Chapter 415: Chapter 415
The night fell gently over the city, the kind of stillness that came only after storms had passed.
Inside the suite, the air was calm, almost reverent. Lucas slept soundly, one hand resting near the edge of the crib, his breathing steady, his face softened by exhaustion and the faint traces of peace. Beside him, their son slept too, small and perfectly still except for the slow rhythm of his chest rising beneath the pale blanket.
Trevor sat in the armchair near the window, the shadows of the skyline reflected faintly in the glass. His shirt was still half undone, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, but the tension hadn’t left him. It rarely did from the moment Lucas got pregnant.
Sebastian made a faint sound in his sleep, something between a sigh and a quiet hum, and Trevor leaned forward almost instinctively, the motion silent, his eyes fixed on that tiny, perfect face. Every breath, every flicker of movement, pulled at him in a way he didn’t fully understand. Or maybe he did, but couldn’t admit it without unraveling.
He should have felt only joy tonight. Pride, maybe. Relief.
Instead, the past refused to stay buried.
It came in fragments, half-remembered flashes from another time, another life that had felt longer, crueler, and harder to survive. A different hospital room. A different winter. Lucas pale and still against sterile sheets, his hand cold in Trevor’s grip, and no heartbeat from their child.
He’d buried that pain under politics and function, under every calculated victory he could find after the memories surfaced. But tonight, with Lucas breathing safely beside him and their child warm in his arms, the memory bled through like a crack in the ice. The child they’d lost once, the first their past fate had stolen, was here again.
He brushed his thumb lightly along Sebastian’s blanket, the small weight of him grounding and terrifying all at once. "You came back," he whispered, so quietly it barely reached the air. "You actually came back."
The words hung there, fragile and sacred.
Lucas had never spoken about the first loss in this life. Maybe he didn’t remember the way Trevor did. Maybe he did and chose silence. Lucas carried pain like glass: beautiful, sharp, and invisible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. He sincerely hoped he would never remember that life; he had suffered enough with the life tormented by Velloran while Trevor didn’t know about his existence.
Trevor couldn’t stop seeing the pain that life left behind and the desperation in his mate’s eyes each time he asked for a child.
He exhaled, running a hand over his face. The ache behind his ribs didn’t fade, but it steadied into something familiar... resolve. This life was better. Peaceful, at least for now. Lucas was safe, their son alive, and Benedict, the monster who had once poisoned their world, was hiding like a rat in the dark, afraid of being found. The source of this content ɪs novel·fire·net
Trevor’s jaw tightened as he stared out the window, the city lights blurring into gold and shadow. He could feel Benedict’s echo still, somewhere distant, faint but unmistakable. A presence that hadn’t yet been erased. Trevor would find him eventually. He always did. And when that happened, there would be no trial, no speech, and no second chances.
No one touched what was his.
The faint creak of the door broke the stillness. Windstone stepped inside, soft-footed and composed as ever, his expression politely neutral but his eyes sharp enough to take in everything at once: the child asleep, Lucas’s hand curled near the blanket, and Trevor sitting too still for someone who was supposed to be resting.
He paused beside the crib, glancing down at Sebastian with the barest hint of a smile, an expression so brief it might have been imagined. "He’s quiet," he said softly.
"He takes after his mother," Trevor replied.
"Let’s hope it lasts," Windstone murmured. "You haven’t slept."
Trevor’s mouth twitched. "You’re observant."
"It’s in the job description, sir." Windstone adjusted the curtain cord slightly, a habit as old as his service. "Lucas will wake in a few hours. You should rest before then."
"I will," Trevor said automatically.
"You said that yesterday," Windstone replied, the faintest note of disapproval threading through his calm. "And yet here we are again."
Trevor didn’t look away from the crib. "I can’t. Not yet."
Windstone regarded him for a long moment, then sighed quietly. "If I may speak freely..."
"You won’t protect them better by collapsing, sir."
Trevor’s eyes flicked toward him, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that wasn’t quite a smile. "You think I’d let that happen?"
"I think," Windstone said dryly, "that the Grand Duchess will wake up and order me to sedate you if you don’t sleep soon."
That almost drew a real smile. "He might."
"Then consider this a diplomatic intervention." Windstone’s tone softened as he nodded toward the crib. "He’s safe. Both of them are. Let yourself believe that for one night."
Trevor looked back down at his son, at the tiny hand resting near the edge of the blanket. For once, he didn’t argue. Slowly, reluctantly, he set Sebastian down into the crib, adjusting the corner of the swaddle with surprising gentleness. The baby didn’t stir.
He stood there for a long moment, watching until the faint rhythm of the child’s breathing steadied again, before turning toward the couch. "Just for a little while," he said quietly.
Windstone inclined his head. "Of course."
The older man lingered a moment longer, his eyes softening before he turned off the main light and left the room in half-shadow.
Trevor sank onto the couch, the exhaustion hitting all at once now that he’d stopped moving. His gaze drifted back to the crib, where the outline of Lucas’s hand still rested near their son’s.
’Peace,’ he thought, as his vision blurred at the edges.
He could live with this kind of peace.
Just long enough to make sure no one ever took it from them again.
And for the first time in months, Trevor Fitzgeralt allowed himself to sleep.