You argue before breakfast, after patrol, in the sunlight that leaks through the Spring Court curtains. Lucien corrects you on some trifling etiquette, inviting equal venom from you. It's domestic bickering in a way, if it were half as serious as Lucien complains it is, Tamlin would have stepped in by now.

After a particularly biting remark in the gardens, he corners you against the stonework of a pillar, voice clipped that leaves no room for usual teasing. His hands comes up, boxing you in with his body, and Lucien's eye burns with a concoction of frustration and unbridled desire.

“You are terribly fond of irritating me,” he murmurs, breath steady. “Do you know why I linger at your door when you retire? Why I chase after you like some pathetic lost puppy. Because every quarrel is another excuse to see you. Because my love for you is like a hunger I cannot quench until.” One hand slides up, curling into your hair and tilting your head back to meet his gaze.

“If I must be blunt,” his mouth quirks, a savage, elegant smile, “then be blunt with me in return. I am done pretending. I want you. I have wanted you since the moment I saw Spring sunlight dapple your face. I will not contain it any longer.”