Chapter Six

Xavier hadn’t touched a woman in his life.

Not once.

Not even in secret, in some hidden corner of the estate, like his cousins bragged about after dark. He’d never flirted with a maid. Never stolen a kiss behind a locked door. Never lingered in a hallway for the brush of a hand or the scent of perfume.

He hadn’t wanted to.

Or maybe he had—but the want was always crushed beneath something larger: the weight of expectation. The shadow of what came after the kiss.

In the Valtoris house, intimacy wasn’t affection. It was possession. It was taking, breaking, and branding. And Xavier had never been able to reconcile the two.

He stood at the edge of the west balcony now, staring out over the treetops as the sun sank behind the forest. The wind tugged at his collar. The air smelled like pine, stone, and inevitability.

She was coming.

Elara.

Tomorrow.

He should’ve been ready. He was the heir. The example. The one who never raised his voice or dropped his gaze or missed a step in the dance of power his family performed daily.

But his hands were shaking.

Slightly. Barely.

Enough for him to notice. Enough to make him clench them into fists.

He hadn’t slept. Not properly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Not in any lurid way—though that’s what his uncles assumed, if their lewd commentary over breakfast was anything to go by. No, Xavier didn’t dream of Elara’s body. He dreamt of her silence.

Of the way she looked through people without ever seeing them.

Of the way she smiled, like she'd been taught it was her only weapon and her greatest burden.

He had no idea how to touch her.

Not physically. Not emotionally. Not safely.

And worst of all, he didn’t know if she wanted to be touched. If she even understood she had a right to want—or not.

That was what truly broke him.

It wasn’t fear of performance. He could play his part. He could do what was expected. But the idea of climbing into a bed with a girl who had been trained to lie still and thank him afterward…

He pressed his palms against the railing.

The iron was cold against his skin.

He felt sick.

He’d tried to talk to Lucien the day before—his uncle, the quiet one. The only man in the family who didn’t bark commands or boast about conquests. But even Lucien had offered little more than a shrug.

“She’ll do as she’s taught,” he’d said. “That’s what matters.”

Xavier had almost asked what about what she wants?

But the words never left his mouth.

Because he already knew the answer.

It didn’t matter.

Not here.

Not in this house.

“Expecting your bride?”

The voice came from behind him—Dorian, his other uncle, sharp-suited and smiling like a man who’d never lost a game.

Xavier didn’t turn.

“She’ll be here by noon,” Dorian continued, stepping beside him. “They say she’s a real beauty. Quiet. Well-trained. You’re lucky.”

Lucky.

That word again.

Lucky to be handed a girl like livestock. Lucky to be expected to break her without breaking a sweat.

Xavier said nothing.

Dorian clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so grim. You’ll enjoy it. First time’s always a thrill. Especially when they’re still… fresh.”

Xavier flinched.

It was the smallest movement. Barely noticeable.

But Dorian saw it.

“Don’t tell me,” he said slowly, stepping back with a smirk. “You’ve never—?”

Silence.

“Oh, gods. You haven’t.”

Xavier’s jaw tightened.

Dorian laughed, low and delighted. “Unbelievable. What the hell have you been doing all these years? Reading?”

“Preparing,” Xavier said coldly.

“For what?” Dorian mocked. “Marriage or sainthood?”

Xavier turned then—just slightly. His eyes met Dorian’s. Not with rage. With something sharper.

Control.

But Dorian just raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. You’ll figure it out. Instinct, boy. That’s all it takes. Just grab her and—”

“Don’t.”

The word slipped out before Xavier could catch it.

Quiet. Measured.

But final.

Dorian blinked. Then, surprisingly, smiled.

“Ah. So you do have a bite in there somewhere.”

He turned and walked off, whistling. “Just make sure it’s her throat you sink it into, not mine.”

Xavier stood alone again.

The wind had picked up. The trees below swayed like they were bowing to something larger than themselves.

He hated this.

Not her. Not Elara.

This.

The ritual. The pressure. The suffocating certainty that no matter what he said, no matter what he did, the machine would keep grinding forward.

He was expected to take her.

To own her.

To reduce her to nothing, and call it union.

And he didn’t know how to do that without losing something of himself in the process.

He wasn’t ready.

Not because he feared the unknown.

But because he feared the known too well.

From the east side of the estate, through the rows of skeletal trees, the crunch of tires on gravel reached his ears.

The car had arrived.

She was here.