Chapter 41: Terms of Safety

Chapter 41: Chapter 41: Terms of Safety Later, after breakfast, the quiet returned. Not the delicate hush of porcelain and banter, but something more precise—contained, professional, edged with the scent of old paper, ink, and the faint citrus of whatever diffuser Serathine insisted on using in formal spaces. The kind of quiet that filled rooms where decisions were made without raising voices. Lucas sat in one of the low-backed chairs near the window of Serathine’s private office. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in filtered light that cast pale lines across the dark wood of the floor. Trevor stood by the sideboard, pouring a second round of coffee into porcelain that matched nothing in the house. He wasn’t rushed. He never was when he didn’t need to be. Serathine had excused herself after breakfast—gracefully, of course, with a comment about a call from the Winter Ministry that needed "finessing." But the look she gave Trevor before she left was anything but casual. He’ll tell him. Do it carefully. She hadn’t said it aloud. She hadn’t needed to. Now it was just the two of them. Trevor brought the coffee over and handed Lucas his cup without a word. Then he sat across from him, legs crossed, one arm draped over the side like he was preparing for either a confession or a negotiation—maybe both. Lucas took a sip, then set the cup down. He didn’t speak first. Trevor glanced at the window, then back at him. "So," he said, his voice level and unhurried. "About that heir nonsense." He sighed—not theatrically, not tired, just truthfully, the way someone did when they’d been avoiding a conversation for as long as they reasonably could. "Until yesterday," he continued, "I didn’t want to be involved in Serathine’s little plans. They have a tendency to spiral—too many moving parts, too many delicate silks draped over loaded pistols. I’d rather do my job, keep my title, and leave her empire-building to those who enjoy it." He paused. "But that changed. Everything changed." Lucas didn’t look away. "How? You could forget. You could say you didn’t see enough. I don’t think I’m the first omega to faint in your arms." "No," Trevor said, quietly. "You’re not the first to faint." Then, after a beat: "But you’re the first to shatter." Lucas exhaled slowly, but didn’t speak. His posture didn’t change, but something in his silence did. It wasn’t resistance. It was calculation—measured distance. Trevor continued, his voice low and steady. "I’m not here to blame you. I’m not here to fix anything, either. I’m here because I want to offer you more. Whatever ’more’ looks like to you." Lucas narrowed his eyes, not cruelly—just sharply. "Why?" Trevor leaned back in the chair, not relaxing, but refusing to press. "I don’t know how to explain it," he said. "But we both know there’s a bond now. You can feel it. I can. It’s not dramatic. It’s not romantic. But it’s real." Lucas’s lips curved, not quite into a smile. "There’s no need for you to feel responsible for me. We’ll check the medical panels. Maybe it’s just the last of the suppressants still poisoning the rhythm of my body." "You think I’m here out of guilt?" Trevor asked mildly. "No," Lucas said. "I think you’re here because Serathine asked you to be. And that would be enough." Trevor didn’t look offended. He just met Lucas’s gaze and said, evenly: "No. But I want to be." Lucas held his stare for a moment longer than politeness required. Then, quieter: "What if you find someone else?" There was no jealousy in his tone. No fear. Just the pragmatic sharpness of someone who had been traded before and taught to check the terms twice. "D’Argente won’t let you leave," he added, voice steady, "even if I do." Trevor didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. But something like amusement flickered to life behind his eyes—bright, unbothered, faintly entertained, like someone being offered a challenge they’d already decided how to beat. "I would actually like to see them try," he said, tilting his head. "Serathine signs treaties; she doesn’t draft cages. And as for someone else..." He let the rest trail off, the smile never quite forming. Then, after a beat: "I’m not forcing you to decide. You don’t owe me anything, Lucas. But the news about the alliance between Nord and D’Argente is already out. It was leaked—carefully. Timed. And for a reason." Lucas didn’t interrupt. Trevor’s voice softened slightly—not in tone, but in pace. "With the two names combined," he said, "nothing will ever touch you. Not your mother. Not the second buyer. Not even the Empire itself if it decided to look too closely. They’d have to go through me. And that’s a line most people don’t cross twice." Lucas looked away, not in retreat, but in thought. And then: "And what do you want in exchange?" Trevor didn’t answer right away. Just leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees, hands folded—not a predator’s posture. Not a suitor’s. Something older than either. "I want the option to stay," he said. "And I want the chance to see who you become when no one’s trying to break you." Lucas didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. But the quiet that followed was not agreement, not refusal—it was calculation. A silence worn by someone who had learned the cost of every favor too early, too painfully. He wasn’t used to receiving without the expectation of giving something more fragile in return. Something irretrievable. "I don’t need anything," he said at last. The words were firm, but not cold. "The preparations for an engagement—if that’s what they want—would take months. Maybe a year. The other houses will tear each other apart over how to position themselves in the negotiation. And Serathine..." He allowed himself a breath. "Serathine won’t back down." Trevor gave a small nod, no satisfaction in it—just acknowledgment. "She won’t," he agreed. "Which means you’ll be safe. And trapped." Lucas’s mouth twitched. "Is that a threat or a reassurance?" Trevor smiled faintly, but there was nothing playful in it. "Whichever you need it to be."