Lucien walked in just as Soren stepped away from Elian, washing his hands in a basin on top of his table.

​He paused in front of the door, suddenly unsure of what he should do next.

​Should he go up and ask Soren what was wrong with Elian?

​Wouldn’t it seem like he was being too particular about his prisoner?

​Or perhaps he was overthinking it; he was the Duke, and since Elian was in his custody, he had every right to question his health.

​Deciding to go ahead and inquire anyway, he lifted his gaze... and met Elian’s.

​Everything else suddenly blurred around him.

​For that brief moment, he felt like he was sucked into a vortex of current as his body rippled with unexplained tingles, his pulse pounding in his ears.

​For the first time since last night, Elian was directly looking at him, but... he didn’t recognize those eyes. They were cold, apprehensive, and distant. It was almost like Elian was silently telling him to turn around and walk away.

​And, just as quickly as their eyes met, Elian looked away, lowering his gaze to his thighs.

​"Your Grace?" Soren turned, nodding at Lucien, who slowly approached them.

​"Is he dying?" Lucien asked coldly, his eyes on Soren’s face.

​Soren frowned. "Dying? No," he sighed.

​"Maybe it’ll help if you stop putting him through death each day," Rowan smiled beside Elian.

​Not again, Elian thought, clenching his fists and closing his eyes.

​Lucien saw this, deciding to ignore Rowan and simply speak to the doctor.

​"Soren?" he called.

​Soren wiped his hands and glanced at Elian.

​"The vomiting was not from illness," he explained calmly. "His stomach reacted to emotional distress. Too much tension and discomfort at once can churn the body badly enough to force everything back out."

​He sighed softly. "In simple terms... his emotions overwhelmed him."

​Lucien paused for a moment... emotional distress?

​Was it the kiss?

​"Luckily, he’s fine," Soren said, staring at Elian’s lowered head.

​He found Elian to be interesting... a traitor’s son, yet treated better than most royal maids—no, most royalties.

​Not even Rowan got to stay in the Duke’s chambers, but somehow, Elian had made it there, and for that, Soren was interested to find out what he possessed that made Lucien so unconsciously protective of him.

​"Can you walk?" Rowan asked softly.

​"I’m fine, really—"

​"You’re no doctor to decide that," Lucien cut in smoothly.

​"The doctor said I’m fine," Elian said, his gaze still cast down.

​"He’s correct. He is fine... it’s quite a common occurrence, Your Grace. He’s free to do whatever you need him to do," Soren clarified.

​Lucien’s jaw tightened, his brows furrowing as his eyes landed on the way Rowan’s hand was gently patting Elian’s thigh.

​"Come on, then. Your adventure with me has just started," Rowan gently helped Elian up from the bed.

​"I can walk," Elian said, removing his wrist from Rowan’s hold.

​"I can see that. Shall we?" Rowan pointed to the door.

​"Elian," Soren called behind him, clearing his throat.

​"Yes, doctor?" Elian answered, facing Soren.

​"I never got to see you for a checkup... for those bruises," his eyes lowered to Elian’s waist for a second, "did they heal properly? Do you need me to check them out—"

​"For a doctor, that’s a lame question to ask, Soren," Lucien cut him off, his gaze hardened on him. "If he weren’t healed, would he be sitting so comfortably?" he asked, his tone requiring no reply.

​"Apologies, Your Grace. I am just concerned for my patient," Soren clarified.

​My patient? Lucien frowned.

​Why was he suddenly reading too much meaning into things people did or said about Elian?

​Perhaps it was time he came to the doctor with his own arising illness, to stop the spread before it got out of hand.

​He turned to look at Elian but realized he’d already walked out of the infirmary with Rowan. His feet wanted to follow, but his mind commanded him to stay put.

​"Soren," he called reluctantly.

​Soren looked up from the book he was reading, his glasses sitting perfectly on his nose.

​"Something bothering you, Lucien?" Soren asked gently, noting how rigid Lucien’s shoulders were.

​"My marriage with Rowena is not until next season. How do I satisfy my manly urges?" he questioned directly, needing the conversation to be over as quickly as possible.

​Soren arched an interested brow. "I’m honored you trust me enough to ask this—"

​"I require an answer, not a thank-you speech," Lucien snapped.

​Soren chuckled. "Well, then, I’ll give answers," he said, taking off his glasses.

​"Other Dukes, royal men, and dare I say, men in general, take matters into their own hands, Lucien. You are familiar with that, are you not?" Soren questioned.

​Lucien scoffed. "Another lame question from a doctor. It is not enough, Soren. And I do not have plentiful time like the rest of other men. I need a better alternative."

​"Take a concubine?"

​"No."

​"Your maids?"

​"Never."

​"Brothels?"

​"Incriminating."

​Soren sighed, out of options. "I have no other ways to help you, Lucien," he muttered.

​"I know it gets tiring to... you know. But that’s your only choice. Unless..." Soren smirked, his grey eyes sparkling with mischief.

