Chapter 141: Do You Want Me? (Part 1)

The palace had already settled into the hush of midnight by the time their carriage rolled through the iron gates.

Lanterns burned low along the courtyard walls, casting a soft amber glow that barely disturbed the velvet night. The horses slowed as they approached the grand steps, hooves echoing gently across the stone before the carriage came to a smooth halt.

A pair of waiting footmen stepped forward immediately. The door opened, releasing a breath of warm lantern light into the winter air. Levan descended first, his boots striking the stone with certainty before he turned back toward the carriage.

Ilaria placed her hand into his without hesitation.

His grip was firm and steady as he helped her down, the heat of his palm lingering even through the thin silk of her glove. The cold brushed against her cheeks the moment she stepped outside, but it no longer felt sharp after the comfort of the carriage.

Servants moved with practiced efficiency. Cloaks were offered, lanterns lifted, and the palace doors opened without a word. The world beyond the threshold felt entirely different from the noise of the Stormlow estate.

The great entrance hall was nearly silent, its towering ceilings shadowed beneath the last of the night’s lamps. Their footsteps echoed against the marble floor as they crossed the space together.

It was a familiar silence. The kind that only existed when the palace had gone to sleep. By the time they reached their chambers, the weight of the evening had lulled into something calmer. The door closed behind them with a muted click.

Warmth wrapped around the room at once. A small fire had been left burning in the hearth, its glow painting gentle shadows across the carved furniture and the tall canopy of their bed.

Ilaria moved instinctively toward the dressing table near the window. One by one, she removed her jewelry. The earrings came first, set carefully upon the polished wood, then the slender chain around her neck.

Behind her, Levan had already begun the ritual of shedding the formal trappings of the evening. His gloves were removed and set aside. The heavy outer layers of his coat followed, folded neatly across the back of a nearby chair. Without the stiffness of court attire, his movements seemed to loosen slightly.

For a while, the room held nothing but the sounds of fabric shifting and metal clasps being set aside. Levan stepped closer once he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up his elbows.

His hands reached automatically toward the fastening along the back of her gown, the motion so habitual it barely required thought. He had done it countless times before, undoing the stubborn laces and hidden clasps that court fashion seemed to delight in constructing.

But just as his fingers touched the silk at her back, Ilaria turned.

The movement caught him slightly off guard, his hands pausing mid-motion as she faced him. The firelight flickered across her face, illuminating a seriousness that had not been there earlier in the evening.

Her fingers folded together loosely in front of her dress.

“Levan,” she began tentatively.

He stilled immediately. There was something in her tone that commanded attention far more effectively than any title ever could.

“I… need to tell you something.”

Levan simply looked at her then. The firelight from the hearth had dimmed the room into gradient shades of amber and gold, and it caught along the delicate lines of her face in a way that made the entire evening feel strangely distant.

Ilaria had always been beautiful; that had been obvious from the first moment she had stepped into the capital. The court admired it the way one admired a painting or a jewel. While Levan knew the living version of it.

He knew the way her expressions changed when she was thinking too quickly. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever she tried to be serious for longer than a few seconds. The softness that always returned to her mouth when she smiled, as though the gesture belonged to her more naturally than silence ever could.

Tonight, that softness was missing.

He had noticed it the moment she stepped back into the hall earlier. He had seen it again in the carriage, tucked behind her smiles and easy conversation. Something had unsettled her, something she had tried to smooth over with the same gentle composure she offered the rest of the world.

Levan stepped closer.

His hands rose slowly until they settled against her shoulders, the warmth of his palms pressing through the silk of her gown. His thumbs brushed lightly along the line of her collarbone before his fingers squeezed her shoulders with intended reassurance.

“What is it?” he asked.

Ilaria’s shoulders shifted faintly beneath his hands, and her gaze dropped for the briefest instant as though she were searching for something among the patterns of the carpet that had suddenly become very important.

The memory of the terrace came back at the edges of her thoughts like a cold wind slipping beneath a closed door once again as her fingers curled slightly against the silk of her skirt.

Lysander’s voice surfaced unbidden in her memory, firm and insistent in that frustratingly calm way of his.

I would advice that you tell your husband.

The words had sounded so simple when he said them.

Tell Levan.

As though it were nothing more complicated than recounting a strange dream over breakfast.

Her eyes lifted toward the man standing before her now.

Levan was watching her with the same unwavering attention he brought to council chambers and battle reports. His hands remained steady on her shoulders, his presence solid and grounding in a way that made the world feel smaller, more manageable.

The Blithe’s voice passed through her mind again, sharp with provoking amusement. And her stomach tightened.

If she told him…

What then?

Would he believe her? Of course he would. Levan had never once dismissed her words. But belief was not the only consequence. The moment the Crown Prince of Noctharis learned that the entity haunting the Expanse had been circling back to his wife alone on a terrace, the matter would cease to be private.

There would be investigations. Scholars. Guards posted outside every door. And worst of all, that careful, watchful look he sometimes wore when something threatened the people he loved. She did not want to become another battlefield. Not tonight… Not when the evening had finally ended in laughter and soothing words.

