Page 58 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“How can you be certain?”

“The heroic bloodline came through my mother’s side,” he explained, his voice softening at the mention of her. “She’s been gone for years now. Without her connection, my father is just another minor lord from the Northern Peaks—hardly worth Auremar’s attention or wrath.”

I frowned. “Still, your father must have some political value. Auremar doesn’t strike me as the type to let potential leverage slip away unused.”

“Oh, my father has survived far stickier situations than an angry king.” The affection in his voice was unmistakable as he began wiping down the workstation. “Most of the court thinks he’s a simple, practical man—too straightforward for intrigue. They underestimate him constantly. It’s his greatest asset.”

“He taught you well, then.”

Sebastian glanced up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“The way you let people underestimate you,” I said. “The polite, harmless nobleman routine. You’re more like him than you might think.”

His expression shifted—something between pleasure and melancholy crossing his features. “I suppose I am,” he said quietly. “Though he’d be horrified to know where his lessons have landed me.”

“In the Dark Lord’s fortress, covered in flour and making scones?”

Sebastian’s laugh was soft but genuine. “Not exactly the diplomatic triumph he’d envisioned for his son.” His gaze turned assessing.

“What?” I asked, hoping the glamor hadn’t slipped.

He shrugged. “You look different.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved. “It’s been years since you last saw me properly.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He set down his cloth and turned to face me fully. For a moment, something raw and complicated flickered in those violet eyes—a look that made my chest tighten inexplicably. “You look… settled. Like you’ve found where you belong.”

“I have,” I said simply.

“Good.” His voice was almost wistful. “That’s… good.”

He held my gaze for another heartbeat, and I had the strangest sensation of standing at the edge of a precipice, looking down at something I’d lost but couldn’t remember losing. Then he blinked, and the moment shattered.

“Another scone?” he asked, his cheerful mask sliding back into place. “I made extra.”

“No,” I said, standing too quickly. “I should go. Packing to do.”

“I should finish up here and do the same.” He turned back to his cleaning. “Are you certain Lord Blackrose wants me along? I’d hate to be an imposition.”

I studied him more closely. Was he trying to avoid going? Or was this about something else?

“Kazimir wants you where he can watch you,” I said.

Sebastian huffed. “He doesn’t trust easily, does he?”

“Few people do. Don’t you want to go?”

He shrugged. “I admit Griffin’s description of the Academia sounds interesting.”

“Then it’s settled.”

As I headed for the door, I couldn’t resist one last glance back. Sebastian was standing perfectly still, staring off into nothing.

A young cook—broad-shouldered, elbows deep in dough—caught Sebastian’s eye from across the room. The man’s gaze lingered, his smile warm and inviting as he paused mid-knead to watch Sebastian remove his apron.

Sebastian offered a polite nod, his expression pleasant but distant as he hung his apron on a hook. The cook’s smile faltered, and he returned to his dough with slightly more force than necessary.

I left before I could examine why the sight of Sebastian forcing cheerfulness made something in me simultaneously relieved and strangely bereft.