I always arrive when I am least expected. The household breathes a sigh of relief whenever I step into the grand hall, and I let them believe I am their gentle muse, their sweet, caring daughter, sister, cousin. The servants bow, the housekeeper offers a gentle smile, and even Father nods with that faint, unseeing pride that always amuses me.
But I know.
I always know who watches me from the shadows. The ones who whisper, who plot behind linen curtains and polished silver. My spies. My enemies masquerading as servants. They think they can hide beneath their polite bows and careful words, but they cannot. I see everything. I see them, and I see him, my Shadow King, the one who owns my nights and stirs my blood with a glance.
No one knows his true identity. He is revered through fear and trauma. Respect earned from hundreds of thousands of the blood he shed. He is known as a Count from a neighboring kingdom.
But only I know. I feel him. His shadows intoxicate me.
He does not belong here. No mortal man could. He is the storm that bends my world, the darkness that calls to the most vicious parts of me. Yet I pretend, as all the world pretends, that he is merely a guest of honor, a friend of the family.
I smile when I see him, a soft curve of lips that disarms everyone else, but my chest hammers, my fingers itch, and my mind churns with the obsession that defines me. There is no halfway in my love for him; it consumes me entirely. And tonight, as the firelight dances across his face, I will allow myself a closer glimpse.
"Elara," my maid whispers, her voice trembling as she brushes my hair into place. "The Master will dine soon. Should I announce you?"
I tilt my head, letting her nerves feed my amusement. "No, Liora. Let me watch. Let him come to me. That is how it must be."
Her eyes widen, and I think she suspects something—perhaps she sees the madness behind my calm, or perhaps she only sees my play. Either way, she dares not contradict me. She never dares.
The grand hall is prepared for our evening meal, the candles flickering in golden candelabras that cast elongated shadows on the stone walls. I can hear the murmurs of my family as they settle, the laughter and clinking of glasses, but my attention is fixed on him. He stands at the far end, indifferent to the warmth of the room, his dark eyes scanning the gathering with that piercing intensity that makes my knees weak.
A smile...one fleeting, almost cruel...curves his lips, and I feel a surge of possession. Mine. He is mine. And the world will learn it soon enough.
I glide across the room, my skirts whispering against the polished floor. Father notices, as always, and beams. "Elara, my dear, you shine tonight."
I nod demurely, letting the charm settle like a mask. "Thank you, Father. It is the candles. They flatter everyone, do they not?"
He chuckles, oblivious. No one ever sees the predator beneath the elegance, the chaotic pulse beneath the measured gestures. And yet, my mother catches my eye, her subtle nod acknowledging something unspoken. Perhaps she senses the truth, or perhaps she is merely amused. Either way, she does not interfere. She never interferes. The household adores me, all of them, save the hidden eyes that watch, the spies from my cousins who think they can snake their way into my inheritance as the heiress to the Dutchy.
Our Family is one of the most powerful and influential noble family in our kingdom. My grandfather earned the Duke title after leading our kingdom army as the general to victory. It earned us the most powerful army and land as well as wealth. No one dares defy us.
They cannot. No one can.
The meal begins, and I let myself linger near him, a whisper of silk brushing against his arm as I pass. He glances at me, just enough for my pulse to quicken, just enough to ignite the obsessive fire that coils around my heart. He does not smile, does not speak, yet every subtle shift of his posture speaks to me alone. I imagine the dark thoughts that must linger behind those eyes, the silent hunger. They mirror my own, though he does not yet know the extent of my devotion.
A servant stumbles, dropping a silver platter, and I catch it mid-fall with a flick of my wrist. Everyone gasps, and I laugh softly, a melodic sound that fills the hall.
The spies...discreetly as they dare not act openly...exchange wary glances. They know, in that instant, that I am aware. That I always am. They are nothing to me, mere obstacles, shadows that cannot touch the fire burning within. I could crush them if I wished, yet I enjoy the dance, the subtle fear in their eyes. It is delicious.
Later, as the household retreats to the drawing rooms, I follow him. He lingers by a window, staring out at the garden, and the moonlight catches his sharp features.
I step into the room, careful to make my presence known yet still appear casual, effortless. "You enjoy the view, Count Jeran?" My voice is silk and poison entwined.
I don't know why he used Jeran as his name. Despite wishing to keep his identity as Malicar the Shadow King, I'd most prefer the later escaped my lips as Malicar left a sweet taste on my tongue.
He turns slowly, dark eyes meeting mine. There is a flicker of recognition, or perhaps curiosity. "Elara," he says, the name rolling off his tongue with a weight I can feel in my bones. "You are always near."
I tilt my head, letting the faintest smile curl my lips. "Always. Is that so terrible?" There is a challenge in my voice, though it is coated with warmth. Everyone else would hear concern, care even. But he hears me. He knows the hunger beneath the honey.
The door creaks, and I sense a figure in the shadows. Liora, faithful but fearful, peeks in. I allow her to enter, but only to serve. She flinches as she sets down a glass, and I pat her hand lightly. "Do not fear, child. Everything is as it should be."
Her eyes dart toward him, wary. I suppress a grin. Let them try. They will never succeed.
He finally steps closer, and my heart hammers against my ribs. There is a tension in the air, a spark that I can taste, electric and raw. "You do not frighten easily," he murmurs. His voice is a caress and a threat all at once.
I lean closer, so close that our shadows merge, and I whisper, "Fear is for those who do not know desire."
The pause that follows is delicious. The world could end, and I would not care. He watches me, studying, measuring, and I let the madness in my mind bloom. Every touch, every glance is a claim, a thread tying him to me, whether he realizes it or not.
From another corner of the room, I hear footsteps. An irrelevant rodent intruding.
A young cousin of mine, Dreda, who admires him from afar, unaware of the danger that coils around me. Her voice is soft, filled with awe and nervous excitement. "He is magnificent," she breathes to another, and I smile inwardly. Magnificent, yes. Mine, even more so.
The night drifts on, and the household gradually disperses. I linger, orchestrating moments so subtle that no one notices, so delicate that my obsession remains hidden beneath charm. The spies may continue their watch, but they see nothing, understand nothing. They are blind to the force that binds me to him, blind to the chaos that simmers beneath my composed facade.
Finally, alone, I allow the mask to slip. The mirror reflects my face, pale and sharp under the candlelight, eyes glittering with fevered intensity. I trace a finger along the glass, imagining it marking him, mapping him, claiming him. He is mine. The thought is intoxicating, thrilling, and I shiver with anticipation. The world may believe I am sweet, gentle, devoted, but the truth is far more delicious. I am unhinged. I am chaos. I am everything he cannot yet control, and everything he will never leave.
The spies watch from their corners, silent, powerless. I can feel their fear like a pulse in the walls. It excites me, reminds me of my strength. Malicar stirs in my mind, and I imagine the day he will finally understand, the day he will succumb, or perhaps resist until the very edge of madness. Either way, he is bound to me, and that is enough for now.
I let the candles burn low, the shadows stretch and curl, and I sit in the quiet, savoring the chaos I hide so well from all except him. My hands twitch, restless, longing, and my thoughts are a storm of dark devotion. The night is young, but my obsession is eternal. And when he finally notices, truly notices, there will be no escape. No one will stand in my way. Not spies, not family, not even the world itself.
For I am Elara, and Malicar is mine. Always mine.