A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

At once, Yvaine understood everything. Her plan had failed. Those two men had not succeeded.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said sharply. "I advise you to leave at once, or I shall report you to the authorities and have you executed!"

"Lady Yvaine, you are to come with me. If you refuse to cooperate," Lance said evenly, still ignoring her outbursts, "then I shall not be so courteous."

"What do you think you are doing—"

Before she could finish, his figure blurred. In the next instant, he stood directly before her like a ghost ready to devour her soul.

His hand rose and struck the back of her neck with precision.

Yvaine’s vision went black.

Without another word, Lance lifted her unconscious form over his shoulder and carried her out of the mansion.

By the time he arrived at the residence in Firefly Lane, the courtyard lay silent.

He entered, cast her unceremoniously to the ground, and stepped forward to the inner chamber.

"My lord," he reported, bowing, "Yvaine Emberlyn has been subdued and brought here. I await your command."

Inside, Rhaegar stood beside the bed, his gaze lingering on Caelith’s still form. At the sound of Lance’s voice, his expression darkened further.

He rose at once and stepped into the outer room.

Lance bowed deeply in a greeting. "My lord."

Rhaegar gave a slight motion of his hand, signaling him to rise.

Then he walked straight toward Yvaine.

Looking down at her unconscious face—so carefully composed in life, yet now stripped of all pretense—his eyes filled with cold disdain.

For a fleeting moment, he considered striking her with all his might. But the thought of soiling his boots on her made him dismiss it.

She was disgusting.

"Take her to the outskirts of the city," he said at last, his voice icy. "To the back alleys."

A deadly pause.

"Let her taste the poison she prepared for another."

He would never allow Yvaine Emberlyn to die so easily. No one would ever face an easy death after trying to mess with a woman who belonged to him.

No—death would be mercy she did not deserve.

What he intended was far crueler.

He would see her utterly ruined, her name dragged through the mire, her pride shattered beyond repair.

Lance had followed Duke Rhaegar Thorne for years—how could he not understand the meaning behind those words? This was not a simple order––this was a sentence.

"I understand," he replied at once, bowing his head in compliance.

Without delay, he hoisted the bound and unconscious Yvaine onto his shoulder, mounted his horse, and rode swiftly toward the back alleys beyond the city outskirts.

***

The back alleys outside the capital were a place of chaos and decay.

Refugees, beggars, and petty traders crowded the narrow lanes like parasites. By day, it was a place of ceaseless movement—noisy, crowded, and impossible to ignore.

It was exactly the kind of place Rhaegar had in mind.

Upon arrival, Lance dismounted and cast Yvaine down upon a tattered straw mat. Nearby lay an old vagrant, his hair matted and gray, his clothing ragged and filthy beyond recognition.

Lance glanced at the man, then turned to his subordinates.

"Make some noise. Draw a crowd. You know what to do."

"Yes., My Lord"

One of them picked up several stones and hurled them at a cracked clay jar nearby. The sharp clatter echoed through the alley like thunder.

At once, they withdrew into the shadows of a side lane.

Not long after, Yvaine stirred.

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing with it a splitting headache and a dull, throbbing pain at the back of her neck. She tried to lift her hand to touch it—but found her wrists bound, her movements restricted.

Her eyes darted around, shock gripping her like a suffocating rope.

The place was foul.

The air was thick with the stench of rot and mildew, so pungent it made her stomach churn. The unfamiliar, filthy surroundings filled her with immediate dread.

"Where am I?! Let me go! Help! Someone, help!" she cried, struggling desperately to rise.

But her limbs were weak—useless.

"Charlotte! Someone—help me!" Her voice rang out in panic once more.

Beside her, the old vagrant stirred at the noise, grunting. He slowly opened his eyes, shifting loudly in his place.

When he saw her—finely dressed despite her disheveled hair, her delicate features still striking—his gaze shifted, something crude and greedy lighting within it.

He reached out.

His hand was blackened with grime, the stench of filth clinging to it as it moved toward her arm.

Yvaine’s pupils shrank.

A wave of nausea and terror surged through her.

She tried to recoil—but the ropes held her fast.

"Get away from me! You filthy creature—don’t touch me!"

She struggled wildly, kicking and twisting, but her resistance only worsened her state. Her carefully arranged hair came undone, ornaments scattering across the ground. Her fine gown tore against the rough surface beneath her.

The vagrant seized the fabric at her collar and ripped it open with a single move.

The sound of tearing cloth rang out unnaturally loudly.

The neckline split, exposing the vivid red undergarment beneath.

Yvaine flushed instantly with humiliation, her breath catching in her throat. She tried to cover herself, but the man caught her wrist again.

"Let me go!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "If you dare touch me, I will have your life—!"