The Wrong Name on His Lips

The day they held me down and forced the bitter draught down my throat, a pool of blood spread beneath me on the cold stone floor. My voice had been stolen by a poison, and all I could do was make desperate, clicking sounds with my tongue, trying to tell Lord Damian it was his child I was losing. But his handsome face was a mask of ice, his voice a lash. "Pregnant before marriage. Trysting with another man. Do you know your sin, Lyra?" He had forgotten. At the midwinter feast, it was he who drank the spiced wine, he who cornered me, he who forced himself upon me. He had whispered my name in my ear, Lya. I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. He gently wiped them away, even as he brought the bowl of poison to my lips. "Be rid of this bastard child, and I will find a good match for you." I bit down hard on the heel of his hand. He merely frowned, soothing me as if I were a frightened animal. "The process is a little painful. You must endure it." A woman in a gown the color of blood clung to his sleeve. His expression softened instantly. He called her name. Belle. "It's foul in here," he murmured to her. "You shouldn't have come." A new wave of blood, hot and bitter, rose in my throat, and I choked. Belle... Lya... The name he’d whispered that night… it was never meant for me. 1 A deep, tearing pain radiated from my womb. The blood beneath me was a shocking, vivid scarlet. Damian's usually placid face finally showed a flicker of panic. I lay in bed for three days, a ghost in my own body. Beyond the partition screen, I heard his mother, the Duchess, speaking to him. "Damian, Lyra is a good girl. She's of an age to be married. What are your thoughts on the matter?" Her words were a weight, pressing down on me. I peered through the silk screen, my eyes fixed on his silhouette. "My cousin is indeed a fine woman," he said. The Duchess's teacup rattled in its saucer. Her tone was carefully casual. "Are you saying you wish to marry her, Damian? Or..." His dark lashes lifted. His voice was a final, damning judgment. "No. She can only ever be my cousin." A sigh of relief escaped the Duchess. She smiled, saying she would find a good family for me, and that it was time to set a date for his own wedding to Lady Isabelle, the daughter of a neighboring Duke. Damian's expression remained unreadable. As he left, he said only, "As you wish, Mother." The Duchess's voice, now stripped of its warmth, drifted through the screen, mocking my silent hopes. "You heard him, didn't you?" My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. My empty womb felt as if it were being wrung out by a coarse rope, the pain so intense it stole my breath. I was a distant relation of the Ashworths, the ruling family of this duchy. After my parents died, I sought refuge here. The Duchess had intended to turn me away. "Mother," a young Damian had said, "the estate is vast. We can spare a plate for our cousin. Let her stay. She can be a companion for me." With that one word, "cousin," he had given me a home. We were inseparable, two children against the world. He gave me the warmest room in the east wing, taught me my letters, and guided my hand as I learned to paint. Anything the other young ladies of the house had, he ensured I had as well. And the things they didn't have, he would find just for me. "Our Lyra," he used to say, "deserves the best of everything in this world." I had once joked, "Then if I ever marry, cousin, you must prepare a grand dowry for me." Damian, who so rarely showed emotion, had suddenly gone cold. "If that day ever comes," he had said, his voice tight, "I will be the one to give you away." But at the feast, drunk on spiced wine, he had backed me against the cold stone of the garden wall, his breath hot against my skin. "Lya," he'd rasped, "don't be afraid... Lya, I desire you." I thought he meant it. I thought he cared for me. But now, all he said was, "Pregnant before marriage. Trysting with another man. Do you know your sin?" The Duchess stood over me. "If you are clever, I will not only give you the antidote for your voice, but I will find you a respectable husband and see you married with all due ceremony." "But you will take this secret to your grave." After that night with Damian, I had fled in terror. When I discovered I was carrying his child, I had tried to find him, to confess everything. But his mother's maids intercepted me. They forced a draught down my throat that stole my voice and sent me into darkness. When I woke, Damian was there, his eyes black pools of fury. "Cousin, what is the meaning of this?" The physician knelt, trembling. "My lord... the young lady... she is with child." Damian's face became a mask of cold fury. He seized my wrist, his grip like iron. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low growl. "Who is the bastard's father?" I could only shake my head, my throat raw from silent screams, trying to tell him it was him. