“Moonlit Mischief”

The Twins in Their Quarters, After the Ball

The Vael manor was finally quiet.

The guests had gone, the musicians dismissed, the lights dimmed in the lower halls. Only the distant clatter of servants cleaning up remained—soft, nervous sounds swallowed by the sheer immensity of the estate.

Upstairs, in the twins’ private quarters, a single candle flickered.

Lucien lounged across their shared settee, boots propped on the armrest, Julian’s expression from earlier replaying in his mind like a treasured comedy.

“Did you see him when Lady Marceau curtsied?” he snickered. “I swear he looked like someone had handed him a crying infant.”

Dorian, seated on the floor before their massive window, didn’t answer.

He was staring out at the gardens—the moonlit fog rolling like soft smoke across the hedges. His hands played absently with the chain of his pocket watch.

Lucien’s smirk softened. He slipped off the couch and padded over, settling beside him on the carpet like a loyal, feral cat.

“Brother,” he drawled, leaning his shoulder into Dorian’s, “do not pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

Dorian exhaled a quiet laugh. “I enjoyed the panic,” he admitted. “Not the inevitability.”

Lucien’s brows lifted. “You mean the marriages?”

“Mm.”

Lucien scoffed and tossed his long hair over his shoulder. “Julian can marry whoever he wants. I refuse. I’d rather die.”

Dorian’s mouth twitched. “Father won’t let us escape so easily.”

“Then he may kill me himself, and you’ll have to avenge me.” Lucien nudged him. “Promise you’ll make it theatrical.”

Dorian turned to him slowly, storm-gray eyes glinting with wickedness.

“I’ll set the entire ballroom on fire,” he murmured. “They’ll write songs about your death.”

Lucien grinned—sharp, delighted, breathlessly fond. “Perfect.”

A brief silence hung between them, warm and strangely tender.

Then Lucien rose in a single fluid motion and extended a hand.

“Come,” he said.

Dorian blinked. “What for?”

“A dance.”

“At this hour?”

“Especially at this hour.”

Dorian hesitated only to sigh dramatically before taking Lucien’s hand. Lucien pulled him up with unnecessary flourish until they were standing face-to-face in the candle’s flickering light.

Lucien hummed the faint melody that had played during Julian’s first dance—soft, mocking, deeply off-key.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you adore me,” Lucien replied.

He placed Dorian’s hand on his shoulder, took the other in his own, and began guiding him in a slow, smooth waltz across their carpet.

Their movements were frighteningly synchronized—too identical, too practiced, too natural. A shared heartbeat in motion.

“How long,” Lucien murmured, “before Father decides our time has come?”

Dorian’s jaw tightened.

“He will try. But he cannot separate us.”

Lucien’s grip tightened. “I won’t let him.”

“I know.”

They swayed, turning in silent circles as the candle flame leaned and bowed with them.

Then—

Lucien whispered, almost afraid: “Would you leave me? If they forced it?”

Dorian stopped.

The candle hissed.

He cupped Lucien’s jaw with one gloved hand—an unusually intimate gesture he reserved for no one else.

“No,” he said simply. “Not in any lifetime.”

Lucien shivered, the truth sinking into him like a brand.

Outside, the fog pressed against their window, thick as breath. Inside, only their shadows moved—one shape where there should have been two.