A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Caelith trembled all over.

His hand slipped under her clothes, his palm against her skin. His hot, calloused fingertips caressed her waist.

She had gone soft in his hold—too soft to resist, too bound to escape. Her wrists restrained, her strength undone, she could only yield as he claimed her inch by inch, as though she had always belonged there.

"Rhaegar..."

"Mm."

"You..."

"I am here, only for you."

His voice was low—steady, grounding—and for reasons she could not name, it calmed her.

The storm of him did not cease, only deepened—his intensity rising, his restraint thinning. And yet beneath it, there was care... something fiercely protective, even as he drew her further into him.

At last, she closed her eyes and stopped resisting.

She let herself be carried by that dangerous, consuming closeness—half fear, half longing—into a fleeting, forbidden moment that neither of them would relinquish.

The night stretched long.

Moonlight spilled through the narrow gap in the window, laying silver across the room—across the two figures entwined within it.

At times, he was fierce—unyielding, as though he would fuse her into his very bones. It felt as if he wanted to merge their bodies together, capture her inside him, and keep her forever to himself.

At others, he was careful—almost reverent, as though afraid she might break beneath his slightest touch.

Between drifting breaths and wavering consciousness, she heard him murmur against her ear, over and over, like a spell that would bind her to him.

"Remember this... you are mine. You are mine. Mine. Mine."

She tried to answer.

But her voice dissolved into broken whispers, lost somewhere between breath and silence.

He was relentless, rocking his body against her, teasing her skin with his touch, and leaving the proof of his claim with his lips.

Her quiet, pleading moans were the songs that honeyed all his senses, making it so much more difficult for him to stop.

And he did not. Not until he drank all of her pleasure. Not until there was nothing left to take.

At last, Caelith slept. When she woke again, dawn was near.

She shifted slightly and realized that she was still held within his arms.

The leather cord was gone from her wrist, leaving only a faint trace of red.

Rhaegar slept beside her, his brow faintly furrowed, as though even in rest he knew no peace. His lashes cast soft shadows beneath his eyes; his lips were pressed together, the corner slightly broken—where she had bitten him, trying to still the pleasure that threatened to escape her like molten lava.

She watched him silently for a long while.

Then, gently, she lifted her hand and touched his brow.

He stirred.

His hold tightened instinctively, drawing her closer, as he murmured something indistinct in his sleep.

She did not catch the words. She only leaned into him, resting her face against his chest, and closed her eyes once more.

Outside, the sky slowly brightened.

When Caelith woke again, Rhaegar was gone.

The pillow beside her still held warmth, the faint smell of pinewood lingering in the air; he had only just left.

She lowered her gaze.

Dark red marks lingered along her collarbone and skin on her chest—like scattered rose petals, possessive traces of the passionate night before.

She touched them lightly, sliding her fingertips over the bruised skin as if trying to animate them.

They were still warm, and she could almost feel Rhaegar’s lips claiming her skin anew.

"Sister," a voice called from outside, "come have breakfast."

"I’m coming," Caelith replied, already tiding herself up before greeting Yvaine.

She gathered her collar closer about her, composed herself, and stepped out. Her entire body still ached from the night of passion, but she still had to work today; thus, she accepted the food prepared by Yvaine and set off for the market.

. . .

The marketplace was ever alive—voices rising and falling, colors in motion.

She arranged her embroidery piece by piece upon the stall, then seated herself on a small stool and began a new work. Needle and thread moved through her fingers—fine, precise—like the weaving of an unseen net.

Yet her mind wandered.

A stitch went wrong—she unraveled it. Then another—again undone.

Nearby, a group of women selling vegetables chatted as they worked, their voices drifting just loud enough to reach her ears.

"Have you heard? The Thorne family is to be joined with the Tanmin house."

"Which Thorne family?"

"Which else? The Duchy of the Northern Guard. Lord Rhaegar Thorne—the one who rose so young to command the Shadow Guard."

"Oh, that is a perfect match. The Tanmin family is—"

Caelith’s hand faltered. The needle pricked her finger. A bead of blood welled up, bright and round.

She pressed it lightly to her lips—and continued stitching.

The voices carried on.

"I heard Lord Rhaegar is very handsome, though cold as a winter storm. He never smiles."

"Cold? That is only because he has not met the right woman yet. Once he marries the Tanmin lady, perhaps he will learn what heat is. There is not a single man in this world who cannot be moved by the right set of breasts and hips!"

Laughter followed.

By afternoon, the crowd had thinned.

Caelith leaned over her work, stitching the delicate wings of a butterfly, when she sensed someone standing before her stall.

She looked up.

The young man before her was dressed in a pale moon-white robe, the fabric fine and costly at a glance. His features were well-formed—not the sharp, untouchable beauty of Rhaegar, but something gentler, like sunlight warmed in spring. His eyes shone as he studied the embroidery laid out before him.

"Miss... were these all done by your hand?" he asked.

Caelith nodded.

He crouched down, examining each piece with care—handkerchiefs, pouches, fan covers. He lifted them one by one, studying the stitching, the patterns, the precision. The longer he looked, the brighter his gaze became.

"This workmanship..." He looked up at her. "From whom did you learn?"

"My mother," Caelith replied.

He nodded slowly—but then, as he looked at her again, something in his expression shifted. He seemed to freeze, as though a long-lost memory had surfaced.

She felt a faint unease under his gaze.

"Miss," he said suddenly, his voice tightening slightly, "two years ago—at the East Street crossing—there was an old man struck by a carriage, covered in blood. Was it... you who saved him?"

Her hand paused mid-stitch.

Two years ago...

She thought for a moment. Yes—there had been such a day. She had passed by, seen a crowd gathered, and found an old man collapsed in the street, bleeding heavily. No one dared step forward to help him. She had knelt, checked his breath, stopped the bleeding as best she could, and waited until his family arrived before slipping away.

She lifted her eyes.

"And you are asking because...?"

The young man gave a slightly awkward smile, his voice rough with emotion.

"That man... was my father."