The heavy door shut with a sound that did not belong to ordinary wood.
No squeak of hinges, no polite click — just a deep, final thud that reverberated through the chamber and sank into Eleanor's bones.
Her pulse jumped. She spun around, skirts flaring in the still air.
"Wait—what are you doing?!"
The butler stood on the far side of the doorway, framed by the carved arch. His spine was a ruler's line, his hands folded neatly behind his back. The flicker from the hallway lamps touched the edges of his silver hair, but his expression was a mask.
"His Grace has requested," he said in a voice utterly unshaken, "that you remain here until his return, my lady."
Eleanor's hand shot to the brass handle. She wrenched it hard, the metal biting into her palm. It didn't budge. She tried again, twisting, rattling, shoving her shoulder into the wood — nothing. The lock had already been thrown.
Her breath sharpened. "Open this door right now!" She slammed her palm flat against it, the hollow boom rattling in her ears. "You can't just—"
"I assure you," the butler replied in the same polite tone one might use to ask whether she preferred sugar in her tea, "you will want for nothing."
"That is not the point!" she snapped. "I came here for a conversation, not to be—" She flung her arms toward the walls, the gold-trimmed curtains, the silent hearth. "—kept like an animal in a gilded cage!"
The butler inclined his head, as if her outrage were a small draft he could simply close a window against.
"Meals will be brought thrice daily. A maid will attend to any other needs. Please… rest. His Grace will not be long."
And then, without waiting for her answer, he stepped away. The door shut with slow precision, the bolt sliding into place with a soft, intimate click that somehow felt louder than the first slam.
For the first hour, she paced the length of the room, counting steps like a prisoner testing her boundaries.
Twenty-two from the wardrobe to the far bedpost.
Twenty-two back.
By the second hour, her calves ached and her temper simmered. She perched stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring at the silver-embroidered curtains that swayed faintly in the draft from the fire.
The chamber itself was… perfect.
Too perfect.
The fire blazed warmly in the hearth, fed with fresh logs that glowed deep orange. A tray of delicate pastries sat on a side table — sugared twists, cream-filled shells — untouched. The bed was so large she could have stretched her arms wide and still not touched the posts. The scent of lavender floated from somewhere unseen, clinging to the air like a memory she had not chosen.
It was a prison made of silk and gold.
By evening, the door opened again — without knocking. A young maid stepped inside, silent as smoke, carrying a covered silver dish. She didn't look at Eleanor. She crossed to the table, set down the dish, and lifted the lid just enough for steam to curl upward. Then, without a word, she checked the fire, smoothing her apron as she turned to go.
With her entered four guards that stood just at the doors, making sure no attempts to escape will entertain her mind.
No questions.
No glances.
No conversation.
Eleanor stared after her until the door shut once more. The lock clicked again.
That night, Eleanor lay flat on the bed, eyes tracing the ornate canopy overhead. The embroidery blurred in the low firelight, twisting into shapes she didn't want to name. Sleep evaded her. Her thoughts didn't circle toward escape — not yet. Instead, they drifted toward him.
The Duke had always been… strange. Even when they were younger, when her parents first announced the engagement, there had been something in him that set her on edge. He had a presence that made the air feel heavier, as though the space he occupied belonged entirely to him and everyone else was simply allowed to breathe there.
That Founding Day, custom dictated that she present herself to him before his speech to the assembled nobles. The first year, she had been nervous but hopeful. He'd taken her hand — cool, formal — then leaned down and, without warning, sank his teeth into the curve of her neck. Not tenderly. Not playfully. Just enough to bruise.
The shock had rooted her to the spot, her pulse roaring in her ears. He had stepped away without so much as an explanation, his voice carrying over the crowd as he began his speech like nothing had happened.
The court had murmured at first, scandal clinging to the edges of their whispers. After some months, the murmurs had changed to quiet knowing glances. And after two more years of no contact or even a glance from him, no one dared to mention that incident aloud anymore. It was no longer a curiosity. It was a ritual.
It had never been affection. It had always been a claim.
---
Elsewhere, far from the mansion
Moonlight spilled like quicksilver over a narrow alley, painting wet cobblestones in cold light. The air smelled of rain and rot. No footsteps echoed here — not his, not anyone's. The Duke moved like a shadow given shape, his black coat absorbing the darkness until even the flicker of his outline seemed to vanish between steps.
