Chapter 10
10
S kylar’s breath came in ragged gasps, the air heavy with the musky scent of sweat and arousal, filling her senses and clouding her mind. She pressed herself closer to the man beneath her, their bodies moving in tandem, flesh sliding against flesh. His callused hands gripped her hips, fingertips digging into her skin, leaving marks she knew would linger for days. A single candle flickered on the rickety nightstand, its flame dancing erratically, casting shifting shadows across the room and shrouding his features in darkness.
In the dim light, she could almost pretend…
Skylar squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out reality. In her mind, it wasn’t some nameless stranger arching beneath her. No. It was Arye. The hard planes of his chest, slick with sweat, pressed against her soft curves. His body was a landscape she longed to explore, to claim as her own. Even the scent became his in her imagination—a potent mix of raw masculinity, leather, and that hint of citrus that always clung to him.
Arye. Arye. Arye.
His name pulsed in her mind, a forbidden mantra that sent scorching heat coursing through her veins. It felt so good, but she needed more. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, drawing blood. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to kiss him, their lips meeting with raw hunger and passion. Would he be gentle, or would he match her intensity?
“You feel so?—”
The man’s voice shattered the illusion, grating against her ears. Rage and disappointment burned through Skylar, hot and bitter. With a rough growl, she clamped her hand over his mouth, silencing him. Her nails dug into his cheek, leaving moon-shaped imprints that would fade long before the marks on her hips.
“Silence,” Skylar commanded, her voice low and dangerous. “I need silence.”
She felt his eyes widen beneath her palm, a flash of fear mingling with lust in his gaze. Good. Let him be afraid. Let him feel a fraction of the turmoil roiling within her. She reveled in the power she held over him. Over Arye. Slowly, she trailed her free hand down his chest, her fingertips leaving fiery trails on his flesh.
Skylar increased her pace, pursuing her climax with feverish abandon. She took what she needed, hard and fast, using the man beneath her as nothing more than a tool for her pleasure. The coarse sheets scratched at her skin, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his length as it slid in and out of her. She could feel every inch of him, thick and hard, stretching her, filling her in a way that made her complete.
But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel right. She needed more.
As her climax built, she imagined it was Arye buried deep within her, Arye’s hands on her body, Arye’s eyes burning with desire as he watched her lose control. She bit her lip harder to keep from crying out his name, but the taste of her own blood only added to the intensity of the moment.
Harder. Faster.
Her hips moved with a will of their own, seeking that blissful release. The bed groaned in protest beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust. The rhythmic thudding echoed through the room, punctuated by their gasps and moans.
And then, finally, she fell. Her climax crashed over her like a torrential wave, drowning her in sensations so intense they bordered on pain. She threw her head back, a choked scream escaping her lips as her body shuddered and convulsed. For a fleeting moment, there was no war, no duty, no lies. Just pure, carnal ecstasy.
As the last waves of pleasure ebbed, reality came crashing back. Skylar opened her eyes, chest heaving, to find the stranger gazing up at her with spent desire. Blonde hair, green eyes, tanned skin. The sight made her stomach turn. It wasn’t him. It would never be him.
“Please leave now,” she said firmly, already dismounting him, her body glistening with a sheen of sweat. Her legs wobbled as her feet touched the cold wooden floor, the rough planks creaking beneath her weight.
“Already? But I thought we’d?—”
“I won’t ask again,” Skylar cut him off. She turned her back on him, reaching for her discarded clothes. Her movements were sharp, efficient, a clear contradiction to the languid passion of moments before.
Behind her, she heard the rustle of sheets, followed by the soft thud of feet hitting the floor. The man muttered under his breath as he dressed, his words becoming clearer as his frustration grew.
“Damn noble women,” he spat, yanking on his boots with an angry tug. “Think they can do whatever they want.”
Skylar ignored him, focusing on lacing up her breeches. Her fingers trembled slightly; whether from exertion or emotion, she couldn’t tell. The man’s complaints swept past her, meaningless noise.
“You’re all the same,” he continued, his voice rising. “Spoiled, selfish bi?—”
Skylar turned to face him, her expression hardening. “We’re done here,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Your services are no longer required.” Her hand instinctively reached for her sword, resting within arm’s reach.
The threat hung heavy in the air, thick enough to choke on. For a second, she thought he might argue further. But something in her expression must have given him pause. With a final glare, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Silence fell, broken only by Skylar’s ragged breathing and the faint sounds of the inn below—muffled laughter, the clink of tankards, snatches of drunken song. She stood motionless, staring at the closed door, feeling hollowed out and strangely bereft. The satisfaction of her release faded quickly, leaving behind a gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume her.
It was a mistake. It was always a mistake.
Shame washed over her, hot and suffocating. She’d used that man, imagined him as Arye, taken her pleasure without a thought for his. It was wrong. Selfish. Disgusting.
