He quickly begins undressing she stares in awe as he works elegantly as though this were as easy as breathing for him. She had seen him wounded, had touched the scars that mapped his history, but she had never seen him like this stripped of his layers, both literal and metaphorical. The damp wool shirt was pulled over his head with a sharp, impatient motion, revealing a torso sculpted by war and responsibility. Old, silvery scars webbed across his ribs and shoulders, pale against the tan of his skin. The fresher, redder wound on his side was a stark contrast, bound tightly with the bandages she had applied herself. Firelight danced over the hard planes of his chest, the taut muscle of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair that led downward. Her eyes widened at his cock, thick and hard and curving up against his belly, a sight both intimidating and compelling in its raw, masculine beauty. He saw her gaze and a flicker of something vulnerability, perhaps, or a fierce pride crossed his face before he closed the distance between them again.
The stone floor was cool beneath her bare feet, the fire at her back a counterpoint of heat. He guided her backward until her shoulders met the rough-hewn wall of the bath chamber, the stone a shock against her fevered skin. He braced one hand beside her head, his body caging hers, not as a prisoner, but as a shelter. pressing into the softness of her belly. His other hand slid from her waist, down over the flare of her hip, his fingers splaying across the outside of her thigh before gripping it, lifting it to hook around his hip. The motion opened her to him, an intimacy that made her gasp against his mouth.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his storm-grey eyes darkened to the color of a tempest at sea. He looked at her, really looked, as if memorizing the flush on her skin, the parted fullness of her lips, the dark fall of her hair against the grey stone.
"Giselle," he said, her name a rough caress. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a slow, deliberate motion that sent shivers through her entire body.
She could feel the hard length of him, a burning brand against her stomach, and a fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly. Her own breath hitched, a soft, wanting sound. Her fingers, still tangled in his damp hair, tightened their grip, urging him closer. He needed no further invitation. His lips found hers again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. The hand on her thigh squeezed, pulling her more firmly against him as he let out a low groan that vibrated through her chest. His hips rolled, the thick, velvety heat of him sliding against her stomach in a slow, torturous rhythm.
The stone wall was rough against her back, a jarring contrast to the soft, insistent pressure of his body. She gasped as he broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. His grip on her thigh tightened, his fingers digging in as he lifted her slightly, angling her hips to align with his. He was right there, hot and hard, and she was soft, open, wet for him. Her head fell back against the stone, a moan escaping her as she felt the blunt head of his cock press against her entrance. He stilled, his entire body rigid with restraint.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a graveled rasp.
Her lashes fluttered open. His face was inches from hers, his expression a raw, open wound of need and reverence. The storm in his eyes had quieted into something profound, something that made her chest ache.
"Tell me," he said, the words ground out between clenched teeth. "Tell me you want this," he breathed, the heat of his words washing over her lips. "Tell me you want me."
Her voice was a thread, but it was strong, unwavering. "I want you." She lifted her free hand to his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. "Victor. Please."
A shudder ran through him, a final release of some last, tenuous control. He surged forward.
The initial breach was a sharp, burning stretch that made her cry out, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his groan muffled against her skin. He held there, buried to the hilt, trembling with the effort of his stillness. He circled her clit as she moaned in pain His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the rough pad of his thumb pressing against her swollen clit with just enough pressure to send pleasure spiraling through her body. The initial sting of his entry had faded into a dull ache, replaced by the growing heat of arousal. She rocked her hips experimentally, and he let out a ragged breath, his hand stilling for a moment before resuming its maddening rhythm.
He hooked her other thigh around his waist pressing even deeper, she cried out in pleasure the overwhelming fullness made her throat go dry. She clung onto his shoulders Victor pulled back slightly and thrust again, slower this time, letting her feel every inch as he filled her. The walls of her sex clamped around him, pulsing with her body's adjustment to his size. His breath came in short, harsh bursts against her neck as he withdrew and thrust again, deeper this time, his hips snapping forward with a possessive urgency. She felt him everywhere the stretch of him inside her, the heat of his skin, the rasp of his stubble against her collarbone as he nuzzled there. The pace he set was relentless, each stroke rubbing against her clit as he pulled back, the friction driving her higher.
It was quick as though he were a blushing virgin testing the waters on his wedding night. His seed spilled into her warm, a desperate and frantic claiming that left them both breathless. Giselle clung to him, her legs still wrapped around his waist, her pulse hammering where he'd marked her neck with kisses. The room spun, the firelight flickering against the stone walls as their breathing slowed.
