The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 139: We Will Stay

The voice of the abyss had barely dissolved into the night when another, far more substantial, fractured the silence of the terrace. "Aria?"

Warm. Solid, and indisputably real.

Ilaria froze, her pulse a frantic drum against her ribs. Her gaze snapped to her wrist, where a thin, jagged line of crimson welled against her pale skin.

The bead of blood caught the lantern light, gleaming like a rogue garnet, before she frantically smoothed the silk of her glove back over the wound. The fabric snagged momentarily against the dampness, a stinging reminder of the shadow’s touch, before sliding into place to hide the evidence.

When she turned, Levan was framed in the open doorway. He held the glass panel ajar, the distant, muffled strains of a waltz spilling out behind him like an afterthought. The interior gold of the ballroom silhouetted his broad shoulders, casting his features into sharp, predatory relief against the winter dark.

His eyes, keen and uncompromising, found her instantly. They roamed over her face with a clinical intensity, searching for a fracture in her composure that he couldn’t yet define.

"Lady Stormlow mentioned you’d retreated," he said, his voice a low, melodic resonance that seemed to physically push back the lingering chill. "Something about a rebellious clasp and a need for air."

He stepped onto the stone, the heavy door clicking shut behind him to seal out the noise of the court. "I thought I should make sure the cold had not stolen my wife entirely."

The dry humor did not reach his expression. He came to a halt a few paces off, studying her with the same piercing focus he used to dismantle a failing war room strategy.

"Did the clasp behave?" he asked.

Ilaria opened her mouth to answer, but her voice died in her throat. The ghost of the Blithe’s presence still crawled beneath her skin, a layer of rime that refused to melt. The wind had returned to a gentle, innocent breeze, but her hands betrayed her, trembling with a violence she could not suppress.

Levan’s brow knit into a sharp furrow as he tracked the movement. "Aria." He bridged the distance in two strides. "You’re shaking."

Ilaria laced her fingers together, burying them in the heavy silk of her skirts, but the tremors only became more pronounced.

"I’m alright," she whispered.

The lie tasted like ash. Levan reached out, his gloved fingers encircling her wrist with a firm, grounding pressure. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through her arm, and instinctively, Ilaria flinched.

Levan’s eyes narrowed into slits.

He was a man who lived by the blade; he did not miss a flinch, no matter how minute. His grip loosened immediately, though he did not relinquish his hold. Instead, his thumb traced the inner curve of her wrist, an assessing, protective gesture that made her heart ache.

"Did Seraphine say something to you?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register.

Ilaria blinked, the name grounding her. To him, the narrative was simple: a social ambush, a sharp-tongued Duchess, and a wife left rattled in the aftermath.

Levan’s jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line. "I should have seen it. Dorovians rarely resist the opportunity to provoke a spectacle." He glanced briefly toward the ballroom, a flash of something lethal crossing his face. "Don’t worry, she will not be a concern for the remainder of the night."

Ilaria was barely listening. Her attention was anchored to the silk covering her skin. Slowly, she eased her arm from his grasp and peeled back the edge of her glove. She expected the sting. She expected the blood. But as the lantern light hit her skin, she found only smooth, unmarred ivory.

There was no cut. No sigil. No trace of the violet-tinged nightmare that had just occupied the space. It had vanished the moment he arrived, just as it always did, as if the darkness itself could not withstand the sheer gravity of his presence.

A ragged breath escaped her, a volatile mix of relief and haunting confusion. When she looked up, Levan was hovering close, his concern a tangible weight in the air.

"Aria?" He spoke her name like a prayer and a command. He was not accustomed to her silence, it unsettled him far more than her chatter ever could. "What happened out here?"

Ilaria searched his face, the steady dark of his eyes, the familiar set of his mouth, the quiet power that made the night feel safe again. The Blithe’s mocking whisper echoed one last time: People like you tend to break much later.

The fear she had been stifling surged upward, heavy and suffocating. Without thinking, her fingers knotted into the fine wool of his coat. "Husband..."

She stepped into his space, burying her face against the silver embroidery of his chest.

Levan stiffened, his breath hitching in surprise at the suddenness of the embrace. Her affection was usually a sunburst, bright and spontaneous, but this was different. This was a frantic anchoring.

His arms wound around her a second later, one hand splaying flat against her back to pull her flush against him, the other cradling her shoulder. He lowered his chin, his voice a soft vibration against her temple. "Did she truly upset you so much?"

