Page 34 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Thirty-Four

Nothing Tastes Right

The manor was darker at night without Kai. The long hallways seemed to whisper. The portraits on the walls seemed to watch too closely. And though every corner was clean and every sconce glowed, Lyric couldn’t shake the chill that crept beneath her skin.

Dinner was served in the formal dining room that evening. When she entered, Mrs. Thornwick was already seated, back straight, a crystal glass of white wine in hand.

“You’re just in time,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. “I do so hate to eat alone.”

Lyric sat, folding her hands in her lap.

The first few moments passed in silence, broken only with the clink of cutlery and the soft hum of classical music playing from somewhere down the hall. A maid brought in soup, then disappeared without a word.

Mrs. Thornwick was the first to break the silence.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Eating without him. The house feels… unbalanced.”

Lyric gave a polite smile. “Yes. It’s quieter.”

“He’s always been the heart of this place. Even as a child. So spirited. So affectionate. ”

The word struck Lyric in the stomach. She kept her gaze down, stirring the soup that had already gone lukewarm.

Mrs. Thornwick went on, her voice dipped in nostalgia. “After his father passed, he would sneak into my bed at night. Said he had nightmares. But I think he just wanted to be close. He was always warm like that. Always curling against me like I was the safest place on earth.”

Lyric’s hand paused, spoon hovering over her bowl.

She froze, just for a second. Wait… when did his father die? She searched her memory, recalling Kai once saying it had happened when he was nineteen.

Nineteen.

Not six. Not eight. Nineteen .

She felt her stomach turn. That wasn’t a child climbing into his mother’s bed.

That was something else entirely.

The older woman didn’t notice—or pretended not to.

“He hated wearing pajamas,” she continued. “Even back then. He said they felt like they were choking him. Isn’t that funny? Even as a boy, he needed to feel free.”

Lyric’s stomach twisted. She placed her spoon down, quietly.

Mrs. Thornwick sipped her wine, then glanced up. “Still doesn’t wear them, does he?”

Lyric swallowed hard. “Umm... No, he doesn’t.”

The room felt too warm. Too still.

“He used to tell me he’d never leave me,” she said, her smile thin and unreadable. “Said no woman would ever love him the way I did.”

The words landed like a slap that no one else saw.

Lyric blinked quickly, forcing another smile. “He’s a good man. I’m lucky.”

“He is a good man. But then, I raised him well.”

She sipped her water to hide the strange nausea rising in her throat.

The rest of dinner dragged. Mrs. Thornwick spoke of flower arrangements and winter linens. But every word was shadowed by that lingering feeling—like Lyric had been shown something she wasn’t supposed to see.

After dessert, she excused herself early.

“You seem tired,” Mrs. Thornwick said as she stood. “Rest well. It’s important—for the baby.”

Lyric nodded. “Goodnight.”

She walked back to her room with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the echo of footsteps never quite aligning with her own. Once inside, she locked the door.

It wasn’t fear exactly. It wasn’t even jealousy.

But it was something.

Something wrong. And it was growing.