The room had grown quiet. The fork had been set down, the clink of porcelain a soft punctuation to the silence that followed.
'Take the bed.'
The words hung in the air like mist, impossible to grasp fully as confusion knitted across Ruelle's face.
"I'm… alright. I can take the couch," she offered softly.
Lucian's eyebrow twitched. He repeated, "I said take the bed. Don't test my patience, Belmont."
And there it was—the cold steel edge she had expected. The sudden shift from the man who had offered her warmth to the one who would rather see her crumble. Her fingers tightened around the blanket, her gaze falling away from his.
"You have already done enough. It's your bed," she tried again, her gaze not quite meeting his. "If I sleep there… where will you sleep? It would be… improper. If anyone heard, it would look—"