Her breath slipped quietly from her lungs. When she spoke, the words turned gently away from the shadow waiting at the edge of her thoughts.

“You see, I… I’m a bit troubled by what Lady Seraphine had spoken to me earlier,” Ilaria admitted.

Levan’s hands stilled. The shift in him was subtle, but unmistakable. His expression sharpened with immediate attention.

“What did she say?” The calm tone remained, but something beneath it had cooled.

“It wasn’t an argument,” she explained carefully. “Not exactly.” Her eyes darted away for a moment before returning to him.

“She only made a comment.” Her fingers twisted lightly together in front of her dress. “About… how long we’ve been married.”

Levan’s gaze did not waver. “And?”

Ilaria hesitated again, though this time the pause carried a hidden embarrassment. “She suggested that perhaps the court would begin wondering why the Princess of Caelwyn has not yet given the Crown Prince an heir.”

The words fell like a paperweight into the room. For a moment, the fire cracked in the hearth behind them, filling the silence with a low, shifting sound. Levan did not move. His gaze remained fixed on her face, dark eyes studying the faint colour rising along her cheeks.

“And that troubled you?” he asked after a moment.

Ilaria huffed a small breath that might have been a laugh if it were not so shy.

“It wasn’t exactly subtle,” she murmured. “She implied that the court might assume… certain things.” Her gaze dropped again. “That perhaps I’m not…” She cleared her throat. “…capable.”

The admission hung between them. For the first time since entering the room, Ilaria looked almost uncertain, as if the confidence she usually carried had been pried away.

Levan’s mouth fell open. He had anticipated that Seraphine would say something designed to unsettle his wife, and the way Ilaria’s frame seemed to shrink beneath the memory of the comment ignited a protective fury in him.

How dare anyone suggest she was anything less than remarkable? How dare they question her capability just because of a… What? An heir?

Ilaria’s fingers moved absently to the clasp of a bracelet she had not yet removed, turning the chain slowly against her wrist. The clink of metal filled the space between them while she searched for the right way to say what had begun forming in her mind.

Ilaria inhaled shakily. “It’s just…” She hesitated, the bracelet still turning between her fingers. “Lady Seraphine’s words were unpleasant, yes, but they did make me think that perhaps the court isn’t entirely wrong to wonder.”

Ilaria set the bracelet aside on the small table beside her and began removing the pins from her hair, the silvery strands falling loose around her shoulders as she spoke.

“We have been married, husband,” she said again, her tone thoughtful rather than accusatory. “And yet…”

She paused again. The words felt oddly delicate on her tongue. “…we never had a wedding night.”

The sentence landed between them. Ilaria continued slowly, still focused on the small ritual of freeing her hair from its elaborate arrangement.

“I understand the council demanded your attention,” she added quickly. “And when you returned, you could barely rest. The capital, the unrest along the border… there has always been something.”

The last pin slid free. Her hair tumbled fully over her shoulders, catching the firelight in silky waves. She placed the pin beside the bracelet before finally looking back at him.

“But tonight…” she admitted, her voice quieter now, “when she said that, I realized I had never truly asked you about it.”

Levan’s jaw tightened. Not with anger directed at her, but with the sharp irritation of a man who suddenly recognized the shape of someone else’s manipulation.

Ilaria noticed the shift immediately and lifted a hand. “I’m not accusing you,” she said quickly. “I promise I’m not.”

Her eyelids lowered as they held his. “I only wondered…” The question came gently, though there was unmistakable vulnerability beneath it. “…if perhaps you didn’t want a child with… me?”

The silence that followed was absolute. Levan exhaled a long, slow breath through his nose, a sound of restrained frustration directed entirely at the woman who had planted such a thorn in his wife’s heart.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath. He took a step back, not in rejection but because he needed the space to collect himself. He turned slightly, running a hand through his hair before facing her again.

“That woman,” he clicked his tongue, his voice edged with a cold annoyance, “knows exactly where to strike, doesn’t she?”

Ilaria watched him carefully. Levan stepped closer again after a moment, his irritation settling into something calmer, though the tension in his posture had not fully disappeared.

​”Aria.” He stepped back into her space, his hands settling on her shoulders once more. His touch was firm, a reminder of his reality against the ghosts of Seraphine’s words.

​”If I have delayed the intimacy of our marriage, it was not out of disinterest,” he stated plainly, then almost desperately, “Why would you think that?”

He paused, his thumb smoothing a stray curl away from her temple. “I did not want our first night together to be a hurried moment stolen between battle reports and a midnight departure for the front. You deserve a husband who is present, Ilaria. Not a commander with one foot out the door.”

Ilaria blinked, the tension in her chest beginning to unravel beneath his steady logic.

“And as for children,” he continued, his gaze softening, though his focus remained intense. “That is not something I avoid. It is something I intend. But I would rather we begin that part of our lives when the world allows us to breathe, not because someone decided to provoke a rumour.”

He studied her for a moment, a faint, almost weary irony touching his features. “You truly believed I did not want a child with you?”

Ilaria looked away, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well… when one spends months sleeping politely on opposite sides of the bed, the thought does eventually occur.”

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