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 lik