2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
The blade’s point pressed harder into her back, sending a warning without breaking the skin.
Emmaline froze, her breath catching. Blood slicked the cobblestones beyond, still warm and glistening under the courtyard lights—a damning beacon of her mistake.
If they caught her here, if he saw her like this…
Cold nausea pooled in her stomach. Caelith couldn’t know. Not about the spell, not that she had followed him, and certainly not about the pathetic sight she must be right now, cowering in the bushes like a thief.
“Move,” the voice behind her growled.
Her heart thudded in her ears. She wasn’t strong, wasn’t fast, but if she didn’t act now, it wouldn’t matter.
“Get your hands off me!” She exhaled sharply, forcing a smile as her mind scrambled for a way to stall. “You must be new to Lord Caelith’s staff,” she said, her tone icy. “Grabbing a lady uninvited? You must not value your employment.”
The man holding her chuckled. “Feisty, aren’t you?” he drawled, glancing over at Caelith. “Did you schedule entertainment for later?”
Before Caelith could respond, the man’s gaze flicked toward the courtyard, landing on the crumpled figure sprawled in the blood-slicked shadows.
“Well, that’s… inconvenient.” His smirk faltered, one brow rising slightly.
Emmaline clenched her teeth. “I hardly think Lord Caelith would appreciate you manhandling his father’s advisor despite the…unfavorable circumstances. Or do you make a habit of embarrassing your employer?”
“Unfavorable? Is that what you’d call it?” the man said, and before she could press her advantage, he gave her a shove.
Stumbling at the contact, her heel caught on a shadowed root.
She barely had time to gasp before her momentum sent her lurching toward the courtyard, where she landed in an undignified heap at Caelith’s feet.
Dress tangling awkwardly around her legs, heat rushed to her cheeks as she scrambled to find her balance.
“I am not one of the trollops—” she began, trying to claw back a shred of dignity as she finally looked up.
Expecting concern, anger, or even recognition—anything—Emmaline frowned at the cool disinterest that greeted her.
“I don’t know. She’s not exactly… my usual.” Caelith tilted his head. “You’ll take care of this, I assume?” He looked between the other man and the bleeding body on the ground.
“Of course, my Lord.” The man bowed at the waist. “As always.”
Turning away from her without another glance, Caelith strolled back toward the Glider and retrieved a fresh shirt from beneath the seat, shaking it out with practiced ease.
Then, with a tired sigh, he began unbuttoning his blood-splattered one, careful to avoid smearing the crimson stains any further.
“Do you think anyone would miss her?” he asked, once more addressing the man who’d dragged her out of the hedge, gesturing vaguely at Emmaline. “Anyone… important?”
“My Lord!” She gasped, trying to steady herself, hands fumbling against the folds of her simple black gown.
“The Lady over there? Most definitely.” The other man glanced between Emmaline and the woman on the ground. “This one?” He tightened his hold on her arm. “Hard to say.”
Caelith sniffed in Emmaline’s direction, his nose wrinkling faintly. “Hmm. Doesn’t smell like influence to me.”
Emmaline froze, a painful squeeze gripping her ribs. It must be too dark for him to recognize the bond, she thought, clutching at that fragile hope. He’d never hurt me if he knew who I was. What I was to him.
She cursed the dress she’d chosen for the night—a practical, inconspicuous choice for sneaking onto the property, but far from her usual white working dress.
“My Lord,” she tried again, her voice wobbling. “It’s me, Emmaline.”
She tried to step forward, but the man at her back yanked her toward him.
“That’s close enough, my dear.” He pulled her even closer.
Emmaline yanked at his arm, turning, ready to deliver a scathing retort, and found herself face-to-chest with the man.
Her mouth opened to speak, but the moment his hand brushed against her skin at the edge of her long sleeves, his fingers stilled.
The hard line of his shoulders softened, then stiffened again, a strange hesitation rippling through him.
He seemed to pause entirely, his breath catching in a way that threw off the easy control he’d exuded only seconds before.
Emmaline noticed it immediately, but she couldn’t make sense of it. Either way, his grip slackened just enough to let her jerk her hand free, and she didn’t hesitate.
“Get off me, you brute!” Her voice rang shriller than she’d intended, but her heart beat too fast for her to care.
“I am Lord Caelith’s m—” The words caught in her throat, refusing to come out no matter how hard she tried.
