Chapter Fifteen: The Crown of Embers

The walls of Blackwood Manor weren’t just silent—they whispered. Secrets curled in the corners like smoke, coiling around my ankles as I walked, daring me to look over my shoulder.

I hadn’t slept.

Not really.

The events of the night before kept playing on a loop in my mind—Lucien’s hand on the back of my neck, his breath brushing my ear, his voice warning me in that velvet tone: “If you dig into the past, Ivy, be prepared to find things that bury you.”

But I already felt half-buried.

Wrapped in a silk robe that still smelled faintly of him, I stood by the window of my bedroom, watching the dawn claw its way through the fog like something wounded. Below, the garden—if you could call it that—looked more like a graveyard with its ancient stone paths and statues draped in ivy.

It was beautiful.

And it terrified me.

Just like him.

Lucien Blackwood was a contradiction I hadn’t yet solved. Cold hands, warm mouth. Brutal orders, gentle glances. Each night I told myself I hated him—each morning I woke with the echo of his touch on my skin.

I needed to get out of this house. Even for a few hours.

I stepped into the dining room like I was entering enemy territory.

Lucien sat at the head of the table, a black coffee steaming by his right hand, his phone in the other. He didn’t look up when I walked in, but I felt his awareness prick the air like static.

I took my seat. A silent maid poured orange juice into a crystal glass beside my plate.

Lucien finally spoke without lifting his gaze. “You’ve barely eaten all week.”

“I wasn’t aware you were keeping count.”

He looked up now, those Arctic eyes scanning me with clinical precision. “Everything in this house is counted. Watched. That’s how empires stay standing.”

I reached for the coffee. “Do you ever stop speaking in chess metaphors?”

“Not when the board is this dangerous.”

His voice was like ice cracking beneath my feet.

I should’ve ignored him.

But I didn’t.

“I want to go out today,” I said, keeping my tone even.

His eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here. The gallery maybe. Or the conservatory.”

He studied me like I’d just requested a blood sacrifice. “You don’t go anywhere without security.”

I held his stare. “Then assign a damn shadow. I’m not your prisoner, Lucien.”

For a long second, I swore he’d say no. That he’d stand and end the conversation, like he always did.

Instead, he nodded once.

But what he said next made my skin crawl.

“Silas will accompany you.”

Silas Blackwood.

Lucien’s younger brother.

The phantom prince of the Blackwood dynasty.

I’d seen him only once before—from a distance—leaning against a car with a cigarette between his lips and a cruel smirk carved into his face. Everything about him was a warning. Where Lucien was cold and calculated, Silas burned with reckless heat.

And yet, here he was, lounging by the car waiting for me in ripped jeans and a black button-down like some fallen angel with a devil’s laugh.

“You really married him,” he drawled as I approached. “I thought Lucien’s taste ran colder.”

“Is this your idea of small talk?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

He grinned as he started the engine. “Sweetheart, this is me being charming.”

The ride to the conservatory was quiet after that—except for Silas tapping the steering wheel and whistling a tune that felt vaguely menacing.

I was too distracted by the fact that Lucien had sent him. Of all people. It wasn’t protection. It was a message.

He wanted me reminded that the Blackwoods had teeth.

The conservatory felt like stepping into another century.

Glass walls arched above us, filtering sunlight through a tangle of vines and flowers. I moved slowly, letting the scent of roses fill my lungs.

I thought I was alone in the greenhouse corridor—until Silas leaned close.

“Careful, Mrs. Blackwood,” he murmured near my ear. “This place may look like paradise, but it’s full of poison.”

I stepped away from him, pulse quickening. “Do you always talk like a villain in a noir film?”

He grinned. “Only when the heroine is trying so hard not to ask questions.”

“About what?”

Silas crouched by a blooming orchid, fingering its petals. “About the fire. The inheritance. Why Lucien looks like he’s made of ice and ash.”

I stilled.

“What fire?”

He looked up at me then. Really looked.

“Oh, sweetheart. He didn’t tell you?”

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. The heat behind my ribcage roared into something volatile.

“Let me guess,” Silas said, rising. “He warned you not to dig. Said the past is dangerous. Classic Lucien. He forgets danger makes some people curious.”

“I’m not some people.”

“No,” Silas agreed, eyes narrowing. “You’re worse. You’re his wife.”

He stepped closer. Too close.

And then, with a crooked smile, he whispered:

“But tell me, Ivy. Has he shown you the west wing yet?”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Again.

The west wing.

Silas’s words curled in my mind like incense smoke.

Every time I’d walked past the locked corridor to the left of the grand staircase, I’d felt something—some pull beneath my skin. And now I knew why.

There was a secret there.

And secrets were currency.

Lucien had kept too many of them.

So I crept out of bed.

Barefoot, silent, I made my way through the halls of Blackwood Manor. The marble floors were colder than usual, the air thicker, like the house knew what I was about to do.

The west wing door was locked.

But not bolted.

I found the hidden key beneath the vase in the hallway—just as Silas said I would.

The lock clicked.

And the door opened with a groan.

What I saw on the other side didn’t make sense at first.

It was a child’s room.

Dust-covered toys. A rocking horse. A mobile hanging from the ceiling—wilted stars and moons.

The air reeked of old smoke.

There was a picture on the wall. Charred on one side. I stepped closer.

My breath caught.

It was Lucien.

But not as I knew him.

He was… young. Maybe ten. Standing beside a little boy who had Silas’s eyes and a girl—smiling. A girl with a red ribbon in her hair.

But the glass was cracked. And scorched.

Suddenly I heard it.

A sound behind me.

A breath.

A presence.

I turned slowly.

Lucien stood in the doorway.

And his expression was nothing like I’d ever seen before.

“I told you not to come here,” he said, voice low, dangerous.

“I had a right to know,” I whispered.

He stepped forward. The shadows clung to him like a second skin. “You think you can understand what this room means?”

My heart pounded. “Tell me then.”

He reached past me and ripped the picture off the wall. The frame shattered against the floor.

“They died in this room, Ivy!” he exploded. “My sister. Our mother. Fire. Smoke. Screaming. I was the only one who made it out whole.”

Silas. The girl.

The West Wing wasn’t forbidden for drama. It was forbidden because it was a tomb.

Lucien stood there, breathing hard, his armor cracked open at last.

And I

I didn’t know what to say.

So I stepped forward and reached for him.

He caught my wrist.

Not rough.

Not gentle.

Just… holding.

“I don’t want your pity,” he whispered.

“It’s not pity,” I said. “It’s the truth. And maybe you need someone to hold it with you.”

He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the real man.

Not the empire.

Not the weapon.

Just Lucien.

But it only lasted a second.

Because outside the window, headlights flared in the driveway.

Then brakes screeched.

And a scream shattered the night.

Lucien turned toward the sound.

“Ivy,” he said tightly, already moving, “Stay here.”

But I didn’t.

I followed him into the dark.

And what I saw outside changed everything.