After some time—Caelith did not know how long—a cautious voice sounded from beyond the door.
"My lady… are you asleep? The bathwater has been prepared."
It was Dolly.
Caelith wiped away the traces of tears from her cheeks and rose to her feet. She opened the door with steady composure. No one must ever see her weakness.
When she bathed, the warm water flowed over her skin in gentle streams. Yet it could not wash away the lingering heat at the side of her neck where fingers had once lingered, nor erase the faint memory upon her lips—the breath and presence of another man.
Rhaegar Thorne.
His name circled endlessly within her thoughts like a spell she could not break.
That night was only the beginning, he had said.
You are mine.
What did he truly want?
Was it revenge against Dorian Valehart? Or was it merely the thrill of claiming the woman who belonged to his so-called brother?
Caelith sank lower into the bath until the warm water touched her chin, closing her eyes as she forced herself to breathe slowly and regain her composure.
***
Several days later, Dorian seemed intent upon easing the strained atmosphere between them. Quite unexpectedly, he proposed that they travel beyond the city to the Moon Temple to offer candles and prayers.
Caelith had little desire to go. Yet Dorian's insistence was firm, and a message arrived from the lady of the Valehart household as well, instructing her to light a candle at the temple for her late parents.
Thus, she could not refuse.
The Moon Temple was renowned throughout the capital. Ancient trees towered above the courtyards, their branches spreading like green canopies, while candle smoke curled endlessly toward the heavens.
After making a generous donation in the front hall, Dorian announced that he wished to seek out the abbot to discuss an ancient painting. He instructed Caelith to proceed alone to the rear shrine to light the memorial candles.
Accompanied by Dolly, she followed a temple attendant along a quiet path.
They passed through a small apple orchard.
A breeze stirred the branches, and the leaves whispered softly against one another, filling the air with a tranquil rustling.
Then…
From the side, a hand shot out suddenly and seized her wrist, dragging her swiftly into the depths of the apple tree thicket.
"Ah—!"
Her cry was cut short as a strong hand clamped over her mouth.
A familiar presence closed around her instantly.
Rhaegar.
Today, he wore no official robes of the Shadow Guard. Instead, he was dressed in a dark blue garment of ordinary cut, his hair swaying loosely over his forehead. Without the stark authority of his uniform, he appeared slightly less severe—yet no less commanding.
And his eyes…
In the dim shadows cast by the trees, they burned with a terrifying brightness as they locked down at her.
"Let me go…" Caelith struggled, the words muffled beneath his hand.
Dolly stood frozen with shock. She had just opened her mouth to cry out when a single cold glance from Rhaegar struck her silent.
From nowhere, two guards dressed in black appeared behind her. Without a word, they gestured firmly for silence.
"You have quite the nerve," Rhaegar said with a grin.
He released the hand covering her mouth, only to seize her by the waist instead, pulling her firmly against him. Lowering his head, he studied her closely.
"Who would have thought that a little gray mouth like Caelith Emberlyn could speak so bravely to her husband?"
He meant the matter of the sobering soup that night.
But how did he know?
A chill ran through Caelith. Had he placed eyes within the Valehart household, too?
Her struggles intensified. "My personal affairs are none of Lord Thorne's concern! Release me at once!"
"None of my concern?" Rhaegar gave a short, scornful laugh. His fingers tightened at her waist until it hurt. "When you lay beneath me that night, why did you not say the same?"
"You—!" Caelith's cheeks flared crimson with both humiliation and fury. "That was a mistake!"
"A mistake?"
The look in his eyes darkened instantly.
Without warning, he shoved her backward. Caelith's back struck against the thick trunk of an apple tree. The tall trunk swayed violently, scattering a rain of rustling leaves around them.
"Then let me show you," he said coldly, "what not a mistake looks like."
He bent down and captured her lips.
This kiss bore no resemblance to the swift theft beneath the corridor lanterns. It was fierce, almost punishing. His mouth forced hers open, invading with relentless intensity, claiming her breath and warmth without mercy.
The fresh scent of apple leaves mingled with the faint sandalwood scent drifting from the temple halls—and with the sharp, commanding presence that belonged to him alone.
The combination was dizzying.
Caelith soon found herself breathless, her mind clouding as she pushed weakly against his chest. Yet her resistance lacked strength, her hands trembling against the hard line of his body.
