Claimed By The Tyrant King

The housemaster of House Eryndell stood before the servants. He was an old man who had served the house for many years, and in his hand was a scroll from which he assigned the tasks for the day. "Thomas... to the attic," he said, posting the servants, and they bowed before heading off to their duties.

One after another, they were called and dismissed, until only one man remained.

"Rowan," the housemaster called, his gaze settling on the tall man whose head was lowered and whose posture remained composed. "You have been selected as Lady Rosalind’s footman," he declared.

Rowan did not respond, and not even a flicker passed through those dark eyes.

"This is an order from the king himself. You are to serve the mistress for as long as the king demands before returning to your former duties," the housemaster added.

The old man rolled up his scroll, and then stepped closer to him. "You already know what your duty is, so get going," he said.

Rowan bowed slightly before turning on his heel and walking away, his steps were steady and his spine straight.

The housemaster let out a quiet sigh as he watched him leave. That particular servant had always been different from the rest, carrying an air that kept others at a distance, and somehow he felt relieved that Rowan had now been assigned as the mistress’s footman, where the king himself would have eyes on him.

Back in her room, Rosalind sat in one corner, lost in thought as she reflected on everything that had happened and how her life would only worsen from here.

She had prayed that the letter would reach her father, yet instead it had fallen directly into Alaric’s hands.

She tried to push away the memory of his devilish smirk and the way he had claimed her lips, his lips had been hot and claiming against hers and she found her toes curling at the thought despite herself.

It had stirred something unfamiliar in her, something she could not name, and perhaps that was because he was the first person she had ever kissed. Her father had never allowed her near men, nor had he given her the freedom to explore such things, so this was all new to her.

However, what lingered most was not the kiss itself but the fear it left behind. The ease at which Alaric controlled her made her feel suffocated, and she longed for freedom, to spread her wings and escape like a bird released from its cage.

Her thoughts drifted back to his words about her father about how he had not been in debt but had willingly handed her over. Her fists clenched at the memory. She did not know whether to believe him.

Her father could not be that heartless... could he? Knowing the kind of man Alaric was, how could her father have given her away so easily? The thought made her throat tighten painfully as she swallowed.

Was she not his daughter, his own flesh and blood? How could he do such a thing to her?

No. Alaric must have been lying. She refused to believe it unless Viscount Calder himself proved it to be true. That being said, Rosalind would not waste her time here. There had to be a way to reach her father or to escape entirely but this time she would have to be careful. Whatever she wanted to do, she would not make another mistake.

It did not matter where she went, as long as it was far from here.

Just as her thoughts began to spiral again, the sound of steady footsteps outside her door broke through the silence.

Rosalind felt her heartbeat quicken as she waited for a knock, but none came, and the footsteps did not move away. Whoever it was lingered right outside her door.

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Who would stand there without knocking?

Were they spying on her?

She rose from the bed carefully and moved toward the door, her steps were quiet as she leaned in to look through the peephole. Her hazel eyes scanned the hallway, first to the left, then to the right and that was when she saw him. A man stood directly in front of her door.

Who could this be?

She stared and just then his posture shifted ever so slightly, as though he had sensed her watching him without needing to turn.

Rosalind’s breath caught, and she quickly pulled back with her heart racing wildly in her chest.

She cleared her throat and forced herself to compose her expression. Whoever he was, she needed to face him properly. Taking a steady breath, she reached for the handle and opened the door.

"Greetings, my lady," the man said as he bowed. There was a slight pause before he bowed, as though the action did not come to him naturally.

The sound of his voice struck her at once. She had heard it before... Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him.

"I have been appointed as your personal footman," he added.

Then it dawned on her. He was the same servant who had shown her the ladies’ quarters the previous day. The faint scent of soap clung to him and his dark short hair fell slightly over his face as he bowed, his moustache and beard framing his features.

It was indeed that strange servant. She recognized the way he lowered his head, as though it was something he had to force himself to do.

The coldness in his voice sent a strange shiver through her. It was not fear exactly but something else she could not name.

Rosalind said nothing. Instead, she shut the door firmly in his face, as though putting a barrier between herself and whatever he was.

Alaric had not been bluffing when he said she would not be allowed to move freely around his palace. He had assigned her a personal footman, and while that might be the excuse he gave, she knew better. This man was a spy, someone who would report her every move back to the king.

Rosalind clenched her fists. How was she supposed to escape now... when there would be someone watching her every step?