Chapter 35: Of Silk, Scent, and Silent Triumphs

The door to Jacinta’s chambers closed with a decisive click after Lyria and Kyia left.

For several heartbeats afterward, she stood where she was, unmoving.

Then she began to pace.

The carpet beneath her slippers was woven in pale ivory and gold thread, soft enough to muffle the sharp rhythm of her steps. The walls were lined with mirrored panels and embroidered hangings of moonlit gardens and silver beasts. It was a room designed to soothe, to flatter, to cradle a young woman in luxury and certainty.

None of it soothed her now.

She lifted her hand and pressed the tip of her forefinger between her teeth, biting down without noticing the sting. Her other hand remained clenched at her side.

She turned sharply.

Then turned again.

Her skirts whispered around her ankles.

It was infuriating.

It was always infuriating.

No matter what she did, no matter how carefully she arranged the humiliation, no matter how pointed her instructions or how cruelly they were delivered, Lyria never quite broke the way Jacinta wanted her to.

The girl bent.

She obeyed.

She suffered.

And yet, somehow, amidst all that, she endured.

Jacinta’s teeth pressed harder against her finger.

She hated it.

She hated how Lyria could look at her with that soft, quiet stillness. As though Jacinta’s words did not burrow into her skin and poison her blood. As though every cutting order were no more than weather to be endured.

She hated how Lyria still found ways—small but infuriating ones—to disobey.

To slip past the shape Jacinta tried to force her into.

She hated Lyria. She hated everything about her.

The way she carried her misery like something private and precious. The way she never broke, no matter how much Jacinta tried. The way Lyria still existed.

Jacinta lowered her hand slowly and wiped her finger against the silk of her sleeve.

"No," she murmured under her breath.

She would not allow this.

With sudden resolve, Jacinta turned on her heel and strode for the door.

If Lyria was to be made to understand her place—truly understand it—then she would witness what Jacinta was.

She would see it.

She would be made to look upon everything that Jacinta could command.

Everything that bent for her.

Everything that gathered at her feet because the world itself had been built to offer it.

She would see the suitors.

She would see the attention they bestowed on Jacinta. The smiles in her direction, the way they would revere her.

The careful competition of powerful men who had crossed half the kingdom for the privilege of standing beneath Jacinta’s gaze.

She would see that Jacinta could have anything she desired.

And Lyria—

Lyria would continue to beg. She would be in the shadows where she deserved to be, watching Jacinta.

A servant opened the door immediately as Jacinta reached it; she swept past without so much as a glance.

Her steps carried her swiftly along the private corridor reserved for the royal family. Sunlight filtered in through high arched windows. Two maids bowed as she passed. A footman flattened himself discreetly against the wall.

She did not slow, nor did she care. She headed straight for her mother’s chambers.

The guards stationed outside the Queen’s rooms snapped to attention as she approached.

Jacinta halted sharply before them.

"Is my mother in?" she demanded.

The two guards exchanged a brief glance.

Then one of them bowed.

"Your Highness... Her Majesty is not within her chambers at present."

Jacinta’s temper flared instantly.

"And you thought it acceptable," she snapped, "not to inform me of that?"

Both guards bowed lower at once.

"Our apologies, Your Highness."

Jacinta scoffed.

Their submission pleased her only faintly.

She drew in a breath and closed her eyes.

She tilted her head.

The corridor was crowded with layered scents: polish, parchment, wax, perfume, wool, stone warmed by sunlight. Beneath it all, however, ran something familiar.

It was refined and cool. Lavender and white tea.

A slow smile curved Jacinta’s mouth.

She followed the scent without hesitation.

As she moved, she could not help the soft, satisfied thought that brushed her mind.

Lyria would never be able to do this. She was wolfless, after all. Half-blind to a world Jacinta moved through as effortlessly as breath.

Pathetic.

Jacinta murmured the word beneath her breath as she turned the corner.

She followed the trail through the eastern wing of the palace, past tall windows and carved archways, until she reached the Queen’s withdrawing room.

The small parlour was reserved for private audiences, informal receptions, and the quieter rituals of noble life. It was intimate by royal standards—warmly lit, paneled in pale wood, with embroidered sofas arranged around a low tea table and a narrow hearth that glowed faintly even in daylight.

Jacinta did not pause to announce herself.

She pushed open the door immediately.

"Mother!" she cried, her voice ringing brightly through the room.

The Queen, seated near the tall window with a porcelain teacup lifted delicately in one hand, turned at once.

Her brows drew together.

"Jacinta."

She lowered her cup and placed it carefully upon its saucer.

"I beg your pardon," the Queen said calmly, turning her head slightly. "Your Grace, forgive the interruption."

The man seated opposite her inclined his head with practiced grace.

Jacinta barely spared him a glance.

She crossed the room in quick, agitated strides and dropped to her knees beside her mother’s chair, clutching at the silk of the Queen’s gown.

"Mama," she cried, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing, "you must seek justice for me."

The Queen stiffened—only slightly.

Then her hand came to rest upon Jacinta’s hair.

"Compose yourself," she said quietly.

Jacinta shook her head and clutched tighter.

"It is not fair," she said breathlessly. "It is not fair what she is permitted to do to me."

The Queen’s fingers tightened faintly in Jacinta’s curls.

Her gaze flicked—very briefly—toward the gentleman seated across from her.

"My dear," she said gently, "you must remember that there is company present."

Jacinta lifted her head at last.

Her eyes followed her mother’s glance and then she saw him.

"Oh," she said faintly. "It is you."

The man’s posture remained perfectly composed. His blue gaze lifted to meet hers.

"It is," Lucian told her.

Jacinta rose slowly to her feet. She smoothed her skirts with deliberate care.

She drew herself upright and tilted her head.

"Truly," she said coolly, "of all people..."

She shook her head softly. "You were absent when breakfast was first served," she said lightly.

"I arrived later than expected," he replied calmly.

Jacinta gave a delicate scoff.

"How very discourteous of you."

"As my cousin," Jacinta continued smoothly, "I expected better from you."

Lucian just stared at her.

"You should not neglect your own blood so easily," Jacinta added.

With infuriating composure, Lucian raised a single, perfect eyebrow.

"And how," he asked mildly, "have I neglected you, exactly?"