"And why does this pique your interest so?" I asked, suspicion threading through my voice like a taut wire. My eyes narrowed, studying his expression for any crack in his polished composure. 

The assissination attempt was supposed to be handled as a family matter, an internal scandal buried beneath the weight of the Kildare name. So why, I wondered, did the Second Prince himself feel the need to meddle? 

Leandro’s gaze held steady, unflinching under the weight of my inquiry. His dark eyes were fathomless, revealing nothing yet seeming to see everything. "Because, Lady Luciana," he said at last, his tone measured and deliberate, each word draped in the authority of his rank. "I am leading the investigation." 

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and irrevocable. 

"When exactly were you planning to share that tidbit of information with me?" I hissed under my breath when my coughing fit subsided, my voice low enough that only Gavriel could hear. His lips parted as though to respond, but no words came; instead, he glanced away like a guilty schoolboy caught sneaking sweets.

"I don’t know what more information I could provide you with, Your Highness," I said aloud, my voice steady despite the storm brewing within me. I set the teacup down with deliberate care, as if controlling that small action would somehow help me regain control of the conversation. "The library was dark when I was attacked," I continued, each word chosen carefully, measured against the weight of what I did not wish to reveal. "I couldn’t see much before I lost consciousness due to the poison."

My gaze flicked back to Gavriel as I added pointedly, "And now, as I have been told, the assailant is dead." The words were clipped and precise,"In fact," I pressed on, leaning ever so slightly forward as if daring Leandro to contradict me, "he died while in your custody." My eyebrow arched with defiant precision as I met his gaze head-on. "Shouldn't you focus on uncovering the mastermind rather than interrogating the victim?"

Leandro did not flinch under my scrutiny; if anything, he seemed almost amused by my boldness. 

"He is indeed dead," Leandro said finally, his tone contemplative rather than defensive. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers steepling before him as if framing an invisible argument. "But it is most curious," he continued, his voice softening into something dangerously close to intrigue, "how he survived his injuries from the library in the first place."

My stomach tightened as he spoke. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he said those words.

"Astonishingly," Leandro went on, his eyes narrowing with hawk-like precision as they fixed on mine, "the bookcase he was trapped under didn’t crush him outright." He paused then, letting the implication sink in like a stone dropped into still water. "Though I have been told that each bookcase in the main library of the Marquess estate weighs hundreds of pounds, without books, and requires several strong men to install."

He leaned forward suddenly, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate: "How did you manage it by yourself, Lady Kildare?"

The question struck me like a thunderclap, leaving me momentarily stunned. The air seemed to thicken around us, heavy with unsaid implications and unspoken accusations. My heartbeat quickened its pace until it felt like a caged bird battering itself against my ribs.

Before I could summon a response—or fabricate one—Eamon's voice cut through the tension like a blade through fog. "The bookcase was loose and unsteady, your Highness," he interjected firmly. There was no hesitation in his tone; only certainty and loyalty. "Her ladyship had mentioned it earlier," he added without faltering under Leandro's piercing gaze. "And I regret my negligence in reporting it."

Leandro’s attention shifted sharply toward Eamon then like a predator's focus locking onto an unexpected target. His stare turned icy as he studied Eamon with an intensity that bordered on invasive scrutiny. "Speaking out of turn," Leandro said coldly, "reflects poorly upon your master."

"He is right." I confirmed, as fury colored my cheeks at the display of classism. 

"The bookcase was loose," I repeated firmly, and sat up straighter in my chair despite feeling as though every nerve in my body were alight with tension. "And in a moment of sheer desperation," I added pointedly, meeting his gaze without flinching or faltering even once, "I pushed it with all the strength left in me."