Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Blood Throne Beckons

They say silence is peace.

They’ve never lived in the aftermath of war.

After Eryx walked out of Blackwood Estate, the walls didn’t breathe the same. The marble seemed colder. The chandelier’s crystals reflected ghosts. And every shadow felt like it carried his smirk.

Lucien locked down the estate.

But locks didn’t stop memories.

Or futures that hung by a frayed thread.

I stood at the edge of the great staircase, staring at the oil portrait of Reagan Blackwood. His eyes followed you, no matter where you moved in the room.

Lucien’s father.

Eryx’s creator.

And the monster that bound them all together like string wrapped around a bomb.

I reached up and touched the edge of the frame.

Beneath it, a smear of dust. Barely visible. But real.

Proof that time touches even tyrants.

Lucien found me there, arms folded tight across my chest. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched me.

“What do you see when you look at him?” he finally asked.

I didn’t look away.

“My future. If I fail.”

He stepped beside me.

“My past,” he said, voice thick.

“And Eryx?”

Lucien’s jaw flexed. “The proof that love can be turned into weaponry.”

I turned to face him. “We need to move first. Before he does.”

Lucien’s eyes darkened. “You want blood?”

I didn’t blink.

“I want power. I’m done being touched by men who mistake me for something fragile.”

We held the war council in the drawing room.

Mira flew in from Florence. Sharp-tongued and sleepless, with eyes that missed nothing.

Andrei, Lucien’s closest ally from his years abroad, joined us with maps and encrypted files.

The tension was volcanic.

“We strike now,” Mira said, legs crossed elegantly over a baroque chair. “We dismantle Eryx’s funding arm—Lazarus Group.”

Andrei laid out the details. “Shell companies. Bribes. Leverage. Ivy’s the key. He still thinks he can flip her.”

Lucien’s hand brushed mine under the table.

He knew better.

“I want to walk into the Lazarus gala,” I said. “Wearing red.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “That’s his color.”

“Exactly,” I whispered. “Let him see I’m not afraid to wear his fire.”

The gala was held at The Halcyon—a towering hotel wrapped in glass and menace.

Red carpets. Champagne fountains. And money thick enough to buy silence in bulk.

Lucien wore all black.

I wore blood-red silk that dripped like wine across the floor, with slits up both thighs and a neckline that whispered sin.

When we entered, the crowd parted.

We weren’t just the headline.

We were the war.

Eryx found us on the terrace.

His suit was obsidian. His cufflinks shaped like daggers.

He didn’t look surprised.

Just amused.

“Ivy,” he purred. “You look like a warning.”

I didn’t flinch. “I am.”

He held out his hand.

I didn’t take it.

Lucien moved closer, fingers grazing the small of my back. Claiming. Protecting.

Eryx noticed. Smiled wider.

“You’ve trained her well,” he told Lucien.

“Wrong,” I said. “I trained myself. You just misread the battlefield.”

He circled me like a vulture. “You don’t have to be his. You could be yours.”

Lucien’s hand tensed on my spine.

I looked Eryx dead in the eyes. “I’m not anyone’s. But if I had to belong to someone… it’d never be a man who mistakes conquest for devotion.”

For the first time, Eryx’s smile faltered.

A crack in the armor.

I turned and walked away—hips swaying, head high, Lucien at my side.

Let him stare.

Let him feel the crown slipping from his fingers.

That night, back at the estate, the silence between Lucien and me snapped like a cable pulled too tight.

He slammed the door to the bedroom shut behind us.

“You taunted him,” he growled. “You looked him in the eye and bled elegance.”

“You’re angry?” I asked, breathless.

He stepped close. “I’m wild.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never wanted to rip something apart so badly—except maybe your dress.”

Then he did.

The silk tore like paper.

I gasped as he pushed me against the wall, mouth devouring mine.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” I whispered between breaths, “and then leave me to clean up the war.”

He paused.

Then grabbed my wrists and pinned them over my head.

His voice was ragged. “Then stop pretending you're not the one who started it.”

We made love like we were burning.

The kind of fevered, soul-ripping love that doesn’t ask for permission.

He worshipped every inch of me like he was trying to memorize the feel of peace before it was ripped away.

And when it was over, I lay curled against him, chest to chest, hearts racing.

Neither of us spoke.

We didn’t have to.

By morning, Mira sent word.

The gala tapes had been leaked.

Eryx’s side deals. His bribes. His lies.

The board was splintering again.

Only this time, the fracture pointed to him.

But the storm wasn’t over.

At noon, a courier arrived with a package addressed to me.

Inside: a velvet box.

Another ring.

But this one was different.

It was my mother’s.

Lost years ago in a fire Reagan claimed was an accident.

My hands trembled as I held it.

The note beneath it was simple:

“The blood that burns the throne is always personal. — E”

I sank to the floor.

Lucien caught me before my knees hit marble.

His arms wrapped around me.

He didn’t ask questions.

Just held me while I shattered.

Because this wasn’t about business anymore.

This was personal.

This was war.