leave the walls intact. Windstone’s going to have an aneurysm."
Trevor blinked. Once. Then let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. "Noted."
Lucas reached out and adjusted the fold of Trevor’s collar like it mattered. "Also, if you’re going to commit war crimes before breakfast, at least let me be dressed for it."
"You are perfectly dressed for this. Now, let’s talk at the breakfast table." Trevor said reaching his hand to Lucas.
Lucas took the offered hand, slipping his fingers into Trevor’s like it was a habit he hadn’t yet admitted was comforting. His palm was still warm from the hallway, callused in all the familiar places, steady in ways that had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with presence.
"Fine," Lucas murmured as they began walking. "But if anyone asks why I’m smiling, I’m blaming the toast."
Trevor’s mouth tilted. "Not your homicidal husband?"
Lucas didn’t look at him. "That too. But the toast first."
They descended the main staircase in silence, not because they had nothing to say, but because that silence was full. Intimate in a way that comforted both of them.
The corridor to the dining room was already scented faintly with cinnamon, citrus, and something buttery and illegal that Windstone had likely smuggled in from the coast.
"I’m telling you now," Lucas muttered as they passed a vase that looked like it cost more than his entire education, "if someone hands me a security briefing with my orange juice again, I will defect."
Trevor didn’t even blink. "To where? You married the most dangerous man in three kingdoms.
Lucas gave him a dry, sideways glance. "That’s Dax."
"No," Trevor said mildly, without missing a step. "Dax is the most violent. There’s a distinction."
Lucas scoffed. "You sure? Because I watched him insult an archduke, dismantle a treaty, and flirt with a waiter in the span of two minutes last night."
Trevor didn’t even blink. "Impressive, but useless now that he found his omega."
Lucas raised a brow. "You mean the one trapped in his villa with no chance of escaping?"
Trevor’s lips twitched. "That one."
"God help us all."
They reached the dining room then, all polished wood and calculated warmth, the morning light painting the floor in long gold slants. Lucas stepped through first, his stride smooth, casual, like he hadn’t just insulted the personal life of a foreign monarch.
Trevor followed without missing a beat.
Lucas eyed the table, perfect, infuriating, Windstone-perfect, and dropped into his seat with the quiet authority of someone who had no intention of starting the day in a bad mood, unless provoked.
"They made the eggs right today," he said, almost grudgingly, as the lid was lifted.
Trevor didn’t sit immediately. He leaned in, one hand brushing briefly over Lucas’s shoulder as he poured the coffee himself.
Lucas didn’t look up. "If you say anything about Dax’s mating instincts or your own again, I will tip this entire pot in your lap."
"I wasn’t going to," Trevor said mildly. "I was going to say you look good in black."
Lucas paused, visibly weighing his options, then reached for the toast. "Acceptable recovery."
Trevor finally took his seat. "I do aim to please."
"Pity about the war crimes."
"You really don’t want to let me off the hook, do you?" Trevor murmured, stirring his coffee without looking up.
Lucas didn’t smile. Not quite. "I’ve let you scheme behind my back until now. I’d say I’ve been indulgent enough."
Trevor’s gaze flicked up, sharp and warm all at once. "That’s what you call it? Indulgence?"
Lucas tilted his head. "What would you call it?"
Trevor took a sip, slow. "Trust."
Lucas’s fork paused mid-air, something unreadable flickering behind his lashes. Then, just as easily, he resumed eating, unbothered on the surface, like his silence hadn’t just spoken volumes.
"Do you want to deal with Agatha and Christian yourself," Trevor asked, tone even, almost conversational, "or would you prefer to forget them entirely?" He let the words settle before adding, just a touch softer, "I’ll handle either. But if you let me do it my way, I might just love you a little more than I already do."