At last, after a long moment, Rhaegar withdrew slightly.
A thin, glimmering thread lingered between their lips before breaking.
His breathing had grown ragged. Desire burned plainly in his eyes as his thumb brushed firmly across her swollen, reddened mouth.
"Now," he murmured hoarsely, "does that still feel like a mistake?"
Caelith gasped for breath. Her eyes were rimmed faintly red, and no words came to her lips.
"Lady Caelith."
Rhaegar leaned closer until the tips of their noses nearly touched. Their breaths mingled in the cool shade of the apple tree grove.
"Do not play games with me," he said quietly. "And do not think you can hide. I can give you everything Dorian can't."
He paused, his gaze deep as a winter pool. "And I will help you claim… whatever he owes you."
Caelith's heart clenched sharply. She stared at him in stunned silence.
"Why…?" she whispered at last.
Why her?
Rhaegar gave no answer.
He only watched her intently—his gaze traveling across the faint redness at the corners of her eyes, the trembling of her lashes, and finally settling upon her lips, still flushed from his kiss.
Then he lowered his head once more.
This time the kiss was gentler—yet longer, unbearably deeper. It carried the same undeniable claim, yet beneath it lay something more… a quiet hunger, almost greedy, that even he himself might not yet have recognized.
Above them, tree shadows swayed softly.
Light and darkness shifted across the grove like rippling water.
From afar came the faint tolling of temple bells, accompanied by the low murmur of monks chanting their evening prayers—solemn, austere, and filled with reverence.
Yet here, deep within the dim orchard, there was only the reckless entanglement of lips and breath, the dizzying descent into a forbidden intimacy that set the heart racing.
How much time passed, neither of them could have said.
At last, Rhaegar released her.
Caelith's limbs felt weak, her strength nearly gone. She might have collapsed entirely had his arm not remained wrapped firmly around her waist, supporting her weight.
"Three days from now," he murmured close to her ear, his voice low and steady, "in the western quarter of the city—Firefly Lane, courtyard B."
He paused only briefly.
"At noon. I expect to see you there."
"And if you do not come…" His fingers drifted lightly behind her ear, the sensitive touch sending a shiver through her body. "…I would not mind visiting the Valehart estate personally to invite you."
His voice lowered further, edged with quiet menace.
"Tell me—what expression do you suppose Dorian Valehart would wear if he saw me stepping out of your chamber?"
Cold dread spread through Caelith's veins.
This was no request.
It was a command.
Having spoken, Rhaegar released her and stepped back. With composed movements, he straightened the slightly disordered front of his tunic. The man who had moments ago held her with such dangerous intensity seemed to vanish, replaced once more by the cold and formidable Commander of the Shadow Guard.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Dolly, who stood a short distance away, pale as paper with fear.
"Keep your maid under control," he said evenly.
Then he turned away.
His dark blue figure disappeared swiftly into the depths of the apple orchard, as though he had never been there at all.
Left behind was Caelith—leaning against the cool tree trunk, her legs unsteady, her lips flushed and swollen, and a fresh mark burning along the side of her neck.
In the still air lingered the faint trace of his commanding presence.
And his final, inescapable words echoed again and again in her mind—
At noon. I expect to see you.
***
After returning from the Moon Temple, the next three days passed like a drawn bowstring.
Caelith lived as though startled by every sound.
Dolly had been badly frightened that day in the orchard. Soon after their return, she developed a low fever, tossing restlessly through the night. In her sleep, she murmured broken fragments—"apple… the lord… my lady…"
Caelith's heart trembled with anxiety. She tended to her maid personally, cooling her forehead with damp cloths and whispering gentle reassurances. Never once did she mention what had occurred in the grove.
Fortunately, Dolly's illness came only from fright. After a few days, the fever receded, though she grew quieter than before. When she looked at Caelith now, her eyes carried a deep mixture of worry and fear.
Dorian, meanwhile, had spent a long while that day discussing paintings with the temple abbot and had noticed nothing unusual when they returned.
At dinner that evening, his gaze drifted to Caelith's lips more than once. They appeared somewhat rosier than usual.
Yet he merely assumed it was the lingering effect of the cup of wine drunk at the temple—or perhaps that her spirits had improved slightly for some reason.
He thought no further of it.