My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 220

Chapter 220 Lingering Warmth

Chapter 220 Lingering Warmth

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Men delighted, yet when troubles followed, the blame fell on women branded as temptresses. There was no shortage of such stories, each more bitter than the last.

“Do you offer such casual appraisals to every woman you meet?” She tilted her head, voice soft, almost fragile. “Tell me, if I refuse intimacy, will you truly keep your distance?”

Soren read the deliberate vulnerability in her posture and chose silence, watching the play of candlelight over her lashes.

She felt no shame in the game, maintaining that fragile façade while her eyes shimmered with quiet challenge.

At length he exhaled, the smallest smile loosening his guard. “When you grow gentle and helpless, Fiona, I am helpless too.”

She lowered her gaze, a shy flush climbing her cheeks. “I would feel it, Lord Soren, if you truly treated me with a little more kindness.”

“Good,” Soren answered, the single word surprisingly solemn.

He followed it with a smile-part earnest, part unreadable-so that sincerity and some deeper intent blurred together in the curve of his lips.

“I should return,” Fiona murmured, drawing her cloak tighter as though reality had slipped

between them.

“I will escort you,” Soren replied.

Fiona started to refuse, yet the quiet finality in his eyes left no room for debate, and she yielded with a nod.

Sandalwood curled through the carriage, its scent a quiet benediction.

On the little inlaid table sat porcelain dishes of sugared almonds, dried plums, candied ginger.

Soren, coat unbuttoned, bent over a stack of dispatches, pen scratching with soldierly economy. Fiona settled opposite him, the novel open in her lap, eyes stealing more glances at him than at the page.

He has no time for conversation, so why insist on escorting me?

Soren lifted his head as if a question-perhaps about how she viewed Xavier-balanced on his

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Chapter 220 Lingering Warmth

tongue, yet the words never crossed his lips.

:

Fiona caught the look, puzzled, then returned to the same sentence for the third time.

He cleared his throat. “Never mind. Keep reading.”

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When the carriage halted she pointed at the dishes. “May I take these treats along for Lili?”

Soren slipped the confections into a silk pouch, tightened the draw-string, and handed it over without lifting his eyes from the paperwork.

“I folded the corner where I stopped. Do not move it,” she reminded him, knowing they would meet again before Alexander’s secrets unraveled and she still needed the book.

He glanced at the marked page, nodded once. “Understood.”

Only then did Fiona step down, the balm of sandalwood following her into the cooling dusk.

Later that afternoon Luna arrived with reports. As her hand hovered over the book on the table, Soren said evenly, “Leave it.”

She withdrew her fingers. “Is that ‘Revival Dreams’ by Quentin Fallows?”

“Fiona is reading it,” he said, almost absently. “If she cannot find her place, she will blame me.”

Color flickered across Luna’s face-words poised, then swallowed-as she lowered her gaze in

silence.

After only three more carriage rides Fiona closed the volume with a faint sigh; she had finished it.

When they met again Soren tapped the cover. “What did it leave you with?”

“That dying for a righteous cause is worth more than living an aimless life,” she answered.

“Kingdoms endure because countless souls stand guard with their lives. Our frontier generals already understand this,” Soren replied.

Fiona studied him. “And you, Lord Soren-are you unafraid to die as well?”

“To die for our country-then I would depart without a single regret,” Soren said softly, his tone as calm and ironclad as a sworn oath.

In that moment Fiona felt a reluctant admiration. Hunger for power was one thing, yet Soren could still carry the weight of the realm in his heart.

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Chapter 220 Lingering Warmth

“You will come back safe, Lord Soren,” Fiona answered, conviction gleaming in her

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eyes.

“Not necessarily,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I have brushed death before. The winter before last, an enemy arrow threw me face-first into the snow. I lay bleeding while hungry wolves circled. Only the thought of Mother and everyone at the estate made me rise. I grappled the alpha, rammed my sword into its throat, and stole back my life.”

In her previous life, Fiona had never heard a single whisper of that tale.

“Does Duchess Zonfrillo know about that night?” she asked, surprised; surely the Duchess would not have hidden such peril from her.

“Mother and Naomi dwell in the inner court,” Soren replied. “They need not lose sleep over blood and steel.”

A quiet thought flickered inside her. Then why confide in me? I am only a lady too.

Soren’s smile warmed the lantern glow. “You are not like them, Fiona. You are stubborn steel wrapped in silk. If misfortune finds me again, I suspect I will send you word-perhaps you might even haul me back from the brink.”

She was more than resilient; keen intellect shimmered behind her composed gaze. Neither of them guessed that his light jest would one day prove chillingly true.

“If it lies within my power, I will save you,” she promised.

“Should that hour come, guard your own safety first,” he said.

A mixed shadow crossed Fiona’s eyes, and she answered only with silence.

From that night on, their meetings grew easier, almost companionable. Fiona visited Clearsky Pavilion about once every five days. If Soren sent a note, she came sooner. When he traveled outside Jexburgh, weeks could pass before they crossed paths again.

When Soren was buried in affairs, he scarcely glanced up. They worked in the same hall, separate worlds, disturbing nothing but paper.

When his schedule loosened, he poured coffee, let music drift through the rafters, and they spoke in low tones about palace rumors.

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