Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 290: The One Who Loved Her

No surprise... his plan worked. She wanted more of his warmth, to close the distance until not even air could pass between them. Every fiber of her being ached for him.

"My plan?" she asked, smiling faintly as her fingertip traced the curve of his lips. "You sound as if you expect me to start a rebellion."

"Knowing you," he said with a quiet chuckle, his breath brushing against her mouth, "I wouldn’t rule it out."

She smirked, but the teasing faded as quickly as it came. "It’s just a village, Leroy. People who might remember the old kingdom. I wanted to see if they still... believed."

"Believed?" he asked softly. "In the lore of the dragon?"

"In us," she whispered.

She wanted him to understand, that she still believed in the prophecies, even if he tried to bury them and pretend they did not exist. She must say, the oracle had been leaving her alone these days and she was a lot relaxed in that aspect, but being away from the capital didn’t change who they were. She didn’t think that, no matter how many years they stayed here, would change that.

His hand tightened slightly around her waist, the movement so small it might have gone unnoticed, except that she felt it, the faint tremor behind his restraint.

Lorraine reached up, brushing a stray lock from his face. "It’s what I’ve told you before," she murmured. "We are giving Kaltharion its river back. You don’t have to be afraid of what’s coming."

Leroy exhaled slowly, a sigh weighted with everything he would not say. "It’s not myself I’m afraid for."

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence between them already knew what he meant.

And yet, she couldn’t help wondering... where did that fear come from?

She could feel it, coiled inside him like a secret oath. He believed that her life was in danger if he ever surrendered to the prophecy. What other reason could there be for him, a man who bled for his people, who once carried their hopes like a crown, to turn from his birthright, to forsake the principles he’d lived by, the men who’d followed him, the glory that was his by every measure?

What reason, except her?

This man... this man would let the world burn to keep her warm. That was how he loved.

And though she loved him for it, she knew, deep down, that it would destroy him, destroy his soul.

"I’ll tell you what you’re going to do..." he murmured, climbing over her, slipping easily between her legs.

Lorraine’s heart stumbled. There he was, close enough to steal her breath. She twisted his braid between her fingers and smirked. "What am I going to do, Your Majesty?" she asked, one brow raised, her gaze drifting from his eyes... to his lips... and back again to his eyes.

"Hmm..." he breathed. His warm breath brushed her mouth, and her eyes fluttered shut. He pressed his lips to her cheek, his voice low and deliberate. "You’re going to find contact with Sylvia and the others. Knowing you, your subordinates have the means to make it happen. And then..." His breath fell against her ear, deep and molten. Lorraine clutched the sheets beside her. "You’ll manipulate the kingdom, as you’ve always done."

Her throat went dry. The way he said it... half devotion, half surrender... it made her dizzy.

"Lazira..."

Her name in his voice was sin itself, a vibration that melted through her.

"He shouldn’t have burned my mansion..." she whispered, her eyes still closed, her pulse trembling against his lips.

When she finally looked up, his amber eyes were already on her, burning through every pretense. It still startled her sometimes, the new color of his gaze, the dragon’s inheritance, but perhaps it suited him better. It felt like she was finally seeing his true form.

The dragon’s heir.

"Will you stop me?" she asked.

He scoffed, quietly, mockingly. She couldn’t tell who he was mocking. Her...? Or himself?

Lorraine lifted her head and brushed her lips against his. He caught her by the back of the head, pressing his mouth to her chin. A sigh escaped her, unbidden. Her fingers curled in the fabric at his back, clinging to him.

"I shall not mock myself by thinking I have the ability to stop you," he murmured.

She barely heard the words over the pounding of her pulse.

His lips trailed down her throat, pausing at the hollow between her collarbones. "Here I thought I married the Grand Duke’s broken daughter... someone who needed saving," he said, his smile brushing against her skin.

Lorraine tilted her head, eyes heavy. "And you got me instead," she whispered, "the serpentine woman who’d go to any extremes."

"For me," Leroy replied instantly. His fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her meet his gaze.

And she did.

He didn’t look like a man who regretted what she had become. He looked like a man who loved it. Who loved her, sharp edges and all.

Her lips curved into a slow smile. This could be him giving permission, right? She knew exactly what she had to do.

And all that’s left is...

The fire had burned low, its glow slipping over their skin in trembling gold. Lorraine felt his breath against her cheek, uneven, reverent, and passionate, and the faint tremor of his heartbeat through the space between them. He looked at her as if the world had narrowed to this single moment, as if she was both his crown and his ruin.

Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, the glowing mark on his cheek, the soft warmth of his lips when he leaned closer. The air between them thickened, heavy with the kind of silence that says everything words can’t. His hand found hers, and she felt his pulse under his skin, quick and fierce and human as his fingers interlocked with hers.

"Leroy," she whispered. It was a plea, a prayer, and a promise.

He kissed her then, slowly, like a man tasting something he’d been starving for. The world outside vanished. Only the flicker of candlelight, the sound of snow whispering against the windows, and the wild, unstoppable rhythm of their hearts remained.

His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling, their laughter barely a ghost between them. There was tenderness in his touch, but also a quiet desperation, the ache of two souls who had fought too hard, lost too much, and somehow still found each other.

And as the candles melted into pools of light, they forgot the storm outside, the prophecies, the kingdoms. There was only warmth, and the steady thrum of life beneath their joined hands; a heartbeat that promised, for this night at least, they were safe.