9: Intriguing

Lucien’s POV

The dining hall was quiet. Only the sound of silver clinking gently against porcelain, and the soft hush of the wind pressing against the stained-glass windows. I sat at the end of the table, where I always sat, back straight, one hand resting lightly on the carved armrest. My eyes never left her.

She sat at the other end, dressed in something simple—

They’d given her a plain dress, light blue, loose in some places and snug in others. It wasn’t anything special. But it was enough to make me notice more than I wanted to.

I shouldn’t have noticed.

But I did.

She picked at the food on her plate with the kind of grace you don’t expect from someone raised in scraps. Her fingers moved with precision, her wrist turning slightly each time she cut into the meat, like she’d done it a hundred times before. But I knew she hadn’t. She wasn’t born for this. She wasn’t raised for silk-covered chairs and polished silverware. She was raised to serve—clean—obey.

Yet she sat at my table like she didn’t know how to kneel.

It intrigued me.

I watched her closer, the way she avoided my gaze like it was some curse she couldn’t bare carrying. How she chewed slowly and swallowed like the food was heavier than it should be. Every time her shoulders shifted, it was like she expected something to strike. Like she thought the room might close in on her at any second.

But still, she didn’t look at me.

She kept her eyes down, and I kept mine on her.

She didn’t know it, but her thoughts filled the space louder than her silence did. They pushed into the air between us—fast, messy, sharp-edged things. I didn’t need to hear her speak. I could feel them just by the way her hand twitched on the napkin. She was thinking too hard, asking too many questions without moving her lips.

Why is he staring so much?

Does he think I’m going to vanish if he blinks?

Honestly, what does he even want from me?

Or maybe he’s still stuck on the towel thing…

Her fingers slowed a little.

Was he impressed? Or disappointed?

Her cheeks turned pink. A soft, creeping blush. Not from the heat, not from the food. I knew what she was remembering. That moment back in the room. The time she was in nothing but a towel. The way I’d looked at her.

She thought I wanted her.

She was wrong.

It wasn’t desire. It wasn’t that simple.

I was studying her. Watching how she stood even when her knees looked like they’d buckle. How she looked back at me with wide eyes but didn’t run. How she wrapped herself in silence like it was armor. That wasn’t weakness.

That was something else.

She shifted again, and the chair creaked softly beneath her. Her grip on the fork tightened just slightly. Another wave of questions ran through her. More nonsense. Why do I even care what he thinks? What he saw? He means nothing to me.

She was lying to herself. And she was angry about it.

I leaned back slowly. Let my fingers tap once on the armrest. I didn’t want to speak yet. I wanted her to sit in it, that tension, that thick cloud of fear and pride and heat between us.

She shifted in her seat.

More thoughts followed.

I mean, what’s his type anyway? Definitely not ex-maids with bruises on their faces. Does he even like women?

“You ask too many questions.”

She flinched.

Her fork clattered against the plate. Her head snapped up fast, eyes wide— mouth slightly parted.

Her shoulders tensed, and her mouth pressed into a hard line like she was already preparing for punishment.

I didn’t give her one.

I let the question sit in the air.

She squirmed under it, the way most people do when they realize they’ve said too much in front of someone with power. She looked small in that chair, fragile, but her spirit wasn’t. I’d seen fragile before. This wasn’t it.

Silence filled the space between us again, but it wasn’t the same silence as before. Now it throbbed. Now it had heat.

She cleared her throat, reached for her cup, but her hands were shaking now. She didn’t drink from it. Just held it.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“For what?” I asked, voice calm.

Her eyes flicked up again. “For— for what I said.”

“Thinking isn’t a crime,” I said. “But being loud about it is a weakness.”

That shut her up again. She stared at the cup. Swallowed something thick in her throat. Her pulse was going wild. She was trying to steady it, trying to hold herself together in front of me. I didn’t blame her. Most people would’ve already bowed or begged, but she didn’t.

She sat up straighter. Slowly, still trying to appear as composed as possible.

“I didn’t mean any of the things I said,” she said, a hint of fear in her tone.

“They’re just… Stray thoughts.”

I didn’t reply to that, rather I leaned back slightly, my eyes dragging over her face again. The way she clenched her jaw. The way her lashes fluttered like they couldn’t decide whether to hide or challenge me.

“You want answers don’t you?” I said.

She didn’t reply, but the looks in her eyes said it all.

I watched her fingers tighten against the napkin. She was trying not to ask the next question sitting on her tongue. But it was there, causing her discomfort. And it was burning.

“Why am I here?” she finally asked.

I tilted my head slightly.

She took that as confusion and added, “You said the prison was no place for me. That I wouldn’t be touched unless you said so. But you’ve not told me what place this is either. Or what you’re going to do with me. So… why am I here?”

Her confidence stirred up something in me. I could literally see the fear in her eyes, my aura was forcing her to fold, but she chose to differ that heavy weight on her chest that was keeping her from asking her questions.

She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t sound angry or rude. She just remained as respectful as she could be, her voice carrying a hint of tiredness, not physical, but emotional tiredness.

I didn’t answer right away.

Instead, I stood.

Her back straightened as I walked slowly around the table, steps echoing through the hall like something heavy.

She couldn’t look away, her eyes remained on me the whole time.

I stopped when I was close enough to see the way her breath caught. Close enough to see the way she clutched her napkin like it could shield her.

“Now!” I ordered and my Beta burst into the room with a file in his hands.