Trevor had never wanted to come to this event.
Not really.
He'd shown up because Serathine told him to—and because refusing her always cost more than it was worth. And when she'd gestured subtly across the ballroom and said, stand near him, he'd obeyed with the same sharp-edged civility he used on battlefields and in courts—because that was what he was, wasn't he? A shield. A sword. Something to stand beside, not care for.
And at first, that was fine.
Lucas hadn't needed protection. He hadn't asked for it. He stood like the room had been built around him, eyes too sharp for someone his age, words too precise, posture too controlled. Trevor had watched him with faint curiosity—the way one watches a painting they don't understand but can't quite look away from. Serathine had polished him like glass, wrapped him in D'Argente silk, and handed him to the world as if daring it to look too closely.
Trevor had been prepared for fragility. For trembling. For some wide-eyed, skittish thing clinging to nobility like borrowed armor.
But Lucas wasn't fragile.
He was terrifyingly intact.
Too intact.
Like a doll in a glass case—perfectly composed, perfectly quiet, perfectly poised to shatter.
And when he left the terrace, Trevor didn't follow. Not immediately.
Because Lucas had said no. And Lucas had looked fine.
Because Trevor had assumed—in that blind, convenient way all soldiers do when the room doesn't smell like blood—that fine meant safe.
Then he saw Christian Velloran.
Saw the way the man stood—relaxed, comfortable, rehearsed.
Saw the smile—too smooth, too knowing.
And he saw Lucas. Not flinching. Not running.
Just… disappearing.
Still standing. Still dressed. Still perfect.
But gone.
And that was when Trevor moved.
Fast. Through velvet and music, through polished corridors, past the too-kind nobles who mistook their own cruelty for etiquette.
He didn't knock. Just opened the bathroom door and stepped inside.
And what he found was worse than anything he'd imagined.
Lucas wasn't curled up on the floor crying. He wasn't pacing with panic or folded in on himself.
He wasn't doing anything.
He was kneeling, half-collapsed at the edge of the sink, one hand clutching porcelain like a prayer, the other wrapped around his own middle with an absent, automatic grip. His head was bowed. Shoulders drawn. Not shaking. Not gasping.
Just still.
Like something left behind.
Trevor's first instinct was tactical—measure the threat, assess the damage, and secure the perimeter.
But this wasn't a battlefield.
This was something worse.
He stepped forward slowly.
"Lucas?" he asked—quiet, unsure why he felt the need to whisper.
No answer.
No flicker of recognition.
Just a slow, shallow breath that hitched near the end.
Trevor crouched.
And for the first time, he saw—not the heir. Not the contract. Not the perfectly constructed future.
Just the boy.
A boy someone had broken so precisely he could still pass for whole.
A doll, not shattered but hollowed. Beautiful. Polished. Gone.
And Trevor—who had come here annoyed, waiting for duty to end—felt something cold and furious bloom beneath his ribs.
Not for Serathine.
Not for the contract.
Not even for Christian Velloran.
But for the silence.
The silence he should've recognized. The kind that didn't tremble or cry. The kind that obeyed.
The silence of someone who had long ago learned that noise never saved them.
Trevor didn't speak again.
There was nothing to say.
Not to this version of Lucas—quiet, unmoving, folded down like some exquisite relic left too long in the cold. His skin looked too pale under the lights. His mouth too tight, like even breath might betray something.
Trevor hesitated only a second longer.
Then he reached out.
One hand on Lucas's back, slow and warm, the other curling gently around his shoulder as he eased down beside him—no force, no command, just a steady anchoring, the way you'd touch someone underwater if you weren't sure they remembered how to swim.
Lucas didn't respond.
But he didn't pull away either.
That was enough.
Trevor exhaled, leaned closer, pressed his forehead briefly to the side of Lucas's temple, and let out the smallest trace of pheromones—barely there, almost scentless, but laced with calm, with stillness, with presence.
Not dominance. Not submission.
And that was when Lucas breathed.
Shaky. Thin.
But it was there—one breath. Then another. Like the room had stopped spinning long enough for his body to remember it was allowed to stay.
Trevor didn't let go.
He just held him.
Not tightly. Not as a claim. Just as something steady enough to lean on.
Lucas stayed folded against him, breath shallow, face turned inward like even the light might bruise. His hand curled in Trevor's coat like it had always been there.
Trevor matched his breathing to Lucas's—slow, deep, deliberate.
Then let more of his pheromones slip into the air.
Not heat. Not warning.
Calm.
A grounding scent—low notes of mountain wind, cedarwood, rain on stone. Not meant to mark territory but to remind the body: you are not in danger.You do not have to brace.
The effect was immediate.
Lucas's shoulders twitched. Not in fear. In recognition.
Like some buried nerve had caught the signal and dared to loosen its grip.
Trevor kept his breathing slow. Steady.
And then—he heard it.
The faintest footstep. A shift in air.
Then the door slammed.
Trevor's head lifted. His jaw clenched. Instinct already pulling forward before thought caught up.
Serathine stepped in first.
Flanked.
Lucius followed, coat half-unbuttoned, expression unreadable.
And behind him—
Sirius.