"I... I am so sorry, Your Grace," I whispered.
My voice was a ghost of a sound, swallowed instantly by the vast, suffocating silence of the dining room. My fingers remained locked onto the silk napkin, trembling against the wet linen of his trousers. I did not dare to look up. I was terrified by my own clumsiness, but even more by the heat of his body radiating against my palms. It was a searing, living heat that made my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I did not mean to. I swear it was an accident."
"I know it was, Lydia," he answered.
His voice had become soft, almost reassuring. It possessed a velvet texture that often hides a sharp blade. I risked a glance at him and saw his eyes shining with a strange, unreadable light. He no longer seemed angry about the stain. Instead, he looked fascinated by my distress. His gaze crawled over my face like a physical touch, tracing the line of my eyebrows and the curve of my trembling mouth.
"However, intention is not enough to erase a mistake," he continued.
He brought his face closer to mine. His warm breath brushed my cheek, making every pore of my skin shiver.
"You must learn to be careful, little redhead. And to burn this lesson into your mind, I am going to have to punish you."
A chill of pure terror ran down my spine. Alaric never joked. The air in the room suddenly became thin and heavy, as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the space. His hand wandered into my hair, his fingers winding around my wild curls with a slow, possessive strength. He tilted my head back, forcing me to expose the vulnerable line of my throat. His other hand moved down to stroke my neck with unbearable slowness. His thumb traced the racing pulse beneath my skin. I shuddered. I wanted to believe it was only fear, but there was something else, a treacherous warmth that started to numb my reason.
"But do not fear," he murmured, his voice descending an octave to become low and sensual. "I will know how to be indulgent."
With a sudden move, he pulled me up and against him. I found myself a prisoner in the trap of his arms, crushed against the hard planes of his chest. His body felt like solid rock. I could feel the ridge of his desire pressing into my stomach, a reminder of the fire I had accidentally stoked with my own hands. Before I could find the breath to protest, he leaned down and took my lips.
It began as a hesitant caress, almost tender, but it quickly transformed into something devastating. He did not just kiss me. He claimed me. His mouth was a furnace, tasting of dark wine and raw power. When I tried to gasp for air, he used the opening to slide his tongue inside, exploring my mouth with a brutal, hungry authority.
A jolt shot through my spine, melting the strength in my knees. I wanted to fight, but my hands instinctively bunched into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned into the kiss, a low, predatory sound that vibrated in my very marrow. His mouth became more frantic, more demanding. He bit my lower lip just hard enough to make me whimper before sucking it back into his mouth. His tongue teased mine in a slow, rhythmic dance that made my head spin. I felt a surge of heat between my legs, a wet ache that I had never felt before in my life.
In a sudden crash of porcelain and crystal, he lifted me and set me brutally onto the table. Plates and silverware flew to the floor, shattering in the silence, but he did not care. He stepped between my open thighs, his hands gripping my hips so hard his fingers dug into the flesh. He leaned over me, his eyes burning with a wild, animal desire. He took my lips again, his kiss deeper this time, more desperate. His hands slid up to cup my face as he devoured me. Every time I thought I could catch my breath, he pulled me back into the storm.
"You are mine, Lydia," he whispered against my lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Mine alone."
Those words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Reality came crashing back, breaking the spell of his touch. I thought of the village. I thought of the flour on the floor of the bakery and the quiet life I had promised to another. In a burst of clarity, I slammed my hands against his chest and pushed him away with the energy of despair.
"I... I am engaged!" I cried out.
My shaking voice echoed like a sin in the grand room. The Duke froze instantly. His gaze hardened. His pupils shrunk until there was nothing left but steel, cold and sharp. The passion vanished, replaced by a lethal stillness that was far more frightening.
"Engaged?" he repeated. His tone was a threat. "To whom?"
"To Arthur Miller," I answered. I lifted my head, trying to find the strength to resist in the thought of my love for him. "We are getting married soon."
A mocking smile, full of supreme contempt, stretched his lips.
"Arthur Miller? The little baker from the village?"
He let out a disdainful laugh that stung my face like a whip.
"You really think you can link your destiny to a man who spends his days covered in flour? A man who would sell his soul for a sack of grain?"
"He is a thousand times more of a man than you will ever be!" I snapped.
Anger finally chased away the fog of desire. The Duke's laughter died. His face became a mask of ice. The atmosphere in the room changed, becoming heavy and dangerous.
"You dare compare me to a commoner, Lydia?"
"You are nothing but a tyrant," I screamed, tears stinging my eyes. "A man who thinks he can own people because he has a title and a castle!"
He stepped closer, his face inches from mine, so close I could see the sparks of rage in the grey depths of his eyes.
"You are going to learn to respect me, you little fool. You are going to learn obedience."
He grabbed my arm with such force that I groaned in pain.
"And you will forget that baker this very instant. You belong to me, Lydia. Whether you want to or not."
"No!" I yelled, tears flooding my cheeks. "Let me go! It is Arthur I love, and nothing will ever change that!"
At those words, he pulled back abruptly. He let go of my wrist as if I had burned him. His expression turned neutral again, a neutrality that was even more terrifying than his anger.
"You are mine, Lydia," he repeated in a calm, icy voice. "And sooner or later, you will be the one coming to beg me to accept you. You will crawl to this table and ask for my mercy."
Without waiting another second, I fled the room. My legs carried me at a wild speed through the corridors. I could not believe what had just happened. I had given my first kiss-the treasure I was saving for Arthur-to this cruel man. I felt soiled, betrayed by my own body.
As I ran through the grand galleries, everything seemed hostile. The ancient tapestries judged me, and the marble statues seemed to sneer as I passed. I was no longer the innocent gardener of the morning. A shadow had slipped into my soul, a dark stain that no amount of scrubbing could remove.
I finally stopped, out of breath, leaning against a cold stone wall in a deserted wing of the castle. My heart drummed against my ribs. How could I have given in, even for a second, to his grip? Shame washed over me, more stinging than the pain in my arm where his fingers had bruised me. I felt unworthy of Arthur, unworthy of the simple, honest life we had planned.
I closed my eyes, trying to find my calm. I had to return to the garden. I had to pick up my tools and hide behind my flowers. I had to act as if this nightmare had never happened. But deep inside, a chilling certainty had taken root. Alaric never gave up. He was a hunter who enjoyed the chase as much as the kill. The Duke's kiss was not an end, but the beginning of a war I was not prepared to fight.
I opened my eyes, angrily wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. I would not let myself be broken. I am Lydia, and I will prove to this monster that my heart cannot be bought. I will prove that it cannot be conquered by force, no matter how many plates he breaks or how many threats he whispers.