The Sinner of Mute

The nursery was bathed in the milky glow of a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon another Romani charm, hung despite Lucien’s disdain for “sentimental clutter.”

Dominic’s wail pierced the silence, sharp and rhythmic, a siren that jerked Sorina upright in bed.

Her body moved before her mind, muscles tensing to swing her legs over the edge, but Lucien’s arm clamped around her waist, iron-hot and unyielding. 

“Stay.” His voice was sleep-roughened but firm, his breath stirring the hair at her nape. “You’re exhausted.” 

She twisted, signing frantically, “He needs me—"

“He needs sleep, Sorina,” Lucien interrupted, sitting up.

The sheet pooled around his hips, “And you need to stop treating me like a man who can’t silence a child.” 

Sorina’s hands froze mid-air.

There it was the edge in his tone, the one that turned promises into threats.

But before she could react, he slid from the bed, snatching his discarded trousers from the floor.

He dressed up as Dominic’s cries escalated into hiccupping sobs. 

“Lie down,” Lucien ordered, not glancing back as he strode from the room. “Or I’ll have the doctor sedate you.” 

Dominic stood clinging to the crib rails, his face flushed and slick with tears, pajamas twisted around his legs.

The mobile above him spun wildly, songbirds frozen mid-flight.

At Lucien’s entrance, the boy’s cries hitched a wet, startled gasp before redoubling. 

“Enough,” Lucien said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. 

He approached the crib like a strategist assessing a siege, his frown deepening as Dominic reached for him, tiny fists grasping at air.

For a moment, Lucien stared at his little son, his jaw tightening.

Then, with a clipped exhale, he lifted the boy, holding him at arm’s length as one might a grenade. 

Dominic’s cries softened to confused whimpers, his tear-glazed eyes locking onto his father’s.

Lucien’s nostrils flared. “You’re not hungry. You were fed two hours ago.”

He pressed the back of his hand to Dominic’s forehead. “No fever. Your diaper is dry. What is it?” 

Dominic responded by shoving his fist into his mouth, gnawing fiercely. 

“Teething?” Lucien muttered, as though diagnosing a faulty engine.

He carried the boy to the dresser, yanking open a drawer to retrieve a chilled amber teething ring Sophia’s recommendation, the  baby’s personal doctor.

Dominic grabbed it, immediately slobbering, his sobs dissolving into wet, contented grunts. 

“Thats...disgusting, little boy.” Lucien remarked, staring at the drool dripping onto his sleeve.

Yet he didn’t set Dominic down. 

Lucien paced the room, Dominic cradled awkwardly against his chest, the boy’s head lolling against his collarbone.

Every few steps, he adjusted his grip, his movements stiff, mechanical. 

“This is absurd,” he told the wall. “You’re a Thorne. Thornes don’t whimper.” 

Dominic blinked up at him, gums grinding the ring, and let out a burbling laugh. 

Lucien froze. “You find this amusing?” 

The boy kicked his legs, socked feet thumping Lucien’s ribs. 

A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw.

Then, slowly, he resumed pacing, his voice dropping to a low, reluctant rumble. “When I was your age, my father locked me in a closet for crying. Did you know that? Two hours. I counted every second.” 
Well...not true exactly he was five years old.

Dominic cooed, drool pooling on Lucien’s shirt. 

“Showing emotion is not an option for us,” Lucien continued, more to himself now. “But you… you’re hers. So perhaps—” He broke off, nostrils flaring, as if offended by his own concession. 

Sorina hovered in the hallway, her back pressed to the wall, nails digging into her palms.

She’d disobeyed of course she’d disobeyed her body refusing to stay still while her son wept.

Now, she watched through the cracked door, her breath trapped in her lungs. 

Lucien had reached the window, Dominic’s cheek smushed against his shoulder.

The city lights haloed them a twisted Madonna and child, one radiating ice, the other innocence. 

“Look,” Lucien ordered, pointing to the sparrows nesting on the penthouse balcony. “Those are sparrows. Passer domesticus. They’re common. Unremarkable.” 

Dominic gurgled, reaching for the glass. 

“No,” Lucien said, catching his hand. “You don’t touch what you can’t control.” 

Sorina’s heart clenched. She stepped forward, but Lucien’s next move froze her he began to hum. 

It wasn’t a melody she recognized a jagged, tuneless thing but Dominic stilled, mesmerized.

Lucien’s voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, the sound vibrating through his chest and into the boy’s tiny frame. 

“Sleep,” he commanded, resuming his pacing. “Or I’ll sell your stuffed fox.” 

Dominic’s eyelids fluttered, heavy, his breath slowing. 

When Lucien emerged twenty minutes later, Dominic was limp in his arms, cheek creased from the seam of his father’s shirt.

Sorina reached for him, but Lucien sidestepped, depositing the boy into his crib with uncharacteristic care. 

“He’ll sleep until dawn,” he said, brushing past her.

Sorina caught his wrist, her fingers trembling. “Thank you.”

Lucien stared at her hand, then at her face, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t do it for you.” 

But as he retreated to their bedroom, Sorina noticed the damp patch on his shoulder tears, drool, perhaps sweat and the way his steps slowed, just once, beside Dominic’s crib. 

In the morning, Sorina found Lucien at his desk, already dressed, documents spread before him like a coronation cloak.

Dominic’s cries had not resumed. 

She approached, signing, “Do you want me to make breakfast now?”

Lucien didn’t look up. “Yes. Im hungry.” 

“sure” she signed.

He lifted a monitor from his drawer a small, black device emitting the soft staticky rhythm of Dominic’s breaths. “He’s sleeping peacefully.” 

She nodded.

But as Sorina turned to leave, he added, quietly, “The sparrows. They’re nesting in the east balcony. Take him to see them....I think he loves sparrows.” 

The words hung between them a concession, maybe...before he buried himself in work, the monitor’s green light pulsing like a second heartbeat.