Just like everything else in her life. She was living a lie, deceiving everyone. Why stop at one more sin?
Skylar shook her head violently, as if she could physically dislodge the thoughts. She needed to focus, to get moving. Her mother was waiting.
With practiced efficiency, she finished dressing. Each layer felt like armor, shielding her vulnerable core from the world. Last came the wig, short silver-white strands settling into place like a helmet. She stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror, watching Duke Skylar Anathemark emerge from the ashes of her momentary freedom.
The person staring back at her was a stranger—hard eyes, set jaw, not a hint of the turmoil raging beneath the surface. Good. This was the face the world needed to see. Skylar tossed a few extra coins on the bed, more than enough to ensure discretion.
Unwilling to risk being spotted, Skylar opted for caution. She left through the window, landing with a soft thud in a dark alley untouched by the morning sun. The cobblestones were slick with last night’s rain, the air thick with the stench of refuse and stale urine. Her muscles protested the sudden exertion, still aching from her earlier activities. Skylar ignored the discomfort, pushing it to the back of her mind along with all her other weaknesses.
A carriage waited at the end of the street, its driver hunched against the chill. As Skylar approached, he straightened, touching his cap in a show of respect. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her appearance—the fine clothes, the proud bearing.
“Where to, m’lord?” he asked, his voice gravelly from sleep or drink—possibly both.
“The Anathemark Estate,” Skylar replied, climbing into the carriage. The leather seats creaked beneath her weight, the interior smelling faintly of tobacco and polish. She settled back, allowing herself a moment of respite.
As the carriage lurched into motion, the clop of hooves on cobblestone creating a steady rhythm, the driver’s voice drifted back to her. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but you ought to be careful in these parts. Handsome young men like yourself… well, they’ve been known to disappear ‘round here. ‘Specially this time of year.”
Skylar frowned, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather running down her spine. Her mind raced, cataloging potential threats. “What do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
The driver glanced back, his wrinkled face creased with concern. In the growing light of dawn, she could see the network of burst blood vessels across his nose and cheeks, testament to years of hard drinking. “Strange business, it is. Once a year, like clockwork, some poor lad goes missing. Never to be seen again.”
“Strange indeed,” Skylar murmured, more to herself than the driver. “Any idea why?”
“Can’t rightly say, m’lord.” He shrugged, his eyes returning to the road. “I reckon it’s best not to speculate. Safer that way.”
Skylar remained silent for a moment, her posture tense. She filed the information away for later consideration. “Just get me to the estate,” she ordered, her tone clipped. “Quickly.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence, leaving Skylar alone with her thoughts. As the familiar silhouette of the Anathemark Estate loomed on the horizon, her stomach twisted with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The sprawling manor house, with its soaring turrets and imposing stone walls, had once been a source of comfort. Now, it felt more like a prison—a gilded cage that held all her secrets and lies.
Home. But for how much longer?
The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand entrance. Skylar stepped out, her boots crunching on gravel. The sweet scent of lavender washed over her, making her nose wrinkle involuntarily. The smell brought back a flood of memories—her father’s infectious laugh, her mother’s gentle touch, the weight of expectations that had been placed on her shoulders from the moment she was born.
Why does everyone cherish these damn flowers?
Row upon row of purple blossoms stretched into the darkness, their fragrance a constant reminder of her family’s legacy. The scent seemed to cling to everything, seeping into her clothes, her skin, her very being.
And there, waiting by their original carriage with an expression of barely concealed annoyance, stood Melody. The servant’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the ground. Skylar’s heart sank. She’d completely forgotten about her instructions to the servant.
“Your Grace,” Melody said, her voice clipped. Her brown eyes, usually warm with motherly affection, were now hard with disapproval. “I trust you had an… enjoyable morning?”
Skylar’s expression remained neutral, though she felt a twinge of discomfort at Melody’s tone. “Melody, I?—”
“Save it,” the servant cut her off, surprising Skylar with her boldness. In all their years together, Melody had never spoken to her this way. “I’ve been waiting here for over two hours. A noble lady wouldn’t keep her servants waiting while she… cavorts.”
Shame burned hot in Skylar’s cheeks, the flush creeping down her neck. She wanted to apologize, to explain, but Melody barreled on, her words sharp and biting.
“And approaching men like that! It’s unseemly, my lady. You’re acting more like a man than a proper noblewoman, a Duke’s daughter!”
Skylar felt a flash of irritation, quickly suppressed. She straightened, her voice taking on an edge of authority. “Melody,” she said firmly, “I understand your concern, but I don’t need a lecture right now.”