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut, but not a single word could escape. He threw my hand away from him, a strange, cold sneer on his lips. "Is he worth this? You'd protect him even at the cost of your own honor?" I wept, shaking my head frantically. He gently wiped my tears, even as he brought the bowl of poison to my lips. "Be rid of this bastard child, and I will find a good match for you." I bit down hard on the heel of his hand. He merely frowned, soothing me. "The process is a little painful. You must endure it." A woman in a scarlet gown appeared, clinging to his sleeve. Damian, who was notoriously fastidious and hated to be touched, allowed her proximity without a word. "Belle," he said, his voice softening with concern. "It's foul in here. You shouldn't have come." Something inside my head fractured. The Duchess's words when she'd poisoned me echoed in my mind: Belle... Lya... You foolish child. Did you really believe the ramblings of a drunken man? If he hadn't mistaken you for Belle, do you truly think he would have touched you? Belle... Lya. So it was true. I clutched my chest and coughed up a mouthful of blood. That night of stolen passion was nothing more than a fever dream. The Duchess had said they were a perfect match—noble blood, equal standing. A union blessed by fate. And I? I was nothing. The chasm between us was as wide as the sky. How could I ever be worthy of carrying his child? Using his hand, she had destroyed our baby and my last hope. Now, she held out a small vial—the antidote. "Will you marry him, or not?" I took the vial. After a long, silent moment, my voice returned, a raw, broken whisper. "I will." 2 For days, Damian tried to see me, but I refused him, citing my poor health. Isabelle came instead, bearing gifts of expensive broths and tonics. She made a great show of adjusting her sleeve, revealing a delicate silver filigree bracelet on her wrist. "It was a gift from Damian," she said, a shy blush on her cheeks. "I told him I'm not fond of bracelets, but he insisted. He said it's a family heirloom, passed down to the brides of House Ashworth for generations." "He also said it looks beautiful on me. Don't you think so, Cousin Lyra?" I had seen that bracelet once, years ago. I'd found it in a small, carved box in Damian's study. He had snatched it from my hands, his face tense, before promising he would give it to me as a wedding gift. And now, he had given it to her. If it was never meant for me, why make the promise at all? A bitter smile touched my lips. "It's beautiful." To think that he, a man of so few words, could speak such praise. He must love her dearly. Isabelle suddenly insisted on taking it off for me to try. I refused. In the clumsy push and pull between us, there was a sharp crack. The bracelet lay on the floor in pieces. Her eyes welled with tears, her expression one of a startled, wounded fawn. I was speechless. How had it broken so easily? "I'm so sorry, I..." "It's alright, it's alright..." she whispered, scrambling to pick up the shattered silver. That's when Damian arrived. He helped Isabelle to her feet, his brow furrowed. "Be careful, you'll cut your hands." She leaned into his embrace, her shoulders trembling, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. Damian's gaze fell from the broken bracelet to me. His voice was glacial. "Aren't you going to explain?" I met his dark, unreadable eyes, searching for something, anything. But there was nothing there for me. The dead, placid thing that was my heart gave a painful throb. My throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "Damian, I..." Isabelle spoke first. "Damian, it was my fault. Cousin Lyra said she liked my bracelet, so I wanted to let her try it on. I didn't expect it to fall." His expression softened immediately. "It's not your fault. The silver must have been too fragile. If it's broken, it's broken. It doesn't matter." Then he turned to me, his face a mask of stone once more. "Lyra. Apologize to Isabelle." The ache in my womb returned, a phantom pain. When I was a child, a servant knocked over a brazier and a single spark singed the hem of my dress. Damian had chased the boy with a riding crop for a mile, dragging him back to apologize to me. The next day, he had a bolt of the finest silk sent to my rooms for a new gown. Now, the way he looked at me was the same way he had looked at that terrified servant boy. Tears burned behind my eyes. I lowered my gaze. "Lady Isabelle, I am sorry." Isabelle shot Damian a look of feigned annoyance. "How can you be so harsh with her?" "She made a mistake," Damian said, his voice devoid of pity. "She will make amends." He reached out and, with a swift movement, unpinned the Starfall Brooch from my cloak. He fastened it onto Isabelle's gown. "This suits you better." My hair, freed from the clasp, tumbled down my back. I watched them, the perfect couple, and my heart felt as if it were being pierced by a thousand needles. That brooch... he had won it as the champion's prize at the Autumn Hunt. The crowd had cheered, telling him to give it to the lady he favored. Amidst the noise, he had pinned it on me, his voice clear. "I have no favored lady. Or if I do, it is only Lyra." Everyone knew he cherished me. And now, he had given it away with his own hands. Isabelle touched the brooch, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Cousin Lyra." "You are welcome," I managed to say. "Damian," she pleaded, "my chambers feel so bare. I wish to purchase some new things. Could you ask Cousin Lyra to accompany me?" Damian scoffed. "Her? Her taste has always been... common. You'd be better off taking a maid." Ice flooded my veins. In his eyes, was I now worth less than a servant? The old me would have argued, would have berated him. But that Lyra was gone. I looked at him, my voice trembling with a sorrow he would never understand. "My lord cousin is right. My taste is poor. I wouldn't be of any help." I don't know what nerve I struck, but his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "If your taste weren't so poor," he sneered, "would you have thrown yourself away on some stable boy?" My back hit the wall with a sickening thud, the impact forcing tears from my eyes. His face was inches from mine, his voice a cold whisper. "Why are you crying? This is the path you chose." "Damian," Isabelle called from