She hesitated, confusion threading through her rising panic.Why would he care?
“I had work to do,” she answered carefully.
He looked down the hall, then back to her, pursing his lips as if… as if he wasn’t used to being brushed off.
Emmaline fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself in a hug. It hadn’t been that long ago—mere hours, really—when she would have latched onto his attention, searching for any sign, any fleeting glance, that confirmed what she had so foolishly believed to be fate.
He is your mate.
She had told herself that over and over, had clung to it with desperate certainty, despite the way he never truly looked at her. And now here he was, the pressure of his stare itching against her skin, silence stretching between them.
She shifted. He should let her go now. He had no reason to stay. And yet, there was something—a tension in his jaw, a faint crease in his brow, like he was working through something unfamiliar.
A beat passed. Then another.
Leave. Sweet Goddess, just leave.Her skin became tight and uncomfortable because she realized now that it wasn’t love making it hardto breathe.It was something colder that wrapped around her ribs like a warning she had been too blind to see before.
And still, he didn’t look away. Caelith leaned in, fingers grazing her shoulder as he plucked a single strand of dark green hair from where it had fallen against her dress. He held it between his fingers for a moment, studying it with an expression she couldn’t quite place. Then, with a disinterested shake of his hand, he let it drop.
Emmaline blinked.
“Busy… where?” he finally uttered. “You have not been in your office. The Patrol looked there.”
Her breath caught. The question hit sharp as a thorn.That—why would he ask that? Why was he checking up on her?
Emmaline forced her shoulders to relax, keeping her expression carefully neutral. “Busy with vendors for the ball, my Lord.”
She expected him to dismiss her then, to scoff and let her go, then move past her without another thought. But he didn’t.
“Hmmm.” A crease formed between his brows before smoothing away, too quick for her to be sure she’d even seen it. “You don’t look like a woman who has spent all day arguing with greedy florists and caterers.”
A bitter taste coated her tongue. Goddess, how had she ever been so sure? How had she once believed with all the certainty in the world that this man was hers?
Her nails pressed into the palms of her hands, and she strained to bow her head. “If there’s nothing else, my Lord, I should be going.”
She waited for his dismissal, but Caelith didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t move. His gaze remained a moment too long—then, finally, he stepped aside, allowingher to pass.
Emmaline turned swiftly, forcing herself to walk at a measured pace, every inch of her body rigid with the effort not to flee. Only when she rounded the corner, when she was safely out of sight, did she allow herself a single, shaking breath.
She should feel relieved now that the conversation, if it could be called that, was over, but she wasn’t. Caelith’s voice clung to her skin, winding around her like a snare she hadn't noticed until it was too late.
Where have you been?
Those words would have lifted her to the stars a day earlier. So why did they now sound like something more sinister? Her mind replayed what she had overheard between him and Lady Isolde, that he’d take care of her.
Had he been looking for her because she was finally worth seeing and protecting from his mother and the Patrol? Or because he saw her as a threat?
A slow chill unraveled through her limbs, her thoughts catching on something she couldn't ignore.
If he had truly seen her today, if his interest had finally turned in her direction, what did it mean after what had just happened with Deyric? A Lord did not take rejection well, especially one used to getting what he wanted… especially one rumored to take what wasn’t offered.
Her head ached from the tangle of emotions warring inside her. For years, she had been certain of one thing—Caelith Greymane was her mate. But tonight, his presence had made her skin crawl.
And earlier, Deyric’s hands, his mouth, his fire—that had made her burn.
Emmaline forced down a lump in her throat, shoving the thought away, forcing herself to lift her chin, to keep walking. Because tomorrow night, she would be dancing at the Blood Moon Club. And if Caelith had truly set his sights on her, whether as a prize or a problem, then she needed to decide, once and for all, who she was running toward… and who she should be running from.
Chapter fifteen