Ahead, a torch sputtered weakly in its bracket, throwing light over a man kneeling in the gutter. His hands were bound behind him, his clothes soaked through with rain and sweat.
"Y-you don't have to—" the man began, voice trembling.
A gloved hand shot forward, clamping around his jaw with an iron grip that silenced the rest.
"Speak again," the Duke said softly, "and I'll make it worse."
His voice was even, almost gentle, which made the threat feel like a truth carved in stone.
The knife he drew was not ceremonial or ornamental — just a plain, well-used blade. Moonlight slid over the steel as he knelt, pressing it under the ribs with precise force. The man's body jerked, air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp. The wound was placed to draw out the inevitable, giving him just enough time to realize the end was inescapable.
The Duke lowered him to the cobblestones with the care one might give to setting down a wrapped parcel. Blood spread in slow, dark tendrils, finding the cracks between stones and vanishing into the city's underbelly.
From the shadow at the alley's mouth, a knight stepped forward — his armor blackened to avoid the gleam of metal, his eyes fixed on the cooling body.
"Sir, the target is eliminated. But…" The knight hesitated. "…you seem in a hurry tonight."
The Duke's gaze slid to him. A faint smile — almost too small to see — touched his mouth.
"My muse is waiting."
And then he stepped over the corpse, the heel of his boot leaving a small red print on the stones.
---
Back in the chamber
Time softened into something without edges.
Fresh clothes appeared folded on the chair each morning. The fire never went out. Books she had not asked for began to fill the desk — all bound in leather, their spines unmarked. Meals arrived without fail, accompanied only by the quiet knock of the maid who never looked her in the eye.
The care itself felt like a cage. The softness of the bed, the scent of lavender, the sweetness of pastries — each one was another knot tightening around her.
She had also come to realize that... The Grand Dukes magic had shifted the seasons of the weather and in here only cold remained throughout the years.
She thought often of the Marquis — his voice low in the garden when he had promised to marry her, to pay her father's debts, to restore the estate that had once been her home. I will free you from this, he'd said, his hand closing over hers with quiet conviction.
That promise now felt brittle, each hour here served another fracture in its foundation.
She had just turned the thought over in her mind for the hundredth time when the door opened without warning.
Eleanor rose too quickly, her pulse surging.
It had been a week.
He stood in the doorway, framed in the firelight, and for a heartbeat it was as if the room itself inhaled. The faint tang of blood clung to the air around him — not visible, but undeniable, a scent her body recognized before her mind did. His black coat was immaculate, not a crease out of place, but his eyes… his eyes looked sharpened, like blades honed fresh.
"You—" Her voice cracked, but she forced it steady. "Do you realize what you've done?!"
He stepped inside without answering, shutting the door behind him. The lock slid into place with that same deliberate click.
"You're still here," he said, almost to himself.
"You locked me in!" she shot back, fists curling at her sides. "Do you think this is—"
He closed the distance between them in three strides. She retreated instinctively, the carved bedpost pressing into her spine.
He leaned in, one hand braced against the wall beside her head. His voice was quiet, but the weight in it left no room for air.
"You came to end something that was never yours to end."
Her breath quickened. "It's been pending for ten years. I'm here to—"
"Ten years," he repeated, letting the words roll slowly over his tongue. "Do you know how long that is for a man like me?"
She tried to hold his gaze, but his nearness was suffocating. She could smell leather, steel… and beneath it, something darker, coppery, mud, rose. His eyes dropped, tracing the line of her throat.
"No," she said sharply, her voice thinning. "Don't—"
The bite came fast — sharp, claiming the hollow just beneath her jaw. She gasped, a sound she couldn't catch in time, her fingers clutching the carved post to keep from swaying. His teeth lingered a heartbeat too long, enough to leave heat blooming under her skin, his tongue licked, and mouth sucked again and again for a time before pulling away.
"Uhm Ah"
She let out a moan breathless. The sensation - his sensation.
The sting of the mark pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat.
"You don't get to leave," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Not now. Not ever."
Her heart slammed against her ribs, a dizzying rush of heat and cold chasing each other through her veins. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if what gripped her was fear… or something far more dangerous.