Victor stayed buried inside her, his forehead pressed to hers, the sweat cooling on his skin. He didn't speak. Neither did she. The silence between them was heavy with everything unsaid, with the consequences of what had just passed.
He shifted his weight, one hand braced against the wall, the other sliding down to cup her jaw.
His thumb traced her lower lip, rough and gentle all at once. "I-I am out of practice, Next time it'll be better." His face flushed with shame.
"You have no need to apologize," Giselle murmured, her fingers tracing the line of his throat. She felt his pulse jump under her touch, still quickened from their exertion.
Victor exhaled, his breath unsteady as he slowly pulled out of her. Giselle gasped at the sudden emptiness, her inner walls fluttering around nothing. He supported her weight, keeping her upright as he carefully set her feet back on the stone floor. His hands lingered on her hips for a moment longer than necessary before releasing her. He turned away, bracing both hands against the wall as he caught his breath.
Giselle watched the play of firelight across his broad back, the sweat-slick muscles still taut with tension. Her mind still mush and wonder at the sensations flooding her nervous system.
"Shall we actually bathe then?" She glanced at the tub full of steaming water she winced internally of all the things she should say that is what left her lips?
Victor turned his head, giving her a quick, private smile that transformed his storm-grey eyes into something warmer. He nodded, stepping aside to allow her access to the bath. The water was still hot, wisps of rosemary steam curling upward as she lowered herself into it. She sighed as the heat surrounded her, easing the aches left by his roughness.
He followed, the water sloshing as he settled opposite her, stretching his legs alongside hers beneath the surface. His knee brushed hers, and he didn't pull away. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the shadow of stubble on his jaw. Suddenly a new wariness filled her chest, did that really happen? Giselle's fingers trailed through the water, circling patterns that never quite settled. The rosemary fragrance seemed too sharp now, almost biting, and the water that had felt so good moments ago now seemed... revealing. The fire crackled in the silence between them.
Victor reached across and caught her wrist, his grip firm but careful. He pulled her hand from the water, turning it palm up. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, tracing the delicate blue veins visible beneath her skin. His eyes met hers across the steam.
"You're thinking too much," he said, the words rough.
She tried to smile, but it felt brittle. "I was just wondering—"
"If this changes anything."
Her eyes snapped up to his, she nodded her dark eyes blown wide. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his thumb still tracing her pulse point. "It does," he said simply. "It changes everything."
Giselle's breath caught, and she had to look away for a moment, unable to hold his gaze. When she finally dared to meet his eyes again, Victor was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite name something vulnerable and fierce all at once.
"I don't regret it," he said, his voice deepening. "Do you?"
She shook her head, almost too quickly. "No." The word came out softer than she intended. She cleared her throat. "No, I don't."
Victor's grip tightened fractionally, then loosened. "Come, I'll wash you."
Victor took the cloth from where it rested on the stone ledge beside the tub, dipping it into the water. He wrung it out carefully, the droplets falling back into the bath like small, hot kisses against the water's surface. He leaned forward, bringing the cloth to her shoulder, his fingers brushing away strands of damp hair as he began to clean her skin. The cloth moved in slow circles, his touch gentle yet firm. She watched his face, his eyes focused on the task at hand, the faint furrow between his brows suggesting concentration. She bit her lip despite the awkwardness she couldn't deny the buttery warmness that filled her chest. His hand moved down her arm, the cloth soaking up the soap with a quiet, almost intimate sound. When he reached her wrist, he paused, his fingers encircling it before moving on. His touch was deliberate, measured, as if he were learning the shape of her through his fingertips.
"You have such small hands," he murmured, almost to himself.
Giselle's breath hitched as he turned her hand palm up, trailing the damp cloth over her inner wrist. His fingers traced the line of her palm, circling her thumb before moving to the delicate bones of her hand. The contrast between his rough, callused fingers and her smooth skin was stark, and yet his touch was gentle. She noticed it the sheer difference in their sizes, especially his hands, the contrast was striking the thick, weathered fingers surrounding her slimmer ones, the work-worn pads of his fingertips tracing the delicate webbing between her fingers. His grip was careful, almost worshipful in its gentleness, despite the strength she felt coiled in his forearms. She watched his hands work, the way the firelight caught the fine blond hairs on his skin, the way his wrists flexed as he moved the cloth. The intimacy of it was overwhelming in a different way from their lovemaking moments ago. It felt more... deliberate.
