Caelith Emberlyn stood in her white wedding gown, her fingernails digging so hard into her palms that the white crescent moons of pain bloomed beneath the skin.
A candlewick crackled and burst with a sharp pop, but the sound was too small to drown out the noises drifting from the adjoining room.
A woman's loud, honeyed moans. A man's heavy, ragged breaths.
The thick stone wall could not contain the shameless rhythm beyond it. Each sound slipped through the cracks and pierced her ears with humiliating clarity.
Today was her wedding day—her marriage to Dorian Valehart.
And at this very moment, her bridegroom was consummating that marriage with her cousin, Yvaine Emberlyn, in the guest chamber separated from her by nothing more than a single wall.
A piercing ache spread from her chest through her limbs, as if thorns had grown inside her lungs. Even breathing hurt. She was still wrapped in the elaborate wedding robes; the heavy gold crown had already been removed, yet the humiliation pressing upon her felt heavier than metal, chilling her spine from within.
Creak—
A faint sound came from behind the folding screen.
Caelith spun around, startled.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the lingering steam of a recent bath. The man wore only a white inner robe patterned in subtle dark motifs, the sash loosely tied, revealing the firm planes of his chest. His sleek black hair hung damp over his shoulders, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw and disappearing into the open collar.
He held a damp cloth, wiping his hair with idle ease. In the candlelight, his eyes were fathomless—like a wolf that had fixed its gaze upon his prey.
Duke Rhaegar Thorne.
Once Dorian's childhood companion, now the all-powerful Commander of the Shadow Guard––the most powerful Imperial army. He had only just returned from official duties to attend the wedding banquet, clad in his raven-black uniform, cold and austere, offering a distant toast but little else.
What was he doing here?
Then she remembered—she had rushed in search of someone, forgetting that this courtyard chamber had been arranged for honored guests.
"How does it feel… Listening to your husband share his wedding night with another woman?" Rhaegar's voice was low, laced with cruel amusement.
Caelith turned to leave, but he stepped in her path, towering over her like a giant mountain.
Her nails bit deeper into her palms; the pain steadied her for a moment. "Your Grace," she said, her voice trembling though she forced her spine straight, "It is not proper to detain a bride on her wedding night."
"Proper?" He gave a soft laugh and tossed the cloth onto a nearby rosewood rack. He stalked closer, the clean scent of soap mingling with the unbearable heat of his body. "Your husband, who values 'propriety,' is next door committing the most improper act of all."
He stopped before her, his tall frame enveloping her in shadow. Leaning down slightly, he caught her chin between calloused fingers and lifted her face, forcing her to meet his glare.
"Caelith," he said, enunciating her name as if savoring it, "Don't you want to have your revenge?"
Her pupils contracted.
Revenge? Of course she did. She wanted to tear the false masks from their faces. But she knew, too, how powerless she was. The Emberlyn family had long since declined—what strength did she have to contend with Dorian Valehart, or the entire Valehart household?
"You must be joking, Your Grace." She tried to turn away, but his grip only tightened. "Dorian is your brother. I could never."
"Brother?" Rhaegar's eyes darkened, devoid of humor. "We are not that close."
He finally released her chin—only to produce, from somewhere unseen, a jeweled dagger and press it into her icy hand. Then he guided her fingers, steady and firm, lifting the blade to the prominent line of his throat.
Caelith's hand trembled; the dagger nearly slipped.
"Here," he murmured, voice dropping to a seductive hush. "One thrust, and he is history." The blade traced downward along his neck, sliding to the open edge of his robe. "Or… you could choose another way to take revenge."
His gaze was unapologetically possessive, raw desire burning plainly within it. Following his line of sight, she realized that her collar had loosened; a sliver of pale skin showed beneath the white silk. Heat instantly flared across her face.
"You are shameless!" She yelped, trying to wrench her hand free.
At that moment, the sounds next door grew sharper.
Yvaine's breathless murmur floated through the wall. "Dorian… be gentler… If Caelith finds out we're together on her wedding night… she'll be so heartbroken…"
Dorian's reply came in a cold spit. "Why are you mentioning her now? She's dull and wooden—how could she compare to you? She's only your substitute."
Substitute.
The word struck like a poisoned needle, piercing the most fragile chord in Caeith's heart.
So that was it.
She had thought there was at least some sincerity in Dorian's decision to marry her.
But she had only been chosen because her face resembled Yvaine's.
The pain numbed her until something harsher rose in its place—a reckless, desperate resolve. Her hand holding the dagger stilled.
Rhaegar caught the change in her instantly, and a wicked curve touched his lips. He bent close, his warm breath grazing the shell of her ear.
"You heard them," he whispered. "Caelith Emberlyn—would you like to substitute your groom with someone else, too?"
He guided her hand, the cold dagger tip lifting the loose sash of his robe.
The fabric fell open.
Under the candlelight, the defined lines of his abdomen and the lean strength of his waist were revealed in stark clarity. Droplets of water still clung to his skin, sliding slowly downward and disappearing beneath his waistband. The air seemed thick with the heat radiating off him.
Her heart pounded violently. The fragile thread of reason inside her mind tightened to breaking under Dorian's cruelty and Rhaegar's brazen temptation.
"I…" Her voice came dry and faint.
Rhaegar, however, did not allow hesitation. He plucked the dagger from her hand and tossed it aside; it struck the floor with a sharp clang.
In the next breath, his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her hard against him. With his other hand, he lifted the cup of ceremonial wine from the small table, tipped his head back, and took a mouthful.
Before she could react, he lowered his head and captured her lips.
The spicy liquor passed between them in a tempting motion; Caelith was forced to swallow, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. His tongue followed, unyielding and commanding, overwhelming her senses with fierce insistence.
A muffled protest escaped her lips as her palms pressed against his burning, solid chest.
He kissed her deeper still, as if determined to steal the very air from her lungs. Only when her body softened, and she nearly collapsed, did he draw back slightly, his lips still brushing hers.
"Breathe," he commanded hoarsely.
She gasped for air, eyes damp, cheeks flushed. The collar of her wedding robe had fallen further open at some point, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Rhaegar's gaze darkened. His thumb brushed across her swollen lips as he asked again, with unshakable certainty, "Caelith Emberlyn. Try someone else. Try me."
From next door came Yvaine's rising cries and Dorian's satisfied groan.
Caelith closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the last trace of struggle had vanished, replaced by the resolve of someone who had already burned her bridges.
Her slender fingers trembled—but steadily, deliberately—she reached out and pressed her hand against Rhaegar's bare chest.
"Should I?"