A Widow's Desperation

Leroy…

A soundless scoff slipped from Lorraine's lips as she watched her husband, the ever-chivalrous knight, shield his first love with a devotion that pierced her heart.

Her icy-blue eyes blazed with a fury that could rival a storm, and with a sharp, desperate tug, she tore her hand from his grasp. Leroy's fingers tightened, resisting, as though losing her would unravel him. But she yanked harder, her shoulder screaming with the effort, until he relented.

His hand fell away, and beneath his golden mask, his expression remained an enigma, a silent fortress she couldn't breach. Lorraine's gaze darted to Elyse, who sauntered forward, her lips curling into a triumphant smile. She knew Elyse would revel in this victory.

After all, she had him… Leroy, a towering mountain of support. The same man who had stood by while Lord Cassian's lecherous hands roamed Lorraine's body now guarded Elyse as if she were fragile porcelain.

Tears pricked Lorraine's eyes, hot and bitter. What would come next? Would Leroy pin her arms so Elyse could strike her? She could already hear Elyse's imperious demand, see the smug tilt of her head. And Leroy… what would he do? Obey?

She couldn't bear to find out. Retreating a step, she flinched as Elyse lunged, hands outstretched to seize her. She was not going to give up without a fight. She stepped forward with her hand raised.

But before those fingers could close the distance, Leroy's broad frame intercepted, a wall of muscle and resolve. Elyse stumbled, her body colliding with his chest, and Lorraine's heart twisted as the dagger of betrayal sank deeper. Her fingers trembled. She couldn't watch anymore.

Grasping Emma's small hand, she fled, her footsteps echoing down the dimly lit hallway. She aimed for the estate's rear, where the overgrown garden sprawled in neglect. There, by her mother's grave, she could hide among the weeds and memories, where no one would seek her out in that forsaken place.

-----

Behind her, Elyse recovered, her composure fraying. "How dare that mon—" She choked back the word "mongrel," swallowing it with a forced cough. Grace was her weapon now; she needed to wield it before her future husband.

Clutching Leroy's cloak, she softened her voice to a delicate tremble. "I don't understand what's gotten into her. Lately, she's been so… violent. She was always rough around the edges, but this-this is something else entirely."

Leroy's hands found her shoulders, firm yet controlled, pushing her back with a strength that brooked no argument. His masked face betrayed nothing, but Elyse met his shadowed gaze, searching for a flicker of warmth. He was striking, in his enigmatic way, and passionate too, if the faint marks on Lorraine's skin were any clue. She could endure him, perhaps even grow to crave him.

"Your duty lies not in your father's shadow, but in the well-being of your sons," Leroy said, his tone even as he stepped away, widening the chasm between them.

Elyse's fingers tightened on his arm, desperation clawing at her pride. "I don't want his shadow—I never have. That's why I…" Her voice fractured as she moved to block his path. She'd intended to make him plead for her, not the reverse, yet here she was, unraveling.

Once a Duchess, wed to Duke Zevran Dravenholt, the Emperor's brother, she refused to fade into widowhood's obscurity. She deserved more, to be a Princess, a Queen, certainly not this stagnant limbo.

The crown prince of Vaeloria was a child, and the Emperor's throne was beyond her reach. But Leroy was another story. His fame had surged after his battlefield triumphs. Whispers claimed the Emperor favored him to reclaim Kaltharion's throne.

She could be his queen. She should be his queen. Who else was fit to be the queen? Lorraine was unfit, a mere shadow beside Elyse's radiance.

Leroy was her only ladder upward. What else was there? That effeminate prince? Never. She had her pride. And Leroy cared for her, for her sons. Didn't he?

"All I ever wanted was to escape this house," she whispered, her voice quivering with rehearsed fragility. "But fate—cruel, vengeful fate—dragged me back." She brushed a tear from her cheek, a calculated gesture. "I should have taken your hand when you offered it. I thought I was honoring my father, and now look at me…" Her words broke, a performance honed to perfection.

Leroy stood motionless, his masked face an unyielding barrier. The sliver of his mouth visible beneath it offered no hint of his thoughts. Elyse's pulse quickened. She couldn't see his eyes, lost in the mask's shadow, but his presence, his tall, magnetic presence, drew her in.

Before she could stop herself, her hand drifted to his mask, fingertips brushing its cool, gleaming surface. She needed to see him, to uncover the man beneath. How had she never glimpsed his face?

Her touch lingered, tender yet bold, her heart racing with anticipation. Was his skin smooth or scarred? How warm would he feel? His charisma was undeniable, a pull she couldn't resist. She deserved him, she needed him.

Rising on her toes, she leaned closer, chasing his scent, his essence. She craved him. And although it was against what she was taught, she knew he wouldn't resist.

"This desperation doesn't suit you, Lady Elyse," Leroy said, his voice cutting through her like a winter gust. "You're a mother, not a courtesan. Start acting like it."

The rebuke struck her like a physical blow, freezing her mid-motion. She staggered back, breath hitching, fingers trembling.

How dare he? She, a duchess, reduced to… this?

Humiliation seared her as Leroy's gaze shifted toward the hallway where Lorraine had vanished. Elyse's pride splintered, rage surging in its place.

"You speak to me as though I'm filth beneath your boot," she hissed, her voice shaking, "while you pretend that mongrel in your bed is crown-born! Don't act deaf to the whispers, Your Highness. Your steward shares more than ledgers with her, and now that chamber-darling prince dares ask her to dance before the entire court. What happens behind closed doors, I wonder? They say she visits the old herbalist in the woods—surely you've heard. Or is that a secret you keep to yourself?"

Leroy stilled, his frame rigid as stone. Elyse clutched her chest, her breathing ragged. The herbalist rumor, a veiled jab at abortion, was a fabrication, a venomous dart she'd flung to wound him. She'd say anything, do anything, to claim him. He was meant to be hers. He had asked for her hand in marriage.

If only… If only she didn't think he'd die in the war, she'd have married him. Who knew he'd turn out to be so desirable?

Slowly, Leroy turned, the moonlight glinting off his golden mask, the emerald pin in his braided hair flashing like a distant star. A deathly aura radiated from him, chilling the air.

Elyse's heart faltered.