"Do you know," he said, voice hushed, "that your hands make me think of silk?"
"Silk?" He nodded, continuing his slow, methodical cleaning. "I've never touched real silk before," he admitted, his thumb tracing the line of her lifeline. "But I imagine it would feel like this soft, but strong. Finer than anything I've ever held before."
Giselle's throat felt suddenly tight. She swallowed hard, looking down at where his hands moved over hers. His blunt nails were clipped short, the pads of his fingers rough from years of swordplay and labor. Yet his touch was careful, almost tender.
"You flatter me," she said softly.
Victor shook his head, still focused on his task. "No. I'm just... observing." He paused, meeting her eyes.
Brows furrowing she couldn't handle the tension of the moment, it was far to sweet like the first taste of honey, it made her want to weep. She turned her face away, the heat of the water and the ache between her thighs mingling with something far more dangerous something that felt like the beginnings of affection. She didn't dare let herself examine that too closely.
Victor finished washing her hand and set it carefully back in the water. He didn't ask what she was thinking. He just dipped the cloth again, his movements steady, unhurried. When he shifted to her other arm, his shoulder brushed hers beneath the water. She didn't pull away. She couldn't, not without being obvious about it.
The fire crackled. Somewhere in the manor, a door shut with a soft thud. Water lapped gently against the sides of the tub as Victor washed the other arm, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He seemed content to stay in this moment, to let the simple act of tending to her take the place of words neither of them were ready to speak. The cloth glided over her skin, soothing away the last traces of sweat and arousal, though neither of them had moved to wash the more intimate parts of their bodies just yet.
He set his hands on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there with slow, firm strokes. His thumbs dug into the knotted fibers of her flesh, working out the tension with practiced ease. "You don't have to do all this."
"I know," Victor replied, his rough fingers working deep into her shoulders, the heat of his hands soaking into her skin. "But I want to."
His thumbs pressed into the base of her neck, coaxing out the last remnants of tension. His grip was strong, confident, yet there was a gentleness to it that spoke of something more than just obligation. His chest brushed against her back with the slow rise and fall of his breathing, his skin warm from the steam rising around them. He continued the steady, deliberate pressure, his work-worn hands moving with a quiet devotion that made her stomach clench in something that felt suspiciously like longing.
*****
After the bath the two walked side by side back to the east wing, The stone corridors of Greyhaven were quiet at this hour, only the occasional creak of wooden beams settling and the faint echo of footsteps from the servants' quarters below. Victor walked beside Giselle, neither of them touching, but with a proximity that felt charged, intimate in a different way than before. His arm brushed hers as they rounded a corner, and he slowed, turning toward her.
"Are you cold?" His eyes flickered down to where her damp hair clung to her nape, to the way her bodice clung to her skin after the bath.
"A little," she admitted, though the coolness was nothing compared to the heat that still flickered beneath her skin. He moved closer, his broad frame casting her in shadow. "I should visit Alina." She glanced up at him, "Will you join me?"
"I will," he said, and there was something in his voice not quite a promise, but close. He didn't move to open the door, not yet. "She is... important to you." It wasn't a question.
Giselle's throat tightened. "Yes." She shifted her weight, her bare feet cool against the stone floor. "She is." Victor reached out, his hand hovering for the briefest second before resting on her shoulder. His touch was warm, steady. "Then we will go together." The words settled between them, simple and certain. He let his hand fall away, but the comfort of it remained.
When the door swung open a perplexed Clara stood at the doorway Clara's eyes darted from Giselle to Victor, then back again, confusion flickering across her face. The faint glow of an oil lamp framed her silhouette, and the smell of dried herbs and lavender drifted into the corridor. She held a bundle of fresh bandages in one hand, her other hovering near the hem of her apron as though she had been interrupted mid-task.
"Your Grace," she said, her voice catching slightly. Then, more tentative, "Giselle." It was a quiet acknowledgment, but Giselle felt it all the same.
Victor cleared his throat, his jaw tightening just slightly before he stepped forward. "Clara. We're here to see the patient."
