Chapter Five: A Warning and a Whisper

The rain came without warning.

It was past midnight again when Emilia awoke, the soft patter of droplets against her window lulling her into wakefulness. She stared at the ceiling, listening, breathing in the petrichor that seeped through the cracks of the old estate. Everything felt heavier in the dark, especially after what she’d heard.

Daughter of a traitor.

He should’ve buried her.

She’s leverage.

She pressed her fingers to her chest, right over the ache that hadn’t gone away since the conversation in the study. Her father hadn’t been a name to her, just a ghost that lingered in the spaces people avoided mentioning. And now, he was something else entirely. A thief. A traitor.

The floor creaked as she moved. She didn’t mean to find him again. But her feet led her to the hallway beyond the study, where the windows rattled softly in the wind. She didn’t knock this time. She just opened the door.

Lucien was there. As if he knew she’d come.

He stood by the window, the rain casting streaks of silver across his face. His tie was undone, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He didn’t look like a monster. Not tonight.

“You should be asleep,” he said without turning.

“You should let someone check your hand,” she replied quietly.

He glanced at it, almost as if he’d forgotten. The bandage from the night before was still wrapped tightly, but faint red had begun to seep through.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he lied.

Emilia stepped inside. “Lying doesn’t suit you.”

Lucien turned then, leaning against the window frame. His eyes were tired. “And what does suit me?”

She didn’t answer. Just reached into her pocket and pulled out another bandage.

He didn’t protest this time. He held his hand out silently, and she unwrapped the old gauze. The wound looked worse tonight, angrier, somehow. But he didn’t flinch.

“Doesn’t hurt, huh?” she murmured.

His lips quirked, barely. “Not the way it should.”

They stood in silence as she cleaned it, and then,softly, like a thread stretched too tight, Lucien said, “You should be careful.”

She looked up. “Why?”

“Because there are men in this house who want to see you gone. And I won’t always be here to stop them.”

“But you are,” she said. “You’ve stopped them every time.”

“That won’t matter forever. You need to understand that, Emilia. You’re not safe just because I say you are.”

She paused. “Are you safe?”

Lucien tilted his head. “That’s not your concern.”

“It is if you keep bleeding for me.”

He laughed at that. A short, bitter sound. “You think this is about you?”

“Isn’t it?”

His eyes darkened. “This is about a dead man who owed me everything and tried to take more. It’s about a girl who should’ve been forgotten but wasn’t. It’s about debt, and honor, and the kind of loyalty that gets people killed.”

Her hands stilled. “So why didn’t you kill me?”

Lucien looked at her then, really looked. “Because you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. And I didn’t want to lose that.”

The words knocked the breath from her lungs.

She dropped her gaze, unsure how to respond.

Lucien stepped back, as if catching himself too late. “Go back to your room.”

“Lucien...”

“Now.”

But his voice wasn’t sharp this time. It was raw. Like something breaking.

***

The next morning, Emilia found Rosa waiting in the kitchen.

The woman’s arms were crossed, her sharp eyes unreadable.

“You shouldn’t get too close to him,” Rosa said simply.

Emilia frowned. “I wasn’t...”

“Yes, you were. And he’s letting you. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rosa moved closer, her voice low. “He’s been alone for too long. He’s forgotten what it means to be human. You remind him. And that makes you dangerous.”

Emilia’s stomach twisted. “I’m not trying to...”

“You don’t have to try, niña. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones that break the hardest walls.”

There was silence, and then Rosa added, “He’s not made for softness. He’ll ruin it. Even if he doesn’t mean to.”

***

That night, Emilia found Lucien in the greenhouse. He was tending to a plant she hadn’t seen before, small, delicate white flowers with thin, trembling stems.

“You like those?” she asked softly.

Lucien looked up, surprised to see her. “They’re called angel’s breath. My mother used to grow them.”

Emilia smiled faintly. “They don’t look like the kind of thing you’d remember.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s why I do.”

She sat on the low bench near him, her fingers trailing across the damp wood.

“You didn’t answer me yesterday,” she said. “About letting me go.”

Lucien didn’t move.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he finally said.

Emilia nodded.

“Just… if you do,” she whispered, “don’t wait until it’s too late.”

Lucien looked at her, something unspoken in his eyes.

“I won’t.”

But they both knew it was a lie.