She tried to step forward, but the man at her back yanked her toward him.
“That’s close enough, my dear.” He pulled her even closer.
Emmaline yanked at his arm, turning, ready to deliver a scathing retort, and found herself face-to-chest with the man. Her mouth opened to speak, but the moment his hand brushed against her skin at the edge of her long sleeves, his fingers stilled. The hard line of his shoulders softened, then stiffened again, a strange hesitation rippling through him. He seemed to pause entirely, his breathcatching in a way that threw off the easy control he’d exuded only seconds before.
Emmaline noticed it immediately, but she couldn’t make sense of it. Either way, his grip slackened just enough to let her jerk her hand free, and she didn’t hesitate.
“Get off me, you brute!” Her voice rang shriller than she’d intended, but her heart beat too fast for her to care. “I am Lord Caelith’s m—” The words caught in her throat, refusing to come out no matter how hard she tried. Her mouth moved soundlessly for a moment before she shook her head, swallowing down the inexplicable churning in her stomach.
“I am his father’s secretary,” she said finally. “Here to deliver a message.”
“My name is Deyric.” His hand lingered midair, and then he shifted, closing the space she’d created.
“Stop.” Emmaline’s heart fluttered, and she took another half-step back.
A faint sigh escaped the man before he straightened and inclined his head. “My apologies, miss. I didn’t recognize you for what you are…”
Her gaze trailed over the broad chest, pulling snugly at the soft linen tunic he wore. And gleaming faintly under the courtyard’s soft light, his wavy, shoulder-length emerald hair was neatly swept behind ears just a touch too long for a pure-blooded Ellyllon.
Her inspection faltered when he cocked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. The way his lips threatened to stretch into a full grin—it was enough to suggest he’d caught her staring.
Emmaline’s face flushed, and she swiveled back to Caelith, who was tucking a fresh shirt into his trousers.
“My Lord,” she started, but he cut her off with a casual glance.
“You’re the one who manages my father’s finances?”
“Yes, among other things, my Lord.” She smoothed her dress, lifting her chin. “We spoke just last week regarding the new rune-etched ward stones you wanted. I convinced your father they’d be an excellent investment for the estate.”
“Oh, right.” Caelith sighed, inspecting his nails. “I’d already forgotten about that. But now that you mention it, where are they? I had hoped to have them installed in the Glider for Lord Dormir’s ball by this weekend.”
Emmaline’s lips parted, but before she could formulate a response, the man behind her, Deyric, moved, positioning himself just slightly too close to her side.
“My Lord,” he interjected, his presence sending an uncomfortable warmth tickling up her spine. “We still need to deal with the present problem of your date.” His hand stretched as if to reach for her again, but she stepped closer to Caelith instead.
What is his problem? she wondered, glancing at him sidelong.
Deyric’s jaw tensed, and a flash of something hard—anger, frustration?—crossed his expression before he schooled himself. His hands balled at his sides, tendons straining, and then he relaxed with deliberate effort. Without another word, he swept past her to the woman lying sprawled on the ground.
Crouching beside her, his fingers ghosted over the edges of her blood-matted hair, careful not to touch the worst of the wound as he leaned in to examine her.
“You’re right, of course, my old friend. This problem first.” Caelith spared a brief glance at the motionless figure before he turned back to Emmaline. “As for you, I assume Father has you under the standard privacy agreement for household members?”
“Well, yes, Lord Caelith,” Emmaline stammered, her fingers knotting together. “But I would never do anything to harm you. You are… too…”
The words caught in her throat. She’d practiced this moment countless times—how she would tell him they were mates, destined to be together, how she was ready for him to claim her. But now, standing before him, her tongue felt heavy, her mind blank.
“You are too important to the Vale to be caught in any controversy such as this,” she blurted out finally, her voice faltering.
“I am indeed.” Caelith straightened at that, his chest swelling as he paused to look at her.
For a brief, shining moment, Emmaline thought she saw a flicker of recognition in his expression. Then, his mouth settled into a well-rehearsed smile.
“Maybelline,” he said brightly. “It’s Maybelline, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes,” she mumbled, her cheeks flushing. “Whatever you want, my Lord.”
“Emmaline, my Lord,” Deyric said, not looking up.
