Chapter 8

SAPHRA'S POV

Lucien pushes off the doorframe and moves towards me.

The movement is unhurried and deliberate, and it sends a sharp jolt through my chest. He advances into the war room, boots silent against stone, every step measured like he already knows exactly how this will end.

I don’t wait for him to reach me.

I back up until the edge of the map table digs into my spine, hard wood pressing through fabric. The conquest maps crinkle beneath my palms as I brace myself, the black X on my homeland staring up at me.

He closes the distance.

Too fast.

Lucien plants both hands on the table, one on either side of me, caging me in completely. The sound of his palms hitting wood echoes in the chamber, final and possessive. There is nowhere for me to go. His body blocks my escape, his presence overwhelming, heat radiating off him in waves.

My breath stutters.

He leans down.

Not enough to touch. Just enough that his face is close to mine, close enough that I can see the faint scar along his jaw, the tight control in his eyes. His breath brushes my cheek, warm and steady.

“You’re reckless,” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous in its calm. “Sneaking through corridors. Reading things you should not. Walking into rooms that could get you killed.”

I glare up at him. “Then kill me.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“I did not say that was my intention.” His gaze flicks to the maps beneath us, then back to my eyes. “I will give you something instead... A deal.”

My heart hammers. “I don’t make deals with murderers.”

A shadow passes over his expression. It was not anger, not quite. It was something unexplainable , Something darker.

“You want the truth about the massacre,” he says. “My version. Not the sanitized reports you stole. Not the lies whispered by men who needed me to be the villain.”

My breath catches despite myself.

“You stop sneaking around,” he continues quietly. “You stop spying. You stop acting like a knife pressed against my throat. In return, I tell you everything.”

Every instinct in my body screams.

This is danger, but not the clean, simple kind I know how to fight. This is temptation... Control... Power wrapped in pretend honesty and offered on his terms.

His breath skims my cheek again, close enough that my skin prickles.

“Think carefully, Saphra,” he says. “You won’t like what you hear. But you will finally understand.”

Understand?

The word slices deeper than any blade.

My mind races with images of my father, the dream I would have of him every night, the one where I would see my father with horror in his eyes... see the blade going through his chest.... hear the sound he made as he took his last breath. Lucien doesn’t know that I had seen him kill my father with my own eyes. What truth could he tell me when I saw it myself?

I bare my teeth.

“No,” I say through clenched teeth. “I don’t want your truth.”

His eyes sharpen. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” I snap. “But I won’t bargain with you.”

I shove both hands against his chest.

It’s like shoving a wall.

He doesn’t budge an inch.

My palms flatten against hard muscle beneath his shirt, heat searing through fabric and skin. The shock of it steals my breath. I shove harder, rage fueling me, nails digging in.

Yet nothing.

He is solid and unmovable. Controlled power coiled tight beneath my hands.

“Move,” I hiss.

Lucien catches my wrists in one smooth motion.

His grip is firm, not crushing, but it burns all the same. His fingers wrap fully around me, thumbs pressing into my pulse points like he can feel how fast my heart is racing.

Our faces are inches apart.

I can see the dark ring around his pupils, the way his breath has deepened. His control hasn’t cracked but it’s straining.

“Careful,” he says quietly. “You are standing on the edge of something you don’t understand.”

“Let. Me. Go.” My voice shakes, fury and something else tangling together.

For a split second, I think he won’t.

Then—

The door bursts open.

“Lord Lucien!”

Marcus’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. His voice sounded urgent and sharp.

Lucien’s attention snaps away from me instantly, head turning toward the door.

“Our Borders are being attacked,” Marcus says breathlessly. “The eastern flank was targeted, Three villages already burned down. The scouts confirm coordinated movement.”

Lucien swears under his breath.

In that single heartbeat of distraction, I wrench my wrists free. Pain flares, but adrenaline drowns it out. I duck under his arm and bolt.

I sprint past Marcus, nearly colliding with him as I tear through the doorway and into the corridor. My legs shake violently, threatening to give out beneath me, but I don’t slow down.

I don’t look back—

Not until I reach the bend in the corridor.

I glance over my shoulder.

Lucien stands in the war room doorway, body rigid, eyes locked on me. His expression is unreadable, carved from stone, but there is something feral held tight beneath the surface.

Marcus is speaking to him, gesturing urgently.

Lucien does not look away from me.

Not even once.

Fear crashes into me then, sharp and cold, followed by something else.

I turn and run.