Chapter 111

His mother’s ring.

Octavia had always loved that ring. She cherished it and guarded it fiercely, even more so after Geoffrey’s passing. It was a symbol of the love they had shared, a tangible piece of their marriage and one of the things she still possessed that had once belonged to her husband.

Draven could not imagine any circumstance in which she would willingly part with it. Yet here she was, offering it to him.

Stunned, he reached for the case. His fingers closed gently around it before he slowly shut the lid.

"Are you sure about this?" Draven asked, offering her a chance to reconsider. The gesture touched him deeply, but he did not want his mother to feel obligated to part with something so precious before she was ready. "This ring is important to you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to give it up. I can always get Cassandra another ring."

His mother was already shaking her head before he could finish.

"No, it’s fine. This is what I want. Your father would have wanted it too." Her eyes filled with tears, but they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of joy. Life could be fickle, and Octavia was simply grateful to be here to witness her son take this next step. After seeing the man he had grown into, she could not have been prouder to be his mother. "He would be pleased if he could see you now. You are the best any of us could have ever wished for."

Speaking about Geoffrey like this always left her emotional, forcing her to remember everything she had lost. He had been her husband, her life partner, and her dearest friend. Even after all these years, the ache of losing him had never completely faded.

A tear finally slipped free, but before it could roll down her cheek, Draven gently wiped it away with his thumb.

Among all her children, Eugenia and Lorelai had always held the closest places in her heart, being the two youngest. But Draven was the one she spoke to most often about Geoffrey.

She would reminisce with him about his father—the man Geoffrey had been, the husband she had loved, and the way he had never truly left her heart, even after all these years. She believed those conversations were a way of bonding with Draven, while also making certain that he never forgot the kind of man his father had been.

Draven understood her reasons for it. More than any of his siblings, he had witnessed the final moments of his father’s life. He was there as Geoffrey’s illness gradually stripped him of his strength, remaining at his side while the man he had known all his life slowly wasted away.

He held his father’s hand when Geoffrey drew his final breath. Of all his mother’s children, he was perhaps the one who needed the least reminding of the man their father had once been.

And yet, whenever his mother spoke of Geoffrey, it still hurt.

The pain was like a needle slipping beneath his ribs before driving straight toward his heart. He understood her need to speak of her husband, to keep his memory alive, and he knew she never meant to cause him pain by doing it. But understanding this did not make listening any easier.

His mother could look back on Geoffrey and find comfort in remembering the man he had once been. For Draven, however, those memories were inseparable from the hurtful ones.

"Thank you," he said at last. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

Draven gave her hand one final squeeze before releasing it before slipping the little leather case into the inner pocket of his coat.

He left the estate shortly afterward.

---

Most of the journey back from Norham had been spent thinking about Cassandra. With every mile that brought him closer to Caldor, his impatience to see her had grown, until by the time he arrived, the anticipation had become unbearable.

He was shown into the same sitting room where he had waited for her during his previous visit. Yet this time, there was no Adrian to keep him company, something Draven was grateful for.

He had little desire to endure the prince’s watchful presence or those suspicious glances that suggested Adrian was forever trying to discern his intentions.

So he sat alone and waited.

He ought to have been perfectly at ease. Cassandra would join him soon enough, and after two weeks apart, having her before him again should have been more than enough to settle him.

Instead, he was restless.

In the space of five minutes, his gaze had wandered to the door more times than he cared to count. Each faint sound from beyond it drew his attention, only for him to find himself disappointed when the door remained closed.

Eventually, his hand slipped into his coat pocket. His fingertips brushed against the small leather case to remind himself it was still there.

He withdrew his hand a moment later, mildly irritated with himself.

This was ridiculous.

He had spent years cultivating an imperturbable composure, learning to remain unwavering in difficult circumstances. He had negotiated with hostile councillors, faced armed men without flinching and stepped willingly into situations where one wrong decision could cost him his life with far less agitation than he felt now.

All he had to do was wait patiently for Cassandra and he couldn’t even do that.

The moment the door handle turned, however, every reasonable thought abandoned him. He was on his feet before he could stop himself as the door slowly opened.

Cassandra stood on the other side.

The sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. The restlessness that plagued him dissolved at once, replaced first by relief, then delight.

He was away from her for only two weeks but it had felt considerably longer.

This woman had somehow acquired the power to twist him into knots and the worst part was that he had no one to blame for it but himself.