A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

"Very well." This time, Caelith answered without hesitation.

The ease of her consent brought a visible lift to Rhaegar’s mood. A faint smile curved his lips as he turned toward the window. With effortless grace, he stepped onto the sill and, in a single fluid motion, vaulted out into the night—his figure vanishing like a shadow swallowed by darkness.

Caelith remained where she stood, her gaze lowering to the hairpin in her hand.

After a moment, she lifted it and secured it within her coiffure.

From this night onward, this would no longer be an ornament, but her loyal blade, her safeguard, her silent companion against the unseen dangers that surrounded her.

Somehow, she knew there would come a day when she’d be forced to use it.

...

Sleep did not come easily.

Through the long hours of the night, her thoughts drifted restlessly, tangled between fear, calculation, and something far more dangerous—something she dared not name.

Only as dawn approached did she finally fall into a shallow slumber.

When she awoke, the sun had already risen high—it was near the end of the morning hour.

Dolly entered quietly, bearing warm water, and attended to her washing.

"My lady," she said softly, "Lord Valehart has summoned the imperial physician to examine your condition."

I guess he was truly hurt by my last rejection, she thought to herself, wiping her face with a silk towel. He did not believe I was feeling sick. He needs proof now.

Caelith gave a faint, weary nod and said, "Very well. Admit him."

Before long, the physician arrived and examined her with practiced attentiveness. He noted down every little thing he had noticed about her, groaning from time to time as he compared them to his previous notes.

"Madam suffers only a mild chill," he concluded. "There is no serious ailment. Please keep taking the herbal teas I have prescribed before and don’t skip your walks in the sun."

Caelith nodded her head, saying nothing in return. She dismissed him, had Dolly escort him out, and ordered that the prescribed herbs be prepared.

After taking the medicine, she sat in the courtyard beneath the pale sunlight, a volume of military strategy resting in her hands—one she had deliberately sought out.

If she were to survive, knowledge itself would become her weapon. She did not mean to hold a sword, but one could wage wars without ever holding a weapon.

***

By evening, the light had begun to fade when Dolly hurried in, urgency plain upon her face.

"My lady—the heir is on his way here!"

A flicker of helpless resignation passed through Caelith’s eyes. She had thought that feigning illness would grant her a few days’ reprieve.

It seemed she had been mistaken.

Moments later, Dorian entered the courtyard, his brows tightly drawn.

"How fares your health today?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over her, searching. The memory of her refusal the night before clearly still lingered with him. It almost looked like he actually wanted to catch her faking another illness.

Caelith rose and offered a proper curtsey.

"My thanks for your concern, my lord. I have taken the physician’s medicine, though I still feel somewhat fatigued."

Dorian lifted a hand, dismissing the attendants with a gesture. The servants withdrew, leaving the two alone.

"My affairs were light today," he said. "So I returned early—to keep you company. I feel bad leaving you alone while you’re in distress."

"My lord has labored much," Caelith replied gently. "You should rest in the front residence. There is little here that could properly receive you. I am in no state to be an entertaining company."

It was a refusal—again.

Dorian’s expression darkened slightly.

"Between husband and wife, there should be no distance," he said, his tone sharpening. "Since you are somewhat recovered, it is time you fulfill your duties. Our marriage is hanging in the balance otherwise."

The bluntness of his words stripped away all pretense.

In that moment, she was not his wife—she was only something to be claimed. To be used as he pleased.

He did not regard her health, nor did he care about her feelings. She belonged to him, and he felt unsettled by the fact that she had the nerve to keep him away like that.

"The physician instructed that I must rest quietly and avoid exertion," Caelith answered, her voice steady. "I ask my lord’s understanding."

Dorian let out a cold laugh. "I think it is not illness that afflicts you," he said, his gaze turning harsh, "but that you are deliberately avoiding me."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping, stripped now of all patience.

"Caelith Emberlyn, do not mistake my restraint for weakness. Even if I were to take you by force, none would dare speak against it. So why don’t you make it easy for both of us?"

The final veil had been torn away.

All that remained was the naked truth of his monstrous nature.

In Dorian’s mind, the matter was simple and unquestionable—Caelith Emberlyn was his legal wife, and as such, she ought to yield to him without condition... even if his heart lay elsewhere.

And it was precisely this certainty—this arrogance—that made her wonder, not for the first time, how she had ever come to marry such a man.

Self-serving. Hypocritical. A man whose world began and ended with his own interests.

Calmly, she lifted her gaze to meet his.