Clara stepped back to allow them entry, her dark eyes following Victor as he moved past her into the dimly lit room. The chamber was small but tidy, with a narrow bed against the far wall and a simple table holding a tallow candle and a steaming bowl of broth. Alina lay beneath a thick wool blanket, her face pale but composed. Her silver hair was damp with sweat, braided loosely to keep it from her face. When she opened her eyes at their approach, the recognition was immediate.
"Your Grace," she breathed, trying to sit up. Victor moved to her side quickly, placing a hand on her shoulder to still her.
"No, don't strain yourself."
Alina coughed as she tried to sit up Giselle rushed to her side, "Alina! that is not necessary if anything-" "I insist," Alina murmured, though her voice was weak. Victor helped ease her up, arranging pillows behind her with surprising gentleness. The fire crackled in the small hearth, casting shifting shadows across his face as he worked. Giselle watched the interaction with a knot in her chest. He looked at Alina with a concern she'd rarely seen him express openly.
"How do you feel?" he asked, once she was settled.
Alina managed a wan smile. "Please, all this fussing is not-"
"You collapsed because of my husband, Alina." Giselle interrupted, voice tight with emotion. "I think he can handle a little concern for you."
Victor's gaze flickered to hers, something unreadable passing between them before he turned back to Alina. "She's right." His tone was gentler than Giselle had ever heard it. "I'm sorry for what you've endured because of me."
Alina blinked, clearly startled by his admission. Her hand fluttered against the blanket, fingers twitching as if uncertain where to settle. "Your Grace, I did what I was bid."
Victor shook his head once, firmly. "No. Not like this." His hand covered hers where it rested, his work-roughened fingers swallowing Alina's delicate ones. The moment hung between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. Giselle watched as Alina's breath hitched, her free hand coming up to cover her mouth for a brief second before lowering again. Victor's thumb moved across Alina's knuckles in a slow, deliberate gesture, his expression carefully controlled.
"Thank you," Alina whispered finally, her voice cracking. Victor nodded once, then withdrew his hand. When he stood, he moved to the table, pouring steaming broth into a wooden bowl with careful hands. The steam rose between him and the other women, curling in the dim light like smoke from a funeral pyre. He set the bowl in her hands.
"Farion, was a.....good man." Alina's fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the bowl of broth, steam rising in curling tendrils. Victor remained beside the bed, his presence a steady, unspoken support. "Farion would have wanted you to be taken care of," he said, his voice quieter now, softer. "To be given every comfort."
Alina's lips pressed together for a moment before she gave a small nod. "He... he never did like seeing anyone suffer." She took a tentative sip of the broth, her gaze never leaving Victor's face. "You honor his memory by showing such kindness."
A shadow passed over Victor's face, a fleeting look of something guilt, perhaps.
Giselle observed them quietly and for just a moment she felt as though every thing might be okay. Perhaps the man she uprooted her life for wasn't all bad. Victor turned to her, his eyes meeting hers across the small room. In the firelight, his grey irises seemed almost luminous, revealing a depth she rarely saw him display. "You should eat," he said. "All of it." His voice was firm, but there was no cruelty in it. Only certainty.
Alina nodded, her grip on the bowl tightening slightly. "Yes, Your Grace."
Giselle stepped closer to Victor, standing near his shoulder. He did not move away. "We should let her rest," she murmured, her hand coming up to rest lightly against his arm. The muscle tensed beneath her touch, but he didn't pull away. He glanced down at her hand briefly, then back to Alina. "Of course."
Together, they stepped toward the door, and Clara gave them a soft nod. The hallway beyond was cooler, the night air seeping through the stone walls. Victor walked beside her, his arm brushing hers as they moved through the corridor. The silence between them felt different now less charged, more contemplative.
They reached the fork where their paths would diverge. To the left, her chambers. To the right, the Duke's study.
He stopped. Turned.
"Are you all right?" His voice was quiet, concerned.
Giselle looked up at him, meeting his gaze.
She nodded, "Alina, she needed to hear those words from you. She's proven to be incredibly stubborn but-" She cracked a small smile, "She's incredibly loyal." Victor's jaw tightened, his storm-grey eyes searching her face. He nodded once, a slow dip of his chin. "She has." He paused, then added, "As are you."
The words hung between them, unexpected in their directness. Giselle felt her breath catch.
She tried to think of something light to say, something that wouldn't betray the sudden tightness in her chest. Before she could, Victor reached out and caught her hand, his rough fingers encircling hers with surprising gentleness. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, the touch warm and deliberate.
"You're freezing," he said.
