I could feel him. Even without looking up from the mud and the tangled roots of the roses, I knew Duke Alaric was there. He was a constant weight in the air, perched on his stone balcony like a hawk watching a field mouse in the tall grass. The pressure of his gaze felt like a physical hand on my neck, colder than the morning dew soaking through my apron. I tried to focus on the thorns, but my fingers were clumsy. Every time I dared a glance toward the high windows, I saw the glint of his crystal wine glass. He wore a slow smile that never reached his eyes. He was not just watching a gardener work. He was marking his territory.
I did not wait to finish the row. I dropped my heavy shears into the dirt and hurried toward the kitchens, desperate to put a wall between myself and that metallic stare. My breath came in short, jagged bursts.
"Lydia! Stop right there," Mrs. Clara's voice barked before I could cross the threshold.
The head housekeeper looked sharper than a butcher's blade today. Her keys jingled at her waist with an aggressive rhythm.
"The Duke's guest is in a foul mood and Bella has a migraine. You are going to the private dining room for the breakfast service. Now."
My heart skipped a beat. I stayed in the dirt and the thorns for a reason. Inside the palace, the air was too still.
"But the roses need pruning before the heat hits..." I started.
"The roses can wait. His Grace cannot," she snapped.
She shoved a silver tray into my hands. It was heavy and polished so bright I could see my own terrified face reflected in the metal. I looked like a stray cat caught in a storm.
The walk through the halls was a blur of gold leaf and cold marble. The silence in the palace was different from the silence in the woods. Here, it felt manufactured, as if the walls were holding their breath. We reached the heavy oak doors of the private dining room. They swung open to reveal a space that smelled of expensive wax and old secrets.
A woman sat at the long table. This was Diane. She was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, dressed in silk that cost more than my father's entire farm. Her face was a mask of simmering rage. I kept my chin tucked against my chest, my eyes fixed on the hem of her gown, standing like a statue behind the senior maids.
Then, the floorboards groaned. The rhythmic thud of boots on the marble made the blood drain from my face. Alaric had arrived. He took his seat at the head of the table without acknowledging any of us. The only sound for a long, painful minute was the clink of his silver fork against a plate.
"Your Grace, are you even listening to me?" Diane's voice finally broke the quiet. It was a noble sound, melodic and high, but it had a desperate edge that made my skin crawl.
"Not particularly," Alaric answered.
His voice was a deep growl that seemed to vibrate in the very air I was breathing. It wasn't loud, but it filled every corner of the room.
A chair scraped violently against the floor. The shrill noise made me flinch.
"We spent the night together!" Diane cried out.
I saw her reflection in the silver tray. Her cheeks were flushed with a mix of shame and fury. I lifted my eyes just an inch. Alaric was leaning back, his large frame dwarfing the ornate chair. He looked bored. He looked like a man watching an insect struggle in a web.
"And so, Diane? What do you want me to say to that?"
"That you will ask my father for my hand! You took my honor in that bed!"
A deep, melodic laugh filled the room. The sound was rich and cruel. It made the crystals on the chandelier above us shiver. Alaric ran a hand through his dark hair as if she had told the finest joke in the kingdom. Diane turned her head and saw us. She saw the three maids witnessing her private humiliation. Her pride crumbled right there in front of the help.
"We will speak of this later," she stammered.
"On the contrary, I think we have said everything," the Duke said. His tone had turned to ice.
With a cry of frustration, the noblewoman stood up. "Come! My things are already packed. I am leaving this wretched place!" she ordered, gesturing wildly at Bella and Rose.
The two maids scrambled to follow her. I tried to slip away in their wake, my pulse drumming against my ribs. I was a second away from the door when his voice stopped me like a blade pressed to my throat.
"You. The redhead. Stay here. Come and pour my wine."
The silence that followed was heavier than the stones of the castle. I felt my legs turn to water. I approached the table, the crystal bottle feeling like a lead weight in my hand. Alaric did not look away. His grey eyes tracked the movement of my wrist with the focus of a predator.
I reached for his glass. My fingers were shaking so badly the neck of the bottle rattled against the rim. Just as the dark liquid began to flow, he made a sudden, calculated movement with his arm. He bumped my hand at the exact moment the glass was full.
The wine did not hit the white lace tablecloth. It splashed directly onto his lap, soaking into his pale linen trousers. The dark stain spread instantly, highlighting the heat and the shape of his body beneath the fabric.
Panic hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. I thought of the cost of the pants. I thought of my father's debt. I thought of being whipped or thrown into the street. I stopped thinking like a rational human. Driven by a blind, frantic terror, I dropped the bottle and fell to my knees between his spread legs.
"I... Your Grace... please! I will fix it!"
I grabbed a silk napkin and began to rub the wet fabric. I was on my knees before him, my face so close to his lap that I could feel the intense heat radiating from his skin. I rubbed with the energy of a woman trying to claw her way out of a grave.
But beneath my palms, the texture of the linen changed.
It was no longer just wet cloth. A burning hardness began to grow under my fingers. I felt his muscles twitch. A thick, powerful ridge formed beneath my hand, growing larger and more solid with every frantic stroke I made. I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as the realization washed over me. I was no longer cleaning a stain. I was stroking him.
"What do you think you are doing, Lydia?"
His voice was a low, vibrating growl. I tried to pull my hands away, but his grip was a steel trap. He clamped his fingers around my wrists, pinning my hands against his heat. He forced me to stay there, my face only inches away from the undeniable proof of his arousal.
He used his other hand to grip the back of my neck, forcing me to look up. His eyes were no longer grey. They had turned black, devouring my face with a brutal hunger.
"You are a very clumsy little thing," he whispered. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, pressing hard enough to hurt. "But you are also infinitely more interesting than the lady who just left. I hate wasted wine, Lydia. It is an insult that demands a heavy price."
He leaned down until his lips were brushing against mine. He smelled of musk, expensive tobacco, and danger.
"How do you plan to pay me back? Because a simple apology will never be enough for what you have just started down here."
I was trapped between his knees, my own body betraying me as a strange, traitorous warmth curled in my belly. I could hear his heart beating. It was slow. Steady. Terrifying.