Duke of Fyre (Braving the Elements #1)

Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

T he manor was blanketed in a thick silence, the night pressing in close, as Lydia made her way through the shadowed corridors toward the library. Her footsteps were muted against the carpet, but her pulse felt loud in her ears, beating out an uneasy rhythm as she approached. Her mind cycled back over the day's events, her parents' quiet disappointment, the financial strain weighing on her sisters—her sisters who bore their burdens with a resilience she had come to expect, yet could not easily accept.

She breathed deeply, her lips trembling as she thought of what she had to ask of Elias. It was something she had no right to request, and yet, she would. She had to.

The door creaked faintly as she entered. Elias sat at the far end, cloaked in shadows that sharpened the set of his jaw and the severity of his gaze as he looked up. For a moment, he appeared startled, though the expression softened almost immediately, his mouth settling into its usual unreadable line.

"Lydia." His voice was soft, steady. "What brings you here at this hour?"

He had not risen, nor had he set aside the heavy volume in his hands, yet his attention seemed to settle wholly upon her. His eyes followed her every movement. She took a step forward, her gaze flicking briefly to the dark windows behind him, the night a void of quiet beyond the glass.

"I needed to speak with you," she replied, her voice more measured than she felt. She moved further into the room, hands clasped tightly in front of her, waiting until the distance between them was no longer an excuse for hesitation.

He inclined his head, a gesture that might have been an invitation, though it held the quiet reserve that lingered perpetually about him, as if he wore it as a second skin.

"I..." Her voice faltered, and she swallowed, willing herself to keep going. "Elias, I came to ask—well, it is a rather large favor."

She thought she saw something shift in his gaze, though the movement was so fleeting that she could not be certain.

"Go on," he said simply, opening his hands on his lap.

She took a breath, quieting the tremor of anxiety that tightened her throat. "My sisters... they have been struggling financially. Father… well, he is struggling a little, and with the recent losses... it's become clear they will need help. Only a small sum, but something to tide them over for the season." She lowered her gaze, as if the words themselves had taken on a weight she could no longer bear to hold. "If... if you could spare something, Elias, it would mean a great deal."

For a moment, there was silence. When she looked up, she found his gaze steady upon her, his expression softened by something that lay just beyond her understanding.

"Is that all, Lydia?" His tone was low, almost bemused. "When will you realize that you never need to ask for such things?"

She opened her mouth, her words stilled by his faint smile. "Of course I will help them. They are as much yours to care for as they are mine. You need never doubt that."

The relief was unexpected, easing some inner knot she hadn't realized she was holding. She let out a quiet breath, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Thank you," she said softly, hoping the gratitude in her voice might convey what words could not. She had not anticipated such an immediate answer, nor had she expected his simple, reassuring certainty.

Yet there was more. She hadn't come here merely for her sisters, and she could feel the unspoken question forming just beyond the edge of her thoughts, lingering, insistently waiting to be asked.

She hesitated, her voice catching in her throat. "There... there was something else."

Elias set the book down, his gaze narrowing slightly, though he remained silent. She drew in a steadying breath, the vulnerability of her own request making her heart race.

"Would you consider... that is, perhaps we could... share the same room?" The words spilled out, softer than a whisper, carrying a weight that felt at once strange and utterly familiar. She saw the faint surprise in his eyes, a ripple that barely stirred his otherwise impassive expression.

Slowly, his face grew still, any warmth or familiarity slipping away, leaving only an impenetrable reserve. He was silent, his hands folding together as he held her gaze with a cold, almost detached composure.

"No," he said at last, his tone quiet, but unyielding. "Lydia, I have asked before that we not discuss this."

She felt her pulse quicken, a sharp breath catching in her chest. She had not expected rejection, nor the cold finality with which he delivered it.

"But, Elias…" Her voice wavered, the words catching on some raw edge of hurt. "I am your wife. When will I be... truly be your wife?"

He remained still, his silence stretching between them, filling the room with an unbearable tension. Finally, he drew a slow, deliberate breath, his gaze unwavering as he met her eyes.

"Never," he said, his voice calm, almost indifferent. "You will never bear a child, Lydia."

The words fell with a weight she hadn't anticipated, a finality that seemed to sever something inside her. She stared at him, feeling her own question reverberate back at her, hollow and unanswered. She wanted to ask him to take it back, to soften the words, but his gaze remained as cold and impenetrable as stone.

"I don't understand." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Then what... what does our marriage mean if I am not to be your wife in truth?"

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. "It means precisely what it is, Lydia. Nothing more."

For a moment, she was silent, her mind racing to fill the silence with explanations, hopes, fragments of meaning. Yet nothing seemed to fit, and his refusal remained, cold and unmoving, a wall she could not breach.