Her mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before she shook her head, swallowing down the inexplicable churning in her stomach.
“I am his father’s secretary,” she said finally. “Here to deliver a message.”
“My name is Deyric.” His hand lingered midair, and then he shifted, closing the space she’d created.
“Stop.” Emmaline’s heart fluttered, and she took another half-step back.
A faint sigh escaped the man before he straightened and inclined his head. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t recognize you for what you are…”
Her gaze trailed over the broad chest, pulling snugly at the soft linen tunic he wore. And gleaming faintly under the courtyard’s soft light, his wavy, shoulder-length emerald hair was neatly swept behind ears just a touch too long for a pure-blooded Ellyllon.
Her inspection faltered when he cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. The way his lips threatened to stretch into a full grin—it was enough to suggest he’d caught her staring.
Emmaline’s face flushed, and she swiveled back to Caelith, who was tucking a fresh shirt into his trousers.
“My Lord,” she started, but he cut her off with a casual glance.
“You’re the one who manages my father’s finances?”
“Yes, among other things, my Lord.” She smoothed her dress, lifting her chin. “We spoke just last week regarding the new rune-etched ward stones you wanted. I convinced your father they’d be an excellent investment for the estate.”
“Oh, right.” Caelith sighed, inspecting his nails. “I’d already forgotten about that. But now that you mention it, where are they? I had hoped to have them installed in the Glider for Lord Dormir’s ball by this weekend.”
Emmaline’s lips parted, but before she could formulate a response, the man behind her, Deyric, moved, positioning himself just slightly too close to her side.
“My Lord,” he interjected, his presence sending an uncomfortable warmth tickling up her spine. “We still need to deal with the present problem of your date.” His hand stretched as if to reach for her again, but she stepped closer to Caelith instead.
What is his problem? she wondered, glancing at him sidelong.
Deyric’s jaw tensed, and a flash of something hard—anger, frustration?—crossed his expression before he schooled himself. His hands balled at his sides, tendons straining, and then he relaxed with deliberate effort. Without another word, he swept past her to the woman lying sprawled on the ground.
Crouching beside her, his fingers ghosted over the edges of her blood-matted hair, careful not to touch the worst of the wound as he leaned in to examine her.
“You’re right, of course, my old friend. This problem first.” Caelith spared a brief glance at the motionless figure before he turned back to Emmaline. “As for you, I assume Father has you under the standard privacy agreement for household members?”
“Well, yes, Lord Caelith,” Emmaline stammered, her fingers knotting together. “But I would never do anything to harm you. You are… too…”
The words caught in her throat. She’d practiced this moment countless times—how she would tell him they were mates, destined to be together, how she was ready for him to claim her. But now, standing before him, her tongue felt heavy, her mind blank.
“You are too important to the Vale to be caught in any controversy such as this,” she blurted out finally, her voice faltering.
“I am indeed.” Caelith straightened at that, his chest swelling as he paused to look at her.
For a brief, shining moment, Emmaline thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his expression. Then, his mouth settled into a well-rehearsed smile.
“Maybelline,” he said brightly. “It’s Maybelline, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing. “Whatever you want, my Lord.”
“Emmaline, my Lord,” Deyric said, not looking up.
Caelith blinked, glancing between the two of them with mild confusion. “Of course,” he corrected, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “Father has spoken highly of you, even going so far as to call you quite clever.”
He looked her over again, gaze traveling from her plain, dark dress to her wringing hands and then to the faintly scuffed shoes peeking out from beneath her hem.
“Even for a number-pusher unskilled in magic,” he added with an almost dismissive shrug.
“Yes, my Lord.” Emmaline forced a smile, ignoring the sting of his words as she stepped toward him again. But he raised a hand, halting her before she could get any closer.
At least he thinks I’m clever. Emmaline’s stomach flipped at the thought.
“Well.” He waved vaguely toward the motionless body. “What do you think we should do with this particular situation?”
“She’s dead, my Lord,” Deyric said, moving away from the body and rejoining them.
“Oh, for all the clumsy, ungraceful, unbecoming behavior of a Lady of Vale!” Caelith exploded, throwing his hands up. He began pacing in small, sharp steps, his words tumbling out in a rising tide. “Why couldn’t she simply walk properly? Of all the people to—”
“We’ll need to get rid of the body,” Deyric interrupted Caelith’s rant. “Unless, of course, you want to call the Patrol?”