behind him. He released me instantly. I could scream in pain and he wouldn't flinch, but a single word from her, and his anger vanished. He was truly different with her. He turned to Isabelle, his voice warm again. "If she will not go with you, I will give you her chambers." "However..." he paused. A flicker of anticipation lit Isabelle's eyes. My own heart tightened. "She has just... lost a child. Her room is tainted with the smell of blood. Be careful not to be soiled by the filth." A dense, suffocating pain filled my chest. My empty womb ached as if it were being flayed. He didn't care about my pain, my grief. He only cared that she might be sullied by my presence. Isabelle let out a musical laugh, her eyes darting to me with pure malice. "I see." Her laughter was a blade, mocking my foolishness, mocking the unclean thing that had dared to desire the noble Lord of House Ashworth. As they left, Damian threw one last warning over his shoulder. "Try not to cause any more trouble." A single withered petal drifted from the window and landed in my palm. Cause any more trouble, I mouthed to myself. And then, I began to laugh. Very well, cousin. I will give you exactly what you wish for. 3 In the past, whenever we argued, Damian would be the one to make peace. A plate of rosewater tarts was brought to my room. The servant said they were from him. But I had never liked rosewater tarts. My maid, Clara, tried to comfort me. "My lady, Lord Damian must be so worried about you that he's muddled. He simply forgot your preference. Don't be angry." Her eyes shone with hope. "He still cares for you, my lady!" My heart stirred. I was about to take a bite when Isabelle's maid rushed in and slapped the tart from my hand. "That's for Lady Isabelle, from Lord Damian! How dare you eat it?!" A cold wind seemed to blow through the crack in my heart. So, it wasn't for me after all. Clara's face flushed with shame. "My lady, I didn't know..." I shook my head. "It's fine. It was never meant for me." Isabelle waved a dismissive hand. "It's no matter. Damian has been sending a river of gifts to my rooms these past few days. If you like rosewater tarts so much, cousin, you only had to ask." Clara, incensed, shoved the entire plate back into Isabelle's arms. "Here, take them!" Isabelle stood frozen, tears welling in her eyes. Damian, arriving at that very moment, rushed to her side, dabbing at her tears with his own handkerchief. "Don't cry." When he looked at me, his eyes were full of cold fury. "When did you become so envious? I send Isabelle a plate of tarts, and you must snatch them away?" "I didn't..." I tried to explain that the servant had brought them to me, that it was a mistake. But he wouldn't listen. "I don't need your excuses. I see the truth with my own eyes." He took the plate and contemptuously emptied its contents into the fish pond. "Anything she has touched..." he said, his voice dripping with disgust. "Is tainted." He turned back to Isabelle, his voice softening. "If you still wish for tarts, I will have the kitchens send more." He was the perfect, gentle lord. Isabelle leaned close to my ear, her lips curved in a triumphant smile. "What does it matter that you were once his favorite? In his eyes, you are nothing now." Damian had my allowance cut. The servants, seeing which way the wind blew, stopped tending to my needs. Autumn arrived, and I wasn't even given fabric for a new cloak. In years past, Damian would have taken me to the city tailor himself. Now, he spent his days with Isabelle. She brought me a bolt of hideous, moss-colored wool. "I was going to use this to line my boots," she said with a sweet, cutting smile. "But then I heard you had no funds for new clothes, so I brought it straight to you." I felt no anger. "Thank you, Lady Isabelle." "Oh!" she cried out, "accidentally" knocking over a candlestick. Hot wax spattered across the back of my hand. A searing pain shot up my arm. Damian, who had appeared from nowhere, rushed to Isabelle, carefully examining her hands, turning them over and over. "Are you hurt anywhere? Does it hurt?" My own hand was blistering, the pain so sharp tears sprang to my eyes. But no one asked if I was in pain. Isabelle shot me a triumphant look, then began to cry, complaining that her hand was burned and that only Damian's kiss could make it better. Their intimate display made me feel like an intruder in my own room. From beginning to end, Damian never once noticed my injury. Instead, he rounded on me. "She brings you a gift out of kindness, and you deliberately knock a candle over to harm her?" "You are incorrigible." "I should never have let you stay in this house." He had forgotten. He had forgotten holding my hands in his, all those years ago, and saying, "Keeping you here, Lyra, was the best decision I have ever made." And: "Our Lyra deserves the best of everything in this world." I closed my eyes, a wave of nausea and sorrow washing over me. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down my cheek. 4 The Duchess informed me that a blacksmith, a commoner, had agreed to marry me. He didn't mind, she said, that I had... lost a child. The wedding would be after the Autumn Hunt. "As you wish, my lady." My life belonged to this house. I would marry whomever they chose. Every year, Damian took me to the Hunt. This year, another woman stood at his side. He was, as always, the champion. He won the grand prize and began to walk toward the crowd. Toward me. My palms grew damp with sweat. But then, just before he reached me, he turned. He presented the prize, a magnificent hunting falcon, to Isabelle. "For you."

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