His words were a quiet, deliberate cruelty, a final twist of the knife. I do not. He did not regret the dance that had cost Isadora everything. He stood there, a king in his castle of books and shadows, and dismissed the ruin of her life as if it were a speck of dust on his immaculate coat.
The carefully constructed dam of Isadora's composure did not just crack; it shattered.
"You do not regret it?" she whispered, the words trembling with a fury so profound it was almost silent. Then, her voice rose, gaining strength from the sheer, unadulterated rage that flooded her veins. "How dare you? How dare you stand there, in your fortress built on the bones of girls like me, and say you do not regret it?"
She took a step closer to the desk, the massive piece of polished wood the only thing keeping her from physically launching herself at him. "A girl, a person, my friend, was dragged from her home by a monster because of what happened between us! Her life is over! And you feel… nothing?"
"I feel a great many things, Miss Wren," Caelan said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. He did not raise it. He didn't have to. The cold, controlled power in it was more intimidating than any shout. "Regret, however, is not among them. The actions of Lady Valestra are her own. She is a creature of… unfortunate impulses."
"Unfortunate impulses?" Isadora's laugh was a sharp, ugly, broken sound. "You call what she did an 'impulse'? She is a monster! A monster you allow to roam free, to prey on the innocent! And Clara—Clara is paying the price for your… your boredom! Was that what it was? Were you bored, Your Grace? Did you see a little commoner and think it would be amusing to dangle her on your string for a night?"
Her use of his title was a deliberate mockery, a bitter poison on her tongue. She was failing woefully at being respectful, and she no longer cared.
"The events of that night were a confluence of choices," he said, his voice still unnervingly calm. He began to move, circling the desk slowly, like a wolf stalking a cornered animal. "Lady Valestra chose to have a tantrum. Your friend chose to lie to protect you. Your father chose to sacrifice her. And you, Miss Wren… you chose to attend a ball you were not invited to, wearing a dead woman's dress."
Each word was a precise, calculated blow. He was stripping away her righteous anger, leaving her with the cold, hard truth of her own culpability.
"And you chose to dance with me!" she shot back, refusing to be cowed. "You, the great Duke of Ravenshade, who has not danced in five years. You chose to single me out, to mark me in front of your entire court of predators. You painted a target on my back. Do not pretend your hands are clean in this!"
He stopped, directly across the desk from her now. The firelight flickered in his eyes, turning them from ice to frozen fire. "My hands are stained with more than you could possibly imagine, girl," he whispered, and for the first time, she heard a note of something other than cold control in his voice. It was a deep, ancient weariness. "But the stain of our dance is not one I wish to wash away."
"Why?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "Why me? What did you want from me?"
"Want?" He tilted his head, a gesture of genuine curiosity. "I wanted to remember what it felt like to be intrigued. I wanted to have a conversation with someone whose every word was not calculated to curry my favor. I wanted," he paused, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second, "to see what would happen."
The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of it stole her breath. He had gambled with her life, with Clara's life, out of simple, selfish curiosity.
"You are a monster," she breathed, the words raw with hatred. "Worse than Valestra. She, at least, does not hide her nature behind a mask of civility and grace. You are a cold, empty thing who plays with people's lives for sport."
The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden, violent energy. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing along his sharp jawline. His hands, resting on the desk, curled into tight fists, his knuckles turning white. She had hit a nerve. The Duke, the title, the mask—that he could bear. But this, this accusation of emptiness, had struck the man beneath.
"You know nothing of what is inside me," he said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal growl that vibrated through the wood of the desk. He pushed away from it, taking a deliberate step toward her. The space between them shrank, and she could feel the cold radiating from him, could smell the scent of winter and old stone.
"You see a title," he continued, his voice a dangerous whisper. "You see power. You do not see the cage. You do not see the cost."
He was so close now she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She was trapped between the desk and the sheer force of his presence. She should have been terrified. A primal part of her was screaming at her to run, to flee. But her anger was a shield, and her grief was a sword.
"I see a man who let my friend be taken to save himself from a moment of inconvenience," she spat. "I see a coward."
His control shattered.
In a movement too fast for her human eyes to follow, his hand shot out and gripped her arm. His touch was not brutal, but it was absolute, a band of iron around her flesh. His face was inches from hers, his eyes blazing with a fire that was no longer cold. It was hot, furious, and filled with a pain so profound it startled her.
"Do not ever," he hissed, his voice raw with a fury that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, "call me a coward. You, who have known loss for a mere handful of years, dare to lecture me, who has known nothing but loss for centuries?"
His grip tightened, and she could feel the impossible strength he held in check. "That girl was taken because of a blood debt owed by a fool who made a bargain with Valestra decades ago! It had nothing to do with our dance, and everything to do with the foolish pride of men who think they can outsmart their betters! I did not allow it. I was simply… too late to stop it."
He was lying. She could feel it. It was a partial truth, a deflection. But the raw agony in his voice, the flicker of genuine torment in his eyes, was real.
He seemed to realize what he had revealed, how much of his mask had slipped. He released her arm as if he had been burned, taking a step back, his composure snapping back into place like a steel trap. He turned away from her, running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of such profound frustration it was almost human.
The fight went out of her, replaced by a weary, bone-deep despair. She had lost. She could not fight him. He was a force of nature, a creature of ancient power and sorrows she could not comprehend.
With a shaking hand, she reached out and snatched the cufflink from the desk. The silver was cold against her skin.
"Fine," she said, her voice hollow. "Keep your cursed token. Keep your secrets." Her gaze swept the opulent, lonely room. "I hope they keep you warm at night."
She turned and walked toward the door, every step an effort of will. She had failed. Clara was still a captive, and she was no closer to saving her.
"You will not be walking home, Miss Wren."
His voice, calm once more, stopped her at the door. She turned, her hand on the handle, ready to spit out a refusal.
"The night is not safe," he continued, his back still to her. "I will not have your death on my conscience as well."
"My safety is no longer your concern, Your Grace," she said bitterly.
"There you are wrong," he said, finally turning to face her. His face was once again an unreadable mask of aristocratic control. "Until this matter between us is resolved, you are my concern. My personal carriage will see you to your door. That was not a request."
The finality in his tone was absolute. She was trapped again, a prisoner of his protection, a recipient of his unwanted care. He was refusing to let her go, refusing to sever the tie.
She stared at him, her heart a tangled mess of hatred, fear, and a bewildering, treacherous flicker of something else. She had lost this battle.
But the war, she realized with a chilling certainty, had only just begun.