Chapter 107: Silk, Safety, and Sarcasm

Chapter 107: Silk, Safety, and Sarcasm [Lavinia’s POV—Royal Chambers] My head rested on Papa’s arm as he read through yet another impossibly long scroll. My cheek squished slightly against his solid muscles—ugh, unfair. Even his biceps felt like they did push-ups while signing decrees. His scent—warm, familiar, like parchment, polished steel, and something faintly sweet (possibly royal stress sweat and sugar almonds)—wrapped around me like a safety net I had no intention of escaping from. He didn’t speak. Just let me stay there, curled against him like a lazy, emotionally unstable cat in silk. His other hand occasionally reached up and stroked my hair, gently and rhythmically, and he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And I didn’t remind him. Not because I was too comfortable. But because I needed it. I needed this. The Papa. The warmth. The quiet. The closeness. The fragile illusion that maybe—just maybe—the world still had some softness left. Across the room, Theon—our eternally tired royal advisor and walking embodiment of tax season—sat buried in scrolls with ink-stained hands and no will to live. He didn’t even look up when he said: "Your Majesty, Lord Halveth’s trade report is two weeks overdue. Also, the river patrols are demanding extra funding after the... crocodile incident." Papa didn’t blink. "Tell them to build a bridge." "There is a bridge," Theon replied, dry as stale toast. "Then tell them to cross it and stop complaining." Theon stared and sighed as he scribbled something like crocodiles = character-building and continued working without comment. Meanwhile, Papa’s hand suddenly stilled in my hair. No more stroking. Rude. Instinctively—without even thinking—I reached up, grabbed his hand, and plopped it right back on my head like it belonged there. Because it did. Obviously. That’s when he finally looked down at me. Not with the eyes of an emperor. Just... Papa. Confused. Concerned. Slightly amused. Wondering, ’What’s wrong with her again?’ He raised an eyebrow, picked up another scroll, and asked dryly, "What’s the matter, little beast? Why aren’t you rolling around and making a dramatic mess like usual?" I gave him a side glance, my expression scrunched somewhere between sullen and wistful. "...I don’t feel like it." Then I pressed his hand firmer onto my head. "Just... keep stroking my hair, Papa." He didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t ask again. Just obliged, like it was the easiest thing in the world to offer comfort without questions. And for a little while, I just lay there, cocooned in warmth and silence. Then, of course, Theon had to open his mouth. "Looks like our little princess is upset about something," he said, his voice far too casual for someone in the presence of an emotional crisis. I glanced at him briefly, gave him my best flat glare, and then snuggled even deeper into Papa’s side like I was trying to disappear into his royal robes. Papa stared at me for a moment. Then he slowly turned his cold, imperial gaze toward Theon like he was personally responsible for my entire emotional state. "If you’re done being observant," Papa said icily, "then get lost." Theon narrowed his eyes, teeth grinding. "Do you think I want to be here? I want to sleep too, Your Majesty." "THEN. GET. THE HELL. OUT OF MY CHAMBER," Papa roared, as if Theon had just insulted his bloodline and committed treason all at once. Honestly, the acoustics in this chamber deserved applause. So much dramatic echo. Theon threw his hands up and started storming off, muttering under his breath about tyrants and unpaid overtime. But then, as if the gods themselves had nudged him mid-stride, he paused, spun around, and said, "Oh. Right. I forgot to inform you." Papa groaned like the ceiling had just collapsed on his soul. "Of course you did." Theon grinned. "Marquess Everett has adopted a son." Huh? Marquess Everett. Tch, whenever I hear his name, my royal blood starts boiling. Papa squinted. "Marquess Everett? That withered old garden gnome still alive?" Theon nodded, flipping through one of his scrolls. "Yes, surprisingly. Apparently, he found himself a child and now wishes to ’formally introduce him to His Imperial Majesty for blessings, approval, and potentially a title.’ His words, not mine." Papa stared at Theon as if he’d just declared a revolution. "A son?" "Yes," Theon replied, his voice completely flat. "A small human male. Age unclear. Origin suspicious. Probably an orphan or a cabbage seller—who knows? He wants a meeting." Papa scoffed. "What does he think I am... a saint?" "No," Theon said without missing a beat. "An Emperor." There was a brief, glorious silence. Then Papa sighed, leaned back like the weight of the throne was poking his spine again, and said, "Fine. Let’s meet this... cabbage boy." He smirked—slow and dangerous. "Let’s see what that old geezer has pulled from his retirement hat." Theon gave a deep, exaggerated bow. "As Your Majesty wishes. I shall schedule the royal meeting." Then he turned on his heel and swept out, muttering something about tyrants and unpaid therapy sessions. Papa sighed like an entire empire was sitting on his lungs, then glanced down at me, his fingers still tangled gently in my hair. "So..." he said, his voice softer now, "what’s been upsetting you?" I went silent for a beat, then laid my cheek against his chest and mumbled, "It’s about Osric." Papa twitched. "That boy..." he sighed, shoulders tensing ever so slightly. "What about him?" I tilted my head up. "I heard his mother abandoned him, Papa. Is that true?" Papa didn’t answer at first. He just stared into the fire like it owed him money. Then, with a sigh that could crack a mountain in half, he asked, "So that’s what’s been chewing on your little brain." I nodded. "Why did she do that, Papa? Did she not feel bad?" Without blinking, without hesitation, and with the emotional delicacy of a guillotine, he said, "Because she was pathetic." Wow. He really said that. With a completely straight face. Like he just declared water is wet and the sky is rude. "Why?" I asked again, a little breathless. He looked at me, eyes sharp but calm. "Because she was cowardly. Spineless. Take your pick. She didn’t want to be a mother, so she left." I sat up a little. "Just like that?" "Just like that," he said flatly. "She had the title, the wealth, the child—everything. But she looked at that boy and decided she wasn’t brave enough to love him. So she vanished." I stared. "People can just... do that?" He snorted. "Unfortunately, yes. People can be astonishingly disappointing. And utterly pathetic." ...Oh. I see. He definitely wanted to use stronger words. Tyrant-level words. But he toned it down. Because I was there. A small child. With very delicate ears. Still... I felt bad for Osric. And weirdly relieved I’d never asked him about his mother before. Then. Suddenly. #TYRANT-Y PAPA MODE ACTIVATED. "That’s why..." Papa’s voice dropped an octave. His gaze turned lethal. His back straightened like a throne had sprouted beneath him. Uh-oh. Here it comes. "You must never fall in love, Lavinia." ... ... ......Here we go again. I gave him the look. You know the one. The universal "daughter to overprotective drama king" look. "Papa. I’m seven." "Exactly!" he snapped. "That’s when it starts. First it’s giggles. Then it’s blushes. Then one day you bring home some floppy-haired bard with a lute—" "A lute?!" "—AND HE WRITES YOU TERRIBLE POETRY." He looked personally betrayed by this imaginary man. "And suddenly, I’m forced to execute someone wearing ruffles." ... Yeah. That escalated real fast. "I’m not bringing home anyone with a lute," I muttered. "Or ruffles." Papa gave me the side-eye. The Imperial side-eye. The kind that probably made entire rebellions rethink their life choices. Then he sighed. "Good." A royal beat of silence passed. Then he added, low and final, "Now go back to sleep." I nodded like a responsible, dignified, totally mature little princess and snuggled deeper into his side, basically melting into his robes. So warm. So soft. So... toasty? "Papa..." I mumbled again. He hummed in acknowledgment. "Are you secretly a royal heater?" His hand paused in my hair. "Because you’re very warm. Like... annoyingly warm. Are you sure you’re not smuggling a fireplace under all that velvet?" Papa’s eye twitched. "Maybe I should knight you. Sir Heater the First. Protector of cold toes and national anxiety." Then a sigh. Deep. Tired. Emperor. "Lavinia..." "Hm?" "Sleep. Before I draft a decree banning bedtime conversations." "...You wouldn’t." "Try me." I smiled, victorious, and tucked myself tighter under his arm like a smug little marshmallow. And as his hand gently stroked my hair again, I whispered to myself: "Royal heater confirmed." Then finally—finally—I let sleep win. Wrapped in silk, safety, and sarcasm. Guarded by a tyrant. Sheltered by power. Loved too much, perhaps. I thought I was untouchable. But fate doesn’t care for tyrants or princesses. But what I didn’t know... Was that soon I would meet him. The one who would be the reason for my death.