Ilaria shook her head against the steady, thumping rhythm of his heart. She did not pull away, letting his warmth seep through her layers of silk until the memory of the red sea began to fade.

The silence of the terrace deepened, no longer predatory, but heavy with the unspoken weight of her distress. Levan shifted, his grip tightening as if he could physically shield her from whatever ghosts were still haunting the periphery of her vision.

"Look at me," he murmured, his hand sliding from her shoulder to cup the side of her face. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheek, his skin warm and grounding. "Your heart is racing, and you’re as pale as the snow. If the court has become too much, we are leaving."

Ilaria leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering shut. The temptation was a physical pull. She could imagine the carriage ride back in the dark, the sanctuary of their rooms, the end of the performance. And it was so tempting. She could not believe she was thinking of retreating after wanting to attend a banquet for so long.

"I can have the carriage readied in minutes," Levan continued, his voice dropping into a coaxing, private tone. "The Stormlows will survive our early departure. They are military people, they expect abrupt decisions."

A soft, jagged exhale escaped her. For a heartbeat, she almost said yes. But then she remembered the look on Lady Stormlow’s face when she had stood up for her. She remembered the Blithe’s mockery on how it expected her to break and how it wanted her to flee.

If she left now, the ’rot’ won. If she fled, Seraphine’s whispers became the only truth the capital would know. Ilaria drew a long, shaky breath and slowly pulled back, just enough to look up into his eyes. She forced a small, flickering smile onto her lips, the kind of soft, resilient light that had always been her greatest strength.

"No," she said, her voice regaining a thread of its usual sweetness, though it remained hushed. "I didn’t come tonight only to hide in a terrace. And Lady Stormlow would be terribly disappointed if I left before the feast. She was very proud of those chestnut tarts."

Levan’s gaze did not soften, it sharpened. He was not looking at the smile, he was looking at the exhaustion behind it. "That doesn’t matter, Ilaria. I am asking what you want."

"I want to stay," she insisted, her fingers lingering on the lapels of his coat, smoothing the fabric as if to convince herself he was real. "I was just... overwhelmed. The ballroom was so hot, and the talk of the capital is so much louder than I expected. I suppose I underestimated how much attention tonight would bring."

She reached up, her gloved fingers catching the edge of his jaw, drawing his attention back to the present. "And I don’t want people to talk... I can’t let a little winter air and a few sharp words send me hiding in a carriage. I’d just be overthinking it later."

Levan studied her for another quiet second. He was not entirely convinced. His hand slid from her back to gently straighten the edge of her sleeve where it had shifted during the embrace. He took the opportunity to glance past her shoulder, toward the dark stretch of terrace behind her.

The night air felt... strange. Not cold or dangerous. Just faintly unsettled, like the lingering echo of a storm that had already passed. Levan’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He had learned long ago to trust that instinct. On battlefields, that same subtle shift in the air had often meant the difference between an ambush and a victory.

But now there was nothing. Only the quiet lantern light, the distant music from the ballroom, and the soft winter wind brushing along the stone. His attention returned to her. And he instantly knew that whatever had unsettled the air had left its mark on Ilaria instead.

Levan lifted a hand, the motion slow enough that she had time to lean into it. His fingers settled along her jaw, warm against the chill of the night, before his thumb pressed gently into her cheek. The familiar little pinch made her blink.

It was nott painful. It never was. It was the same absent, grounding gesture he had used a hundred times before, usually when she had been speaking too quickly or laughing too brightly for the dignity of a royal court.

"Alright," he conceded. "We will stay."

Relief flickered briefly across her face, subtle but unmistakable. Levan offered his arm without another word. And Ilaria slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, the gesture instinctive now, her fingers curling lightly against the dark fabric of his sleeve.

Together, they turned back toward the doors.

Warmth spilled out to meet them as Levan pushed the glass panel open again. The swell of the orchestra rose immediately, laughter and conversation weaving through the air like threads of gold.

But just as they stepped inside, Levan glanced back. His gaze swept the terrace once more, slow and measuring, as though searching for something that had slipped just beyond his reach.

The wind stirred the iron chains overhead. Lanterns swayed gently beneath the arches. His eyes lingered on one in particular. Then, without a word, he led Ilaria back into the light.