Caveen stood near the west pavilion, his voice steady as he discussed the security rotation with a guard. He wasn't really listening. His body was present—but his mind… it was always elsewhere now.
His child.
His future.
And her.
Lysandra.
He hated how often she haunted his thoughts—how even in the quiet, she echoed like an unfinished song.
Caveen adjusted his collar, catching the subtle scent of lavender carried by the wind. His senses stirred. Instinct hummed through his blood. He didn't need to turn around to know she was nearby.
He could feel her.
She was watching him.
It had become a silent ritual between them—her glances when she thought he wouldn't notice, and his quiet awareness of every step she took. It angered him. It confused him. It weakened him.
What right did she have to look at him with those eyes?
The same woman who kept the truth from him, who had risked everything for her own secret.
And yet...
The air shifted. He turned his head slightly, catching her in the corner of his gaze.
She was standing near the rose bushes, her fingers resting lightly against a bloom. Her expression was soft—too soft. Her eyes, wide and full of something she shouldn't be feeling, were locked on him.
Admiration.
Caveen's breath caught for a second.
Why? Why did she look at him like that?
She had no right to care. Not after what she'd done.
But something in his chest pulled tight, betraying him.
Lysandra looked away quickly, as if realizing she'd stared too long. She turned, walking back into the deeper gardens. Her steps were quiet, but the ache she left behind was thunderous.
Caveen looked down at his hand. It was trembling.
Damn it.
What was wrong with him?
Why couldn't he hate her properly?
He clenched his jaw. It's because of the child. That's all. His mind repeated it like a mantra. He was staying for the baby. His emotions were confusion, nothing more. Misfired instincts. Hormonal bonds from a pregnancy neither of them asked for.
Still… the way her eyes softened when she looked at him… It didn't feel fake.
And that was what scared him the most.
Because a part of him—deep, buried, stubborn—wanted it to be real.
The day was unusually warm in Santossa.
Caveen strolled through the garden paths of Landon Estate, eyes sharp, mind numb. He had told himself he wouldn't go near her today. He had told himself he didn't care.
And yet, his feet moved before his thoughts could catch up.
He wasn't sure why.
Perhaps it was habit.
Perhaps it was that damned pull he couldn't explain.
Then he saw her.
Lysandra stood by the edge of the herbarium, her body slightly hunched over, one hand gripping her belly. She looked pale—too pale. The usual glow she had after her recovery had dimmed. Her other hand braced against the stone ledge for support.
His heart stuttered.
"Lysandra!" he called out before he could stop himself.
She looked up, startled.
Caveen was already moving—long strides bringing him beside her in seconds. He held her arm, steadying her.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice laced with worry he didn't mean to reveal.
Lysandra blinked up at him, surprised. "I—I just stood too long, I think," she said with a forced smile. "The baby kicked quite strongly."
His gaze dropped to her stomach, the life inside her stirring. His child.
Caveen's hand lingered at her elbow. She was trembling slightly.
Without thinking, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabbed the sweat from her brow.
"You're warm," he muttered.
She looked away. "I'll be fine."
"Don't argue," he said sharply—but his tone softened right after. "You need to rest. What were you thinking, walking around in this heat?"
Lysandra's lashes lowered. "I just wanted some air… I didn't know you'd be here."
The unspoken truth lingered.
If she had known, she wouldn't have dared.
Caveen realized it too. He let out a breath, frustrated by himself more than her.
He wasn't supposed to care.
He wasn't supposed to panic at the sight of her struggling.
And yet… he had.
"I'll walk you back," he said curtly.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," he snapped. "But I am."
He offered his arm, unwilling to meet her gaze.
Slowly, Lysandra took it, her touch featherlight. They walked back in silence. Her warmth seeped into his skin, calm and quiet like the wind before a storm.
And for the first time, Caveen realized something terrifying—
He didn't know where his duty ended and where his heart had begun to betray him.
Lysandra sat by the open window of her room, a gentle breeze lifting the strands of her hair as her hand cradled her stomach.
She could still feel the warmth of Caveen's touch lingering on her skin—the way he wiped her brow, the tension in his jaw when he scolded her for overexerting herself, the steadiness of his arm as he guided her back.
He had come to her side without hesitation.
He had cared.
Even if he didn't mean to.
Lysandra pressed her lips together, confusion swarming in her chest. She shouldn't read too much into it. She knew better. She had told herself countless times that Caveen's heart would never belong to her—not after what she had done.
But the way he looked at her today…
It wasn't indifference.
It wasn't cold.
It was something else.
"Why did you come to me?" she whispered, more to herself than to the empty room. "Why do you keep saving me if I mean nothing to you?"
She looked down at her growing belly, a small smile ghosting her lips. "Maybe it's not me you're saving. Maybe it's just him."
Still, the way his voice cracked when he said her name… the way his hand lingered too long… it had felt real.
Her cheeks burned at the memory.
"No," she muttered quickly, slapping her own cheeks lightly. "Don't fall for it. Don't fall for him."
She turned back to the breeze, eyes heavy with emotions she had no name for.
Unbeknownst to her, a figure stood hidden at the end of the hall—just past the open door.
Maika.
She had watched them walk back from the garden. She had seen the flicker of emotion in her son's eyes—the brief, unguarded way he looked at Lysandra like she was more than a mistake. More than a vessel for his child.
It was subtle. Almost invisible.
But Maika had lived long enough to know that love doesn't always roar when it begins. Sometimes it starts with a tremble. A hesitation.
A flicker.
She smiled faintly, turning away from the doorway.
"The heart always finds its way," she whispered to herself. "Even when pride tries to blind it."