She blinks up at me. “Miss what?”
“Your home,” I clarify. “Your realm.”
A wistful smile tugs at her lips. “Every day,” she admits. “But I try not to dwell on the negative. Instead, I use it as motivation.” She shakes her head, that chipped tooth pressing into her lip. “It doesn’t do any good to give in to the sadness. Taking action is the only thing that will get me what I want.”
“I understand.”
She studies me for a moment, her gaze searching. “What about you? Do you ever think about…before?”
“Before?” I echo, swirling the tea in my cup.
“Before you decided to seek vengeance and fully commit to being the morally gray hero?” Her brows lift as she pops a piece of buttered bread into her mouth.
My jaw ticks, muscles clenching. I should never have asked her the question. I should never have—
“You know, it helps to talk about it.”
“Finish your meal,” I say, losing my appetite completely.
Another knock at the door signals the arrival of the hot water. I let the maids enter, and they bustle about, filling the large copper tub, the scents of lavender and chamomile spilling into the air as they add fragrant oils to the water.
I follow them to the door as they depart. “I’ll leave you to bathe. Make it quick. We have an appointment to keep.”
I don’t wait for her answer before I step into the hallway and close the door behind me.
Chapter Eight
Elara
The knot tightens in my stomach as we approach the entrance to Lord Fleck’s country estate. The mansion before us is a sprawling masterpiece with tall marble columns that support a grand portico inlaid with intricate carvings of mythical creatures. The double doors are massive, made of dark oak and bound with wrought iron, each handle shaped like a roaring lion’s head. Manicured gardens flank the wide stone steps, blooming with roses and guarded by statues of stoic knights.
“Ronan, is this really necessary?” I whisper, stepping close enough that only he can hear me as we approach the entrance to the opulent mansion.
He pauses, turning to face me. His storm-gray eyes lock on to mine with an intensity that makes me pause. “Entirely,” he replies, his voice low and firm. “While I find your spirited nature amusing, no one else will. If you so much as roll your eyes or balk at a command given to you—at the trial or at the festival—you risk not only themission but also your safety. Remember,” he continues, leaning in, his warm breath grazing my cheek. “Once we enter through those doors, we are performing for an audience. You are mine, and you must obey, immediately and humbly.”
“You haven’t even told me what we’ll be doing in there,” I protest, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
“That is part of the lesson.” A hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “At the festival, a noble might tell you to shine their boot if they notice a scuff, and they will expect you to comply without question or hesitation. You must learn subservience, Elara. This is how we do it. With practice. Now, come.”
He arches a brow in warning, and I force myself to mask my anger with an expression of willing acceptance. His gaze lingers on me for a moment before he offers a curt nod of approval.
We ascend the marble steps leading to the grand entrance, and the butler opens the door. “Lord Tathame.” He greets Ronan with the alias he’s been using around the kingdom.
I wait until he’s five paces ahead of me before following, keeping my gaze lowered like a proper pawn. And it works. The butler doesn’t even acknowledge my existence as I slip inside.
The foyer is breathtaking. A vaulted ceiling stretches above us, and golden candlelight spills from crystal chandeliers. Marble floors gleam underfoot, their polished surfaces reflecting the flames like fireflies in amber. Sweeping staircases curve upward on either side, their banisters carved with intricate patterns of leaves and scrolls.
We pass through a set of heavy double doors into the men’s sitting room. The decor shifts from soft whites and golds to rich mahogany paneling and forest greens. Clusters of overstuffed leather chairs are arranged around low tables. The air is thick with the scents of aged whiskey and cigars. Velvet drapes are drawn, blocking out the sunlight from the tall windows, and a fire crackles in a massive stone hearth at the far end of the room, casting flickering shadows across the faces of the assembled nobles, each accompanied by their pawns, who stand silently behind them. The room hums with quiet conversations.
Ronan strides confidently toward an empty chair near the fireplace, and I follow dutifully. He settles into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Without bothering to look at me, he says, “Elara, fetch me a drink. You know what I like.”
I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t. Instead, I nod and curtsy gracefully. “Yes, my lord.”
I move toward a side table where crystal decanters and glasses are artfully arranged next to a collection of golden cigar cases. The weight of his gaze follows me. It’s a tangible heat that trails over my skin. I pour the amber liquid and return to his side, offering him the glass with both hands, eyes respectfully lowered.
His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass—a fleeting touch that sends a spark coursing up my arm. “Thank you, naughty nymph,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
I suppress the involuntary flutter in my chest, stepping back into my designated place. Moments later, he gestures subtly, and I lean in to catch his quiet command.
