5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
“Where is your uniform?”
Lady Isolde’s voice arched through the grand hall like the snap of a whip, halting Emmaline in her tracks. The older woman’s gaze swept over her, remaining just long enough to make the scrutiny feel like a weight pressing down on her.
“That is not what you were provided to wear while on the grounds.”
“Yes, my Lady.” Emmaline lowered her head in a practiced bow, her hands smoothing over the fabric cascading from her waist. The rich cerulean silk clung to her frame before flowing into a waterfall of pleats, each fold edged in delicate lace woven with tiny embroidered blossoms in shades of silver and pale green.
“I apologize,” she continued, schooling her voice into one of quiet deference. “I needed to have my uniform taken out and couldn’t afford to have it rushed over the weekend.”
It was a lie. If she wanted Caelith’s attention, she had to stand out.
The dress had been buried deep in her closet, untouched since before the War, when her family had been accustomed to such finery…
when her family had been alive. Wearing it now was a calculated risk, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
And if she was being honest with herself, a small, secret part of her hoped Lady Isolde might see her differently—more peer than servant, more worthy.
“Oh, of course.” A single, unimpressed sniff escaped Lady Isolde, and she folded her hands in front of her. “The cook did mention you’ve been eating more at lunch each day.”
Emmaline stiffened.
“I…” The denial caught in her throat, and despite knowing it was just a petty jab meant to put her in her place, heat still rose to her cheeks.
Lady Isolde’s expression barely shifted, but the smug glint in her eyes said enough. “You weren’t given permission to alter the dress. And we have certain expectations for how servant members of this household will present themselves.”
“My Lady.” Emmaline dipped into another bow as a shiver traced down her spine. There was only so much a person could take. Her teeth clenched, jaw aching with the effort to stay composed.
Blood on stone. The wet sound of it hitting the floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the image away, but her stomach twisted in excitement. It had been so easy.
Lady Isolde turned, oblivious as her heels clicked against the polished floor, and for one brief, dizzying second, Emmaline had to press her nails into her palms to remind herself where she was. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and straightened, willing her hands to stay steady.
“Go home until you can manage to show up in the correct attire at the correct size. Unpaid, of course. We wouldn’t want to set a precedent for exceptions.”
Shite. She couldn’t leave now; she had just gotten here and had a ton of work to do, let alone needing to find Caelith. And she couldn’t just murder the old cow. Could she?
“My Lady!” Emmaline stepped forward, pulse hammering in her throat.
Isolde pivoted, one brow arching. “Would you prefer the time off to be permanent?”
“No, my Lady!” Emmaline blurted, wringing her hands. “I just need to process the vendor payments. For the ball.”
Isolde let out an exasperated breath. “I’m sure it can wait.” She turned again.
“No, my Lady. I’m so sorry, but it can’t.
” Emmaline forced herself to keep her voice measured, urgent but not desperate.
She had never spoken to Lady Isolde in such a way, pushing back like this.
“The vendors have strict deadlines, and the other great houses would jump at the chance to steal them out from under you.”
Isolde paused mid-step, tilting her head as she considered Emmaline. “You are certainly determined to inconvenience me today, Bremmeline,” she mused.
“It was never my intention, Lady.” Emmaline bent into a deep bow, nearly overbalancing in her attempt to appear as deferential as possible. She couldn’t upset the woman too much, at least not until Caelith was hers. “I only know how important this year’s ball is to you.”
Lady Isolde let out a long-suffering sigh, her shoulders lifting and falling with exaggerated grace, as if Emmaline had personally burdened her with an unbearable weight.
“Oh, very well.” She flicked a hand through the air in a careless wave, her jeweled rings catching the light.
“Just… don’t let me see you for the rest of the day. ”
Pausing, her eyes dragged over Emmaline once more. The corners of her lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but... “And no lunch, obviously.”
Emmaline swallowed down the retort pressing against her tongue. “Obviously, my Lady. Thank you.”
Isolde hummed in satisfaction and turned away, her shimmering gown sweeping behind her as she glided toward the corridor.
“I really need to start vetting the Lord’s choice in servants,” she muttered, just loud enough for Emmaline to hear as she disappeared around the corner.
Emmaline exhaled, willing her hands to unclench as she turned to go to her small office off the Lord’s study. As much as she loathed Lady Isolde, she did have vendor payments to process, though they weren’t nearly as urgent as she’d made them seem.
One day, she thought. One day, she won’t be able to speak to me like that. Or, perhaps, she wouldn’t be able to speak at all.
Emmaline sighed as she strolled down the hall.
As satisfying as it would be to leave a little enchantment that would send the woman pinwheeling into one of the garden’s jagged iron statues—or better yet, sailing out of the castle’s high-arched windows—she couldn’t just go around murdering every obstacle in her path.
Could she?
No! Goddess knew, she was already in hot water with Cassidy. She might have been able to justify the other woman’s death under mate Law, but killing her mate’s mother would be a little harder to explain.
Taking the long route, she veered toward the kitchens.
Caelith had a habit of stopping there each morning for a pastry to go with his tea before his daily ride.
She’d overheard the kitchen staff grumbling about it more than once—something about interrupting their lunch prep with his ever-changing whims.
As well he should, she thought with a huff. He deserves whatever he wants. The sheer audacity of the staff to complain about serving him. She’d have to have a stern conversation with them once she was Lady of the castle.
As she neared the kitchen, the scent of fresh bread and caramelized sugar filled the air, mingling with a more distinct tang of herbs and roasting meat. The warm, yeasty fragrance wrapped around her, rich and comforting, sending a low rumble through her stomach.