Giselle opened her mouth, but no words came out. "Goodnight, Victor." She pulled her hand away and turned on her heels, walking quickly down the corridor toward her chambers. The cold stone floor chilled her feet, and she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ignore the persistent ache in her chest.
Victor watched her go, his hand still outstretched where she had pulled away. He stood there for a long moment, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering torchlight, before turning and walking in the opposite direction. His footsteps echoed through the empty hall, each step deliberate and heavy, the sound fading as he disappeared around the corner.
******
The next few days passed quietly Giselle spent most of her time with Clara and Alina she was glad to have been able to help her. In a short time their relationship had deepened significantly, "Have you thought of retiring?" Giselle asked Alina as she sipped her broth.
Alina's eyes widened slightly, her spoon pausing midway to her mouth. She set the bowl down with careful precision. "Retire? From the smithy?" Her voice had a tremor of disbelief.
Clara leaned forward from where she was sorting herbs at the table. "She's right. You work too hard, Alina. Look at yourself half-starved from pushing yourself beyond reason." She glared meaningfully at Clara, who gave a small shrug in return.
Alina's fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket. "But what would I do? The smithy... it's all I have left of Farion."
The name hung heavy in the air. Giselle sighed, "I guess I have no right to press I've never experienced a love you both shared."
Alina's gaze drifted to the hearth, where the fire crackled and danced, casting flickering shadows across the walls. "Love is funny like that," she murmured, absently tracing the rim of her empty broth bowl. "It doesn't leave you when the person is gone."
Clara sniffed, busying herself with tying up a bundle of dried lavender. "That's true. But it doesn't mean you have to bleed yourself dry either."
Alina's lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue. Instead, she glanced down at her hands, roughened from years of hammering iron, her skin cracked and dry.
Giselle peered over her ledger, She watched Alina's profile for a long moment, noting the way the firelight gilded her silver hair, how she still wore her late husband's ring on her left hand. She wondered if Victor would ever allow such a thing if his memory would be so cherished, so tenderly held. The thought caught her off guard, and she forced her attention back to the ledger, to the neat columns of figures. Clara cleared her throat. "You're looking at her like she's a ghost already."
Giselle stiffened, the quill scratching too loudly as she made a note. "I'm not." But she knew she was. Clara pressed a little more, "I was surprised to see the both of you together last night, last we spoke I thought you were going to- " Giselle's pen paused mid-stroke, her gaze flickering up from the ledger. She saw the knowing glint in Clara's eyes and felt a blush creep up her neck. "Last night was... complicated," she admitted, setting the quill down with deliberate care.
Alina watched the exchange with quiet interest, her thin fingers idly plucking at the edge of her blanket. "Complicated how?" she asked, her voice still weak but gaining strength.
Clara leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Well, the Duke was rather attentive. More than I've ever seen him." She paused, studying Giselle's face. "You looked... different. Softer."
Giselle cleared her throat, "I don't know what you mean." Clara snorted. "Oh please. The way he was with you... and then with Alina? It wasn't... what he usually does."
"Usually?" Alina's brows lifted slightly. "What does he usually do?"
Giselle felt suddenly protective. "Nothing. He—" She hesitated, trying to find the right words. "He was simply being kind. He isn't some monster."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "He's not, but he's not been particularly warm before either."
Alina's eyes flickered between them. "You care for him." It wasn't a question.
The air felt heavier in Giselle's lungs. She glared at Clara her attendant's uncharacteristic lax attitude gnawed at her nerves, "Shouldn't a wife care for her husband?" she snapped.
Clara's face softened slightly. "Of course she should." She paused, her voice gentler. "But not every wife gets to. You do."
Giselle didn't respond immediately. Her fingers tightened around the quill. Across from her, Alina watched with quiet understanding, her head tilting slightly.
"I never expected to," Giselle finally said, the words feeling strange on her tongue. "To feel anything like this."
Clara reached across and squeezed her wrist. "Sometimes the things we don't expect are the most important." Giselle opened her mouth to retort but there was a knock on the door Clara rose quickly and opened it, stepping aside to reveal Thornwell standing in the threshold, he glanced briefly at Clara before his gaze settled on Giselle, his grey eyes inscrutable.
"Your Grace, some of the deliveries for the banquet have arrived."