Melody’s eyes widened, a mix of emotions flickering across her face—worry, realization, and a touch of remorse. Her posture softened as she dipped into a gentler curtsy. “Of course, Your Grace. I… I apologize.” She paused, her voice softening further. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
Skylar sighed, the anger draining away as quickly as it had come. She was tired, so tired of it all. Of the lies, the secrets, the constant need to be someone she wasn’t. “No, I’m sorry, Melody. You’re right, I shouldn’t have kept you waiting. It won’t happen again.”
An awkward silence fell between them, broken only by the soft chirping of awakening birds and the distant neigh of horses in the stables. Skylar cleared her throat, gesturing toward the entrance. The massive oak doors loomed before them, intricate carvings of the Anathemark crest, a tree sapling encircled by lavender. “Shall we? I’m eager to see my mother.”
Melody nodded, relief evident in her posture. As they entered the grand foyer, the familiar scents of home enveloped Skylar—that cursed violet flower, of course, but also lemon oil for the wood, and the faint mustiness of old books. It was comforting and stifling all at once.
They made their way through winding corridors, their footsteps echoing off marble floors. Portraits of Anathemark ancestors lined the walls, their stern faces seeming to judge Skylar as she passed. She avoided their painted gazes, focusing instead on the path ahead. Each step brought her closer to her mother, closer to the reality of her situation.
As they neared her mother’s chambers, a low moan of pain reached Skylar’s ears. Her heart clenched, guilt washing over her anew. She should have visited her mother more often, should have been here to support her through this ordeal. Instead, she’d been off playing soldier and indulging in fleeting pleasures while her mother suffered.
Fern, the family’s trusted healer, met them at the door. Her kind face was drawn with exhaustion, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes. The scent of medicinal herbs clung to her clothes—chamomile, valerian, and something sharper that Skylar couldn’t quite identify. “Your Grace,” she said, bowing slightly. “How long it’s been since your last visit. The Dowager Duchess will be so pleased to see you.”
“How is she doing?” Skylar’s words were tinged with worry as she gripped the ornate doorknob.
Fern’s expression tightened, her calm demeanor slipping for a moment. “It’s been… challenging,” she admitted. “The second month has been particularly difficult. The medicine helps manage the pain and keeps her lucid through the labor, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Skylar nodded, steeling herself before entering the room. The heavy door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. The sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her throat. Her mother, once the very picture of elegance and poise, lay propped up on pillows, her face pale and drawn with pain. But her eyes… her eyes lit up the moment she saw Skylar, a spark of life returning to their depths.
“My darling,” the Dowager Duchess said, her voice weak but filled with warmth. “Come, let me look at you.”
Skylar approached the bed, embracing her mother’s outstretched hand. It was so fragile, the skin paper-thin and cool to the touch. She felt every bone, every tendon, a stark reminder of the toll this pregnancy was taking. “Mother,” she murmured, fighting back tears. “How are you feeling?”
A wan smile crossed her mother’s face, the effort of it seeming to drain what little color remained in her cheeks. “Oh, I’ve been better. But it will all be worth it soon.” Her free hand rested on her swollen belly, a gesture of protection and love. “Your brother is eager to join us, I think.”
Skylar forced a smile, pushing down the complicated emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. She could hear the steady ticking of a clock somewhere, each second a reminder of the time slipping away. “I’m sure he is. He’ll be strong, like Father.”
Her mother’s eyes misted over at the mention of her late husband. The grief, though years old, was still palpable in the air between them. “Yes,” she said softly. “Just like him.” She squeezed Skylar’s hand, her gaze sharpening. “But enough about me. How are you, my dear? You look… tired.”
Skylar opened her mouth to respond, to assure her mother that everything was fine, but the words caught in her throat. How could she burden her mother with her troubles? How could she explain the weight of her duties, the constant fear of discovery, the ache of impossible love?
Before she could formulate a response, her mother’s eyes widened with sudden excitement. The change was dramatic, color flooding back into her cheeks. “Oh! I almost forgot. Melody, be a dear and fetch the package from my closet, would you?”
Melody hurried to obey, her skirts rustling as she hastened away. She returned moments later with a large, flat box, its surface smooth and unmarked. Skylar’s mother gestured for her to bring it closer.
“Open it here, darling,” her mother said, patting the bed beside her. “I want to see your face.”
Skylar hesitated, then carefully placed the box on the bed next to her mother. She hadn’t received a gift since she was entrusted with her father’s sword years ago. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid, her breath catching as she revealed the contents—a dress of the most exquisite ice-blue silk, adorned with intricate embroidery and countless glittering gems. It was a gown fit for a princess, a far cry from the dark attire she’d worn for so long.
As Skylar lifted the dress from the box, the fabric shimmered, each movement sending ripples of light across its surface. Her fingers trembled as she reached out to touch it, the silk cool and smooth beneath her hands. It felt alien, wrong somehow.
This wasn’t meant for her.
It was for the person she was supposed to become.