Then she heard it, a deep male voice spilling into the corridor from the open doors.
Her heart stuttered, a foolish, eager thing. It must be Caelith! Fate was truly pushing her this day.
She smoothed her skirts and rolled her shoulders back. Calm, poised, perfect. She just hoped the staff hadn’t heard that she was banned from the kitchens yet. That would be mortifying.
With one last breath, she stepped forward.
“My Lo—”
Emmaline barely got the words out before she clipped her hip against the sharp edge of a prep table. Sucking in her breath, she bit back a curse as she stumbled, her hand shooting out to grip the cold metal. Smooth. Very smooth.
But it wasn’t her fault. She sucked in a breath. The room suddenly felt smaller.
Deyric stood near the hearth, looking as if he belonged there, as if the room had simply reshaped itself around him. The soft glow of firelight danced over the planes of his face, accentuating the cut of his jaw and the infuriatingly amused tilt of his lips.
The cook—a dark, stout woman of brownie descent—scowled at him as she pulled a tray of glossy bara brith from the oven, the smell of spiced fruit and warm honey filling the air.
“I’m sorry, Jenni. You know how he is…” His voice sent something unpleasantly warm coiling deep in Emmaline’s chest. Then he paused, looking up from the steaming loaf.
“Oh.” His eyes dragged over her. Not the way Lady Isolde had done it, with her thinly veiled contempt. No. Deyric’s gaze burned, making her skin prickle with the ghost of a touch that never landed.
“Hello, little killer.” His mouth curved up at the sight of her.
Emmaline stiffened. Lyra’s clumsy feet, he knows. How did he know? Her mind raced. Had he told Caelith? Did he plan to?
“And don’t you look… festive,” he continued.
She forced her chin up, schooling her expression into indifference. “Do not call me that.”
Deyric’s lips twitched, his shoulders shifting in the loose, brown linen of his shirt as if he found her irritation entertaining.
She planted a hand on her hip. “What are you even doing here? I thought—” She caught herself just in time, snapping her mouth shut.
His brows lifted. “Happy to see me, little killer?”
She scowled. “I said, do not call me that. What if someone…” And then, before she could think better of it, she grabbed his elbow, fingers tightening around solid muscle, and dragged him toward the door.
“What are you even doing here?” She shoved him hard in the chest as soon as they were clear of the kitchen.
He barely moved.
Lady above, how many muscles did one man need? Her palm tingled from the contact, and she quickly dropped her hand, squaring her hips to steady herself.
“If anyone finds out about last night, we all go down,” she hissed. “You can’t possibly want that.”
Deyric dipped his chin, the infuriating smirk never slipping. “So long as you’re with me, little—”
Her hand flew up before she could think better of it, ready to wipe the smugness off his face in one swift slap.
But he was faster.
“—Little Emmaline,” he finished smoothly, catching her wrist with ease. And before she could yank away, he brought her hand to his lips, brushing the softest kiss across her knuckles.
The world hiccupped.
The heat of his mouth sent something strange winding down her back, a slow, disorienting sensation that settled too deep, too fast. Her breath caught in her throat, but she was too stunned to pull away, too entranced by the quiet reverence in his touch.
Then, reality snapped back into place.
“Get off me, you giant troll!” She yanked her hand back so hard she nearly stumbled. “Caelith would not be happy seeing you manhandle me like this.”
Deyric stood taller, and the smugness dulled, his easy amusement cooling into something harsher.
“What does Lord Caelith have to do with this?” His voice was quieter now, rougher around the edges.
Emmaline blinked at him, incredulous. He couldn’t be that stupid.
She searched his face, looking for the joke. Was he… was he actually trying to flirt with her?
She belonged to Caelith. It was obvious.
He chuckled at whatever he saw in her face, slow and thoughtful, running his fingers along the stubbled edge of his jaw, thumb resting against his chin.
Then he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
“Lord Caelith couldn’t care less what I do with you, little killer. He doesn’t even know your name.”
“That’s not true.” Emmaline’s fists clenched, small sparks of light crackling at her fingertips as her temper flared. “He’s just… just afraid of angering Lady Isolde.”
Deyric snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was warding off a headache.
“Why?” He let the word hang, but before she could answer, he dropped his hand and shook his head.
“You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.
You’re delusional. Why not? Life’s been so easy, so far. Why not this?”
“De… de… delusional?” Her voice pitched high with rage. Both hands shot up, light surging from her palms in a burst of raw energy so bright it flooded the dim hallway.
“Ahh, fuck!” Deyric staggered back, one arm snapping up to shield his eyes, his other hand gripping the wall for balance.
“I’ll show you delusional.” She spun on her heel.
“Emmaline!” His voice chased after her.
“Just leave me alone, Deyric!” she snapped over her shoulder, though the sound of his name on her tongue sent a strange, unwelcome tremor through her.
But she didn’t stop.
She flew through the corridors, ignoring the startled looks of passing servants, her feet barely skimming the stone floors. The moment she reached her study, she shoved the door open, slipped inside, and slammed it shut behind her, pressing her back against the wood as she caught her breath.
Pressing a hand to her chest, she willed her heartbeat to slow, but it was no use. Deyric’s voice still echoed in her head. His touch still burned on her skin.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself, straightening. In two weeks, it’ll all be over. One way or the other Caelith would be hers.
Her hand hovered over her wrist, where Deyric’s lips had barely grazed.
This was nothing. She slammed the offending limb back into the wall. He was nothing. And yet, as she stared at the closed door, it wasn’t Caelith’s touch she could still feel.