A Touch of Shadow: The Duke's Obsession

Rhaegar dragged her swiftly into a side drying room—the door slammed shut behind them with a sharp bang.

The chamber was dim, lit only by a narrow window set high above. All around them hung layers upon layers of embroidered silks, draped like veils of gauze, swaying faintly in the still air.

Caelith was pressed back against the wooden door, its chill seeping through her spine—while before her stood the heat of him, close, inescapable.

She drew in a breath, glaring up at him. "Have you lost your mind?"

He did not answer. He only looked at her with eyes full of sorrow.

In the muted light, his gaze burned—dark, deep, carrying that familiar edge of something untamed... something dangerously close to madness.

His hand rose, fingers closing around her chin, lifting her face.

"Why were you smiling at Lucas Ostenton?"

"What?"

"I saw you." His thumb brushed slowly along her jaw—not forceful, yet leaving no room to move. "You smiled. Beautifully so. Why at him?"

Understanding flickered across her expression.

"He helped arrange work for Yvaine. I was thanking him, nothing more."

"Does gratitude require such a smile?"

A short, incredulous laugh escaped her.

"Rhaegar... do you hear yourself? Since when do you speak of reason?"

Reason had no place here anymore.

He lowered his head... And silenced her.

The kiss was fierce, unyielding—laden with that same reckless insistence, as though he would hear no explanation, accept no distance.

Her breath caught. She pushed against his chest, trying to force space between them, but he did not move.

One hand locked at the back of her neck, the other gripping her wrist, holding her fast against the door as though she might vanish if released.

The kiss lingered—long enough that her strength began to waver, her knees softening beneath her.

Only then did he ease back.

Yet even so, he did not truly withdraw.

His lips remained close to hers, brushing faintly, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between.

"Do not smile at him again," he said quietly.

Caelith, still catching her breath, glared up at him. "And what authority gives you the right to command that?"

His eyes narrowed.

He leaned closer still, his lips brushing near her ear—his voice dropping low, edged with something far more dangerous than anger.

Warm. Soft.

Then he parted his lips and drew her earlobe between them, giving her a gentle bite.

Caelith’s entire body trembled; her knees weakened further, forcing her to clutch at his sleeve just to remain upright.

The tip of his tongue traced slowly along her ear, once... then again.

"Do I have the right... or not?" Rhaegar murmured, his voice low and muffled against her skin.

She bit her lip, saying nothing.

His lips moved downward, brushing along the curve of her neck. He drew in a slow breath against her skin, leaving behind a heated mark.

"Do I?"

Still, she did not answer.

His hand slid from her waist, slipping beneath the edge of her garments.

His palm met her skin—burning, roughened slightly by calluses—his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes along her side.

The sensation made her go weak, her body nearly giving way beneath her.

His hand continued upward.

Slowly.

Torturously.

Her breath caught; she pressed her lips together, refusing to let a sound escape.

His lips remained at her neck, drawing heat from her skin again and again, leaving behind a trail of warmth and dampness.

"Speak." His voice had grown hoarse, strained with something deeper. "Do I... or not?"

Caelith trembled, breath unsteady. At last, she answered. "You do..."

Her voice was soft—so soft it seemed it might melt into the air.

He stilled.

Then he lifted his head and looked at her.

A shaft of sunlight fell through the high window, illuminating her face—flushed crimson, lips slightly swollen, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She seemed almost to dissolve where she stood, all strength gone from her.

Something dark flickered in his gaze.

He lowered his head once more and claimed her lips again.

This time, the kiss was slower... deeper... no longer a storm, but something indulgent, lingering—as though he meant to savor her completely.

Her thoughts blurred.

Almost without knowing, her hands rose to rest upon his shoulders, clinging there as though she had nowhere else to anchor herself.

At that very moment, footsteps sounded beyond the door.

"This batch of embroidery is to be collected today—who is inside?"

Caelith froze.

Her body went rigid as stone.

Her gaze darted to the door—then back to Rhaegar, her eyes wide with alarm.

Rhaegar looked at her like that, and the faintest curve touched his lips.

He leaned close, his breath hot and close against her ear, his voice lowered to a whisper meant for her alone.

"Do not be afraid," he murmured. "Whoever sees this... dies."

Her pupils contracted sharply.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Her fingers tightened around his sleeve, her breath coming fast and uneven, her chest rising and falling in barely restrained panic.

He watched her, and something darker deepened in his gaze.

His hand rose, covering her mouth.

With the other, he drew her closer still, pressing her fully against him, leaving no space between them.

Outside, the footsteps halted.

"Strange... I was certain I heard something..."

After a moment, the footsteps faded into the distance.

Only then did Caelith’s tightly drawn body begin to loosen.

She drew in a breath, lifting her head to glare at Rhaegar. "Was that amusing to you?"

He lowered his head and brushed a light kiss against her lips.

"Very."

She raised her hand to strike him. He caught her wrist with ease.

"Caelith," he murmured, his voice softening unexpectedly as it grazed her ear, "remember this—you are mine. No one else may covet what belongs to me."

She stilled.

"...Very well. I shall remember that."

***

Deep within the imperial prison, in its darkest depths, the air was thick with the stench of rusted iron and decay.

When Rhaegar entered, several of his men were gathered outside an interrogation chamber, their expressions grim. At his arrival, they quickly stepped aside.

"My lord," the leading gaoler said in a lowered voice, "that trafficker still refuses to speak."

Rhaegar said nothing.

He pushed the door open.

Inside, a single oil lamp hung, its dim, yellow light barely illuminating the chamber. In that wavering glow, a figure could be seen—bound to a wooden frame, body drenched in blood, hair disheveled, head hanging low, as though life itself had nearly abandoned him.