Giselle silently thanked his interruption for a small miracle, she snapped he ledger shut, "Perfect." She stood and smoothed her skirts, offering Alina a brief smile. "You rest. I'll check on you later." Alina nodded, looking drained but peaceful.
Thornwell stepped aside as Giselle emerged into the hallway, his gaze flickering over her with something unreadable in his expression. "I wasn't sure if you'd be awake," he said, the words almost hesitant.
Giselle walked beside him, hands clasped in front of her. "Of course I am. It's my responsibility." She glanced at him, noting the slight tightness around his eyes. "Is everything all right?"
Thornwell nodded, but the motion seemed forced. "Yes." The two walked in silence to the banquet hall, when the doors opened the hall was slowly transforming in preparation for the neighboring nobles visit.
Banners hung along the walls, tapestries draped over long tables, and servants were placing gilded plates in precise formation. The Duke himself stood in the center of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as he inspected the proceedings. When Giselle and Thornwell entered, he turned his head slightly.
His grey eyes caught the light from the high windows, cold and assessing as ever, but something shifted across his face as he saw her. A fractional softening around his mouth, the ghost of a smile that vanished before she could be certain it had been there at all.
Victor approached, his boots clicking against the stone floor, each step deliberate and measured. Giselle felt his pulse quicken, he hadn't bothered coming here before so why now? Giselle met him halfway, near the center of the hall where the long banquet table was being dressed with silverware and polished goblets. The space between them felt charged, filled with unspoken words and moments still too fragile to name.
"You came sooner than expected," Victor said, his voice low.
"I didn't realize there was an expected time." Giselle kept her hands clasped together, though she noticed one had crept to rest against the opposite wrist—a nervous habit she'd had since childhood.
Victor's gaze followed the motion. "There isn't. I just thought..." He stopped himself, shook his head slightly. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters." The words slipped out before she could catch them. Giselle felt her cheeks warm at her own boldness. Victor's brows rose slightly, and he leaned in just enough that the others in the hall faded into the background. He smelled of leather and pine and the clean, cold air outside.
"I was hoping you would," he said quietly. "I thought you might want to see it... together." He gestured vaguely around the hall.
Giselle looked up at him, her throat tight. This wasn't the cold stranger from their first weeks together. This wasn't the man who had once measured her worth in gold and land. This was someone else-someone whose words made her heart pound.
"I do," she said simply.
Victor's shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. Giselle dragged her eyes across the hall she quietly took a turn about The great hall of Greyhaven was impressive in its size and cold grandeur, but something new had been added. It wasn't just the fresh banners or the polished silver; it was in the way the light from the tall windows caught the edges of the tablecloths, how the candlelight pooled warmly on the floor. She could almost imagine it filled with laughing guests, wine flowing, music playing life breathing into these stones that had always seemed so silent.
Victor stood beside her, hands now loosely clasped behind his back, watching her rather than the hall. "It's different," he observed.
Giselle nodded. "It's not just a room anymore."
Something almost like pride flickered across his features. She glanced at him, "Perhaps good enough to impress our soon to visit esteemed guests?"
Victor's lips twitched. "You've always had a way with words, Giselle."
"And you with silence," she retorted, but with a gentleness that wasn't there before. She moved toward the dais where his chair stood, fingers trailing along the back of it. The wood was smooth from decades of use, carved with the Greyhaven crest an eagle with outstretched wings.
Victor followed her, watching as she studied the chair. "It belonged to my father."
Giselle turned back to him. "And your grandfather?"
"Yes." A beat passed. "And his father before him."
The significance of that line weighed heavily in the space between them. "How does a mercenary family acquire a crest?" She mumbled louder than expected.
The words were bold, but curiosity drove them, not insult. Victor's eyes widened slightly, his mouth quirking upward at the corner. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was something close.
"Through conquest," he said simply. "And time." He moved closer, near enough that his presence radiated. "Not all families can trace their lineage back generations like yours, Giselle. Some have to earn their legacy."
She turned to him once more, eyeing him before calling out for Thornwell, "Where is the shipment that arrived?"
Thornwell paused his supervision of the servants, turning to her with a slight incline of his head. "In the side chamber, Your Grace." He gestured toward a doorway off the main hall.
Victor moved past her toward the indicated chamber, his cloak swirling slightly. Giselle followed, her pulse quickening as they stepped into a smaller, darker room. Stacks of crates and barrels lined the walls, their lids nailed shut with the Greyhaven insignia stamped upon them.