A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Caelith glared at him again, doing her best to express her irritation without words.

Rhaegar only smiled, his fingers pressing again at her waist in quiet insistence.

A tremor ran through her entire body.

"Lord Ostenton..." her voice quivered despite herself, "in this life, I will love only him."

Outside, Lucas fell silent for a long while.

When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse—laden with the bitterness of wine and something deeper still.

"But a man like him... he will not belong to one alone. The Emperor will bestow others upon him, his father will arrange others... how could he ever remain with you alone?"

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Caelith as if searching her face for a hidden concern.

The unspoken question in his gaze was unmistakable.

Do you believe him? What would you say?

Caelith reached up and cupped his face in her hands.

"He knelt for me for two days and nights. He defied the will of the Emperor for me. For my sake, he has done more than I could ever ask."

A faint contraction passed through Rhaegar’s pupils.

"As for how many may stand beside him in the future, I do not concern myself with that," she said, each word steady and clear. "But no matter what, I will acknowledge only him."

Outside the door, Lucas mulled over her every word.

For a long, heavy stretch of silence, there was nothing.

Then, they heard footsteps.

Unsteady, faltering. Fading, step by step, into the distance.

He was gone.

The room fell still.

Rhaegar’s gaze burned—so intense it made her heart tremble.

"Caelith," he said, his voice rough.

"Yes?"

"What you said just now... was it all true?"

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Which part?"

"That in this life, you will have only me."

"...It is true."

At once, he lowered his head and kissed her—fierce, consuming, as though all that had been restrained now surged forth at once.

She could scarcely breathe, her hands rising instinctively to his shoulders.

Then—he stilled.

From within his uniform, he drew forth a length of leather cord.

Soft. Dark.

She recognized it—and froze.

He took her wrist and wound the cord around it.

Once. Twice.

Not tight—yet impossible to slip free.

His eyes shone in the darkness, bright and unsettling.

"Rhaegar..." she breathed, her body aching for his touch once more.

"Do not move," he said, his voice low and husky. "Tonight... you are mine. And I am not letting you go."

As he spoke, he secured the other end of the cord to the bedpost.

She could no longer move.

He leaned over her, enclosing her completely beneath him.

His kisses fell—at the corner of her eyes, along her cheek, brushing the edge of her lips.

"Caelith."

"...Mm..."

"Remember this," he murmured, his lips close against her ear, his voice low and heavy, as though drawn from deep within his chest. "In this life or another, you will never escape me."

A shiver ran through her body, electrifying every muscle beneath heated skin.

His hand slipped under her garments, his palm warm against her skin, the faint roughness of his fingers tracing slowly, deliberately.

"If I die, then we die together."

His kisses trailed downward.

Bound as she was, Caelith could not resist—only yield.

Yield to his closeness, his insistence, the storm of something fierce and unrestrained within him.

. . .

Time blurred.

At last, she drifted into sleep.

And in that final moment before slumber claimed her, she heard his voice at her ear, "Caelith... you are mine. In this life—and the next, and the one after that."

The faintest curve touched her lips. She no longer had the strength to answer.

***

The next day, Sylric brought new intelligence.

"My lord, Evren Viremont went again to the general store today. When he came out, he carried two bundles," he said in a low voice. "They were heavy... as though they held people."

Rhaegar rose at once.

"Move out."

When they arrived at the residence, a carriage stood waiting at the entrance.

Several men were loading items onto it—large wooden chests, heavy enough that the men strained as they lifted them.

Rhaegar gave a single sharp gesture.

The Imperial Guards surged forward.

The men had no time to react before they were forced to the ground.

The chests were pried open.

Inside were three young girls, curled tightly together, their faces streaked with tears, their bodies trembling. The youngest looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, pressed into the corner, too frightened even to raise her head.

Rhaegar crouched before them.

"Do not be afraid," he said, his voice gentler than before. "We are here to save you."

The youngest lifted her head, glancing at him—and at once, tears spilled over anew.

In the interrogation chamber, Evren was bound to a pillar. At first, he was stubbornly silent, refusing to speak a single word.

Rhaegar sat across from him, a thin blade resting lightly in his hand.

Under the lamplight, its edge gleamed cold and unforgiving.

"Evren Viremont," he began, his voice calm, almost indifferent, "you have delivered goods to Ostenton Embroidery House for five years. You must have seen many people come and go."

Evren looked at him, saying nothing.

"Those girls," Rhaegar continued, "where did they come from?"

Evren turned his face aside.

Rhaegar rose and stepped forward.

The tip of the blade came to rest just beneath the man’s collarbone.

"The cut in this place," he said evenly, "is not deep enough to kill. The pain, however, will be unbearable. So much, in fact, that you’d try to bite your tongue just to end the torture. But even that will not relieve you of it."

The color drained from Evren’s face at once.

The blade pressed in.

A scream tore from his throat right away. "Stop! I’ll speak! I’ll speak!"

Rhaegar’s hand stilled.

Gasping, Evren stammered, "The girls... they were all taken from around the eastern quarter... meant to be sold in the south... shopkeeper Brameroth from the general store—he’s the intermediary... I only deliver them..."

Rhaegar slowly withdrew the blade, delivering the final string of torture.

Blood clung to its edge. He handed it off to a guard and took a cloth, wiping his hands slowly, methodically; his sharp glare remained glued to the man’s pale face.

"And this shopkeeper Brameroth?"

"He ran... he ran... he ran away."

Rhaegar paused, casting Evren a questioning look.

That single look was so cold it nearly drove the man to collapse in terror.

"Search the entire city," Rhaegar ordered, rising to his feet. "Alive or dead—I want him found."

"Yes, my lord!"