Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 222: The Question of the Bruise

Lyria’s POV

I did not expect that Lucian, of all people, would notice the swelling upon my face.

Duke Thorncrest had not noticed it during our date the previous day. Not once. The cosmetics had been applied with sufficient care, and I had managed to keep my expressions composed enough that no one would think to look closer. I had smiled when expected to smile. I had laughed when the moment called for it. I had hidden the tenderness beneath the powder and cream, and Duke Thorncrest had seen nothing amiss.

The maids had done their work well.

And yet here was Lucian, his cold blue eyes fixed upon my cheekbone, his jaw tight with an anger I had not anticipated. He had not been searching for the bruise. He had merely reached toward me to wipe away the frosting upon my cheek—a small, almost playful gesture—and then he had stopped.

His thumb had brushed across my skin once, then twice, wiping away the powder that concealed what lay beneath.

And now he knew.

”Who hurt you?”

His voice cut through my thoughts before I could complete them. It was low and controlled, yet there was something beneath it—something that suggested he was restraining himself from something far less measured. His hand still rested against my face.

I swallowed.

The air between us felt heavier than it had only moments earlier. The warmth of the room, the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the distant murmur of the palace beyond the walls—all of it seemed to fade, leaving only the two of us and the question suspended between us.

”Remove y-your h-hand,” I said firmly.

Lucian did not move.

”Not until you answer me,” he replied.

I looked directly into his eyes then, meeting that cold blue gaze with as much steadiness as I could summon. My heart was beating far faster than I wished it to.

”I will n-not answer,” I said carefully, ”until you t-treat me with the same respect I have s-shown you. Remove your h-hand, Your Grace.”

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, I believed he might refuse. His fingers remained where they were, close to the bruise hidden beneath the cosmetics he had unknowingly disturbed.

And so I waited.

The silence stretched between us, taut and uncomfortable, and for a time I truly thought he would not listen.

But then, slowly, he lowered his hand.

”I do treat you with respect,” he said, his voice quieter now. ”Do not mistake that.”

”Then you w-would listen to me,” I replied, ”rather than becoming angry over s-something like this.”

”Something like this?” He stared at me, his blue eyes widening slightly. ”Why should I not be angry that someone has hurt you? There is swelling upon your cheek. The skin beneath the cosmetics is still red. If I had not touched your face—if I had not disturbed the powder—I would never have noticed it at all.”

He paused, his voice dropping lower.

”Who would dare to hurt you?”

I looked at him steadily.

”Perhaps t-that is a question you ought to ask yourself,” I said softly. ”N-not me.”

His brow furrowed.

”What is that supposed to mean?”

”It means,” I said carefully, ”that you are n-not foolish. Nor are you unobservant. You understand the politics of this palace as w-well as anyone. Perhaps better than most.”

I held his gaze.

”Ask yourself who possesses both the means and the motive to harm me in such a manner. Ask yourself who would not hesitate.”

Lucian’s expression shifted then.

Something flickered across his features—recognition, perhaps, or the slow dawning of an understanding he did not wish to acknowledge aloud. His jaw tightened once more, and his hands curled into loose fists at his sides.

I lowered the small tart I had been holding onto the plate before me. The pastry had grown cold in my fingers, and I found I no longer possessed any appetite for it.

”I a-am quite full,” I said quietly. ”Thank you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

”You are full,” he repeated slowly, ”because I asked who hurt you?”

”That is p-part of it,” I admitted. ”But sometimes it is b-better not to see what one wishes to see. Sometimes it is wiser to leave certain things untouched.”

”You are avoiding the question.”

”I am answering it as b-best I can.”

”That is not an answer.”

”It is the o-only one you shall receive.”

He stared at me for a long moment. The silence between us thickened until it felt almost tangible.

”At least tell me who it was,” he said at last. ”If you will not explain how it happened, then at least tell me who.”

”Again,” I said softly, ”that is a q-question you o-ought to ask yourself. You already know the answer. Y-you should not require m-me to speak it aloud.”

I rose then.

I smoothed my skirts carefully before looking down at him. He remained seated, his blue eyes fixed upon my face, his hands resting loosely upon his knees though tension still lingered visibly within his posture.

”Contrary to what you b-believe,” I said, ”this date h-has now come to an end. I m-must take my leave, as I have other matters r-requiring my a-attention.”

Lucian did not rise immediately.

”Why are you so calm about this?” he asked quietly.

I tilted my head slightly.

”Why should I m-make a fuss,” I replied, ”when I w-would not t-truly be heard?”

”I hear you,” he said at once.

I paused.

Then I chuckled softly.

The sound held little humour within it.

”When I speak of being heard,” I said, ”I do not refer m-merely to ears, Your Grace. It is m-more than that.”

I let the words settle between us before continuing.

”You are an intelligent man. You know this already. Do not pretend otherwise.”

He opened his mouth to speak, yet no words emerged.

I bowed then, making it clear the conversation had concluded and that I had no wish to continue it further.

”Good day, Your G-Grace.”

And with that, I turned and walked toward the door.

Behind me, I heard him exhale—a long breath weighted with either frustration or resignation. I could not determine which.

He did not call after me and for that, I was grateful.