"Elias," she tried again, her voice low and edged with a quiet, gathering anger. "I want a family. I want a life that is more than this... arrangement. I want something real."

"I cannot give you that," he said, his tone stripped of warmth. He turned away, as if to end the conversation, his posture rigid, resolute. "This is not a topic we will revisit, Lydia."

The words stung, and a hot, bitter anger surged within her, fed by months of quiet hopes, silent questions, and now, an answer that felt as final as it was cruel.

"So I am to be a failure," she said, her voice trembling with the weight of the admission. "To be nothing more than an empty title, an adornment to your name. A wife in name only, a woman without purpose."

A flicker of something, perhaps regret, perhaps pain, passed over his face, but it vanished so quickly that she could not be certain it had ever been there.

"Lydia," he said, his tone colder, harder. "You may leave."

But she did not move. Her hands clenched at her sides, the ache in her chest tightening as she fought the wave of anger that surged within her.

"No," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "I will not leave. I will not stand here and accept this... this sentence you've decided for me. I am your wife, Elias, not some piece of furniture to be pushed aside whenever it suits you."

"Then perhaps," he replied, his voice low and edged with a warning, "you should reconsider what it means to be my wife."

The words struck her like a blow, the cold finality of them chilling her to the bone. She took a step back, her heart pounding, her anger giving way to a sorrow that felt too vast to contain.

"You speak of duty and of loyalty," she said, her voice a fragile whisper. "But what loyalty is this, Elias? What duty is there in denying me the very thing that would make me whole as a woman?"

She turned after this, her hands shaking - perhaps, she thought, from the vulnerability she had dared show him. As she turned away, however, Elias's voice broke the silence, laced with a chill she had come to recognize but not accept.

"Why must you press this, Lydia?" he asked quietly, though the edge in his tone hinted at something less calm, more troubled.

She stopped, her hand stilling on the doorframe, her voice low and steady, but trembling at the edges. "Because I am tired, Elias. Tired of pretending that this life, this empty pretense of a marriage, is enough. I am tired of wondering if I will spend the rest of my days merely watching you from across a table, never truly knowing you or sharing in your life."

Elias's gaze grew colder, yet she sensed something flickering beneath the surface—a tension, a warning. "I have given you a life of comfort, of stability," he replied. "I have fulfilled every obligation required of me as a husband."

"Obligations," she repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her. "You speak of duty and vows as if they are mere obligations. Is that what you want, Elias? A wife who does not challenge you, who remains silent and grateful for the privilege of being in your shadow? Tell me, do you find such a woman satisfying? Is there nothing more you want from life, from our marriage?"

For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. His expression did not change, but she saw a flicker of something in his eyes—a cold fire, as though he were weighing her words, assessing how deeply to let them cut.

"Do you even want a child, Lydia?" he asked finally, his voice soft but cutting. "Or are you simply trying to complete some notion of what a marriage should be?"

Her throat tightened, but she held his gaze, refusing to falter. "I want a child, Elias," she answered, her voice firm. "I want a life, a future. I want something more than this hollow existence you've deemed acceptable for us both. Can you not understand that?"

He crossed his arms, his posture growing even colder, his expression sharpening as if to distance himself further from her words. "I understand that bringing a child into this life—into my life—is a risk I am unwilling to take."

"A risk?" she repeated, her voice rising despite herself. "You live as if we are haunted by shadows, Elias, as if some terrible fate will befall us at any moment. I have no fear of your past—only of the walls you've built around yourself to keep it hidden."

For a fleeting moment, she thought he might respond, that he might reach for her, or at least soften the resolve in his eyes. But instead, his expression grew stonier, his voice even quieter, colder.

"You may leave," he said, each word deliberate, final.

She took a step forward instead, the anger in her rising, defying his command. "No, Elias. I am not a child to be sent away because the truth is uncomfortable for you."

"Enough, Lydia." His voice was low but sharp, holding a warning she did not heed.

"What are you so afraid of, Elias?" she demanded. "Why do you keep me at such a distance? If you would only tell me, if you would only let me in, perhaps…"

"Leave," he repeated, his tone darker, harsher. "This conversation ends here."

The cold finality in his voice stole the air from her lungs, silencing the words that burned within her. She searched his face, hoping for some glimpse of regret, some hint of the man she had glimpsed in rare, unguarded moments. But his expression remained impassive, as unyielding as stone.

"I only wanted a life with you, Elias," she whispered, more to herself than to him, her voice fading as she turned once more toward the door.

But he did not answer, and as the door closed behind her, the silence swallowed her words whole, leaving nothing but the emptiness she had feared all along.

Without another word, she turned and left, her steps heavy, the darkness of the corridor swallowing her as she made her way back to her empty, silent room.