​Lucien frowned, his pulse skipping for a moment as he thought Soren was about to mention the one person who had been on his mind since the conversation began.

​"Unless what?" he asked slowly.

​"Unless you visit her chamber tonight. The King doesn’t have to know, and I trust the Princess will never tell. I must say, it is healthy that a man spills his seed often; keeps us healthy and young, too," Soren smiled.

​Lucien stared at Soren in disappointment. "Then, when the King’s royal midwife inspects the sheet after our supposed consummation night and finds it free of blood stains, will you have more advice to give then?" he questioned calmly.

​Soren paused. "I guess that did not come to mind, Your Grace. Then, your hands, Lucien. Remember, it is wise to spill them and be healthy. Anything else you’d like to..." He trailed off as Lucien abruptly strode out of the infirmary without a word.

​"Oh..." Soren murmured, shaking his head.

​He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath and thinking of a certain blue-eyed young man.

​Speaking of spilling seed, he hadn’t done that for a very long time, either. Perhaps?

​"No," he shut that thought down immediately, shoving his glasses back on his face and resuming his reading.

​It was almost dinner time and Lucien hadn’t seen a sign of Rowan or Elian.

​One more moment and he would order his guards to search the villages and forests. He didn’t trust Rowan when it came to Elian... actually, he didn’t trust anyone at all.

​Elian was rare, and left in the wrong hands, he’d become a very dangerous being. He didn’t want that; that’s why he had to keep him close and monitored at all times.

​Lucien exhaled slowly, the clove smoke curling around his face like a living shadow. His study was quiet, unlike his head, which was filled with loud, unwanted thoughts.

​He could shamefully admit that for the first time in history, he had gotten no work done in a day. Thanks to Elian.

​The silence was starting to eat at him. Feeling unseen by a traitor shouldn’t have mattered, but for the love of God, he had spent all day thinking of a hundred reasons why Elian suddenly chose to treat him like air.

​He was supposed to be okay with this; after all, seeking more from Elian would only lead to a hideous scandal, one he couldn’t afford to have on his name, especially when he had a very important agenda under his sleeve.

​He took another drag from his clove cigarette and stood from his chair, deciding to go up to his chambers. That would be the best decision: going up and acting as if he weren’t bothered at all that Elian was out there somewhere with his wild cousin, probably doing everything he’d never let them do in his presence.

​Sighing, he walked out of his study, staring at Finn, who was standing in front of the door, looking at the wall.

​"What do you sense?" Lucien asked calmly.

​He needed to confirm if he was really troubled or if it was just all in his head.

​Finn looked up, staring at Lucien for a while before speaking. "May I speak freely, Your Grace?" he asked cautiously.

​"I asked you, Finn. I expect honesty," Lucien murmured, taking his clove smoke to his lips, his eyes watching and waiting for his verdict.

​Finn nodded, breathing steadily. "Trouble, Your Grace. You’re trouble, and I sense a deep determination to make a decision that will bring you great difficulties and perhaps... your downfall," he murmured at the end.

​Lucien laughed quietly, a dry, humorless sound. "Well done, Finn," he muttered and walked away, entering the grand hall.

​He had two special young men on his side. One could guess what you felt by simply being near you, and the other could tell everything about you with a single touch and even detect lies... yet, he wasn’t so sure he could redeem himself from his demons with their help.

​He was too deep in his darkness, and as he walked toward the exit, he smiled, knowing full well that he might be making that bad decision sooner rather than later.

​"What have you done, Rowan?!"

​Soren’s deep voice echoed angrily on the veranda, cutting Lucien off from his spiral.

​Something urgent tugged at his chest and he moved in a blur, stepping onto the veranda to look toward the infirmary.

​There, Elian sat on the floor with his head resting on the wall behind him, his jaw clenched in pain as he carefully held his right wrist in his left hand, as if he were holding some golden egg.

​"Quit talking and have his wrist attended," Rowan snapped, shoving his fingers into his hair.

​Without thinking, Lucien moved toward them, hoping for Rowan’s sake that he was wrong about his assumptions.

​"Your Grace?" Soren cleared his throat, glancing at Rowan with dreadful eyes.

​Subtly, Rowan stood in front of Elian, blocking him from Lucien.

​"Cousin, you’re still up—"

​"Out of my way, Rowan," Lucien ordered, deep and dark.

​Taking a deep breath, Rowan moved out of his way, gritting his teeth.

​Slowly, Lucien lowered himself to a squat in front of Elian. His eyes caught on the twigs tangled in Elian’s curls, the tear at his shoulder, and the few scratches on his neck.

​His chest tightened. "What happened?" he questioned calmly.

​But Elian didn’t respond; he kept his eyes shut, his lips pressed tight.

​His eyes suddenly fell to the angry red mark on Elian’s wrist, noting how slightly swollen it was.

​With a low chuckle that sounded nothing like laughter, he rose to his full height, facing Rowan.

​"What did you do to him?" His voice slithered across the veranda, his eyes darkening with murderous rage.