The dagger stayed with her.
Not in a drawer. Not hidden under her pillow.
It was strapped to her thigh.
Every day since the dinner incident, Leora wore it like second skin. A reminder that in this house, in this marriage, survival required more than clever words and borrowed power. It required readiness.
And Don Allerick?
He noticed.
"You've taken to carrying it," he remarked three mornings later, his voice low as he buttoned his tailored black shirt.
Leora didn't look up from the book she pretended to read on the couch. "You gave it to me. I assumed you wanted me to use it."
"I do. But not recklessly."
She snapped the book shut. "So teach me. Instead of parading me like a trophy or a trap, teach me to defend myself."
He studied her.
Not just her words, but her stance, her tone, her demand.
Finally, he gave a slight nod.
"Tonight. The south wing gym."
That night, the gym wasn't empty.
Lucien stood by the wall, arms folded. Rosetta sat on the windowsill, peeling an apple with a switchblade. And Allerick?
He was already in the ring.
Black sleeves rolled to the elbow. Cane leaning outside the ropes.
Leora blinked. "You're fighting?"
"I'm instructing," he said. "Get in."
She hesitated, eyeing the mat. "This feels performative."
"Everything in our world is," Rosetta said with a smirk. "Even survival."
Leora exhaled and stepped in.
Allerick didn't wait. His hand darted forward, fast as a whip, and tapped her wrist.
"Sloppy guard."
Another flick—this time her shoulder.
"Telegraphed motion."
Leora gritted her teeth. "So we're skipping warm-ups?"
"This is warm-up," he said. "React faster."
He came at her again, open palm this time. She ducked, barely, but lost her balance and stumbled.
Lucien chuckled. "Points for effort."
Leora stood. Furious now. Blood hot in her face.
She charged.
Allerick sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her forward. She turned, but too late—his leg swept hers, and she landed hard on the mat.
Pain bloomed down her spine.
Allerick looked down at her, unreadable. "Sloppy. Again."
"Damn it," she hissed.
"Good," he said. "Get mad. Now channel it."
She climbed to her feet. This time, she didn't rush. She circled him.
Waited.
Watched.
When he moved—just a fraction—she feinted right, then ducked low and jabbed at his abdomen.
He caught her wrist mid-air. Held it firm. Their faces inches apart.
"Better," he murmured.
Then he released her.
And smiled.
For the next hour, he taught her how to strike. Where to aim. How to use her size as an advantage, not a weakness.
"You won't win through brute force," he said, adjusting her stance. "But your mind—that's your weapon. Strategy, precision, and the illusion of helplessness. Use them all."
By the end of the lesson, she was bruised, sweaty, and breathless.
And exhilarated.
She didn't realize she was smiling until Allerick wiped the blood from her split lip with his thumb.
"You're dangerous when you stop pretending," he said softly.
Her heart stumbled. Just once.
But she refused to show it.
"I'm always dangerous," she said. "You just didn't see it before."
He held her gaze. "I see it now."
Later that night, Leora limped back to her room, sore but alive in a way she hadn't felt in weeks. She peeled off her training clothes, examined the bruise forming across her ribs, and laughed quietly to herself.
She wasn't broken.
She was becoming.
There was a knock at the door.
Not Rosetta's. Not Allerick's.
Lucien.
He stood there with a folder in his hand and a strange look in his eye. "We need to talk."
She frowned. "Now?"
He stepped in, closed the door, and handed her the file.
Inside were photos.
Her father's men. One of them photographed entering a luxury hotel… and leaving with a man she recognized from the dinner table. Emilio's cousin.
Leora's blood went cold. "What is this?"
"Your father's playing both sides," Lucien said. "He's setting you up. Trying to make it look like you're the leak."
She sank onto the chair. "Why?"
"Because you made him look weak when you ran. Now he's trying to save face. Your marriage makes him vulnerable. He wants it undone."
Leora swallowed. "Will Allerick believe it?"
Lucien hesitated. "He trusts you more than he admits. But he trusts evidence more."
She looked up, voice hoarse. "So what do I do?"
Lucien leaned in, voice razor-sharp. "Get ahead of it. Be the weapon before you're the casualty."
That night, she didn't sleep.
She stared at the ceiling until the sky turned pale.
At dawn, she left her room quietly, dressed in black, dagger strapped to her thigh.
This time, she wasn't going to ask for help.
She was going to find the traitor herself.
And if her father had truly betrayed her, if the man who had raised her was now trying to frame her for treason....
Then blood would answer blood.