Page 13 of Maid For The Dark Elf

Aurelia's violet eyes widen with innocent confusion. "How strange. Lord Chancellor Selkareth mentioned to Father that such delicate negotiations often require entire seasons to resolve properly."

I suppress a smile. Selkareth said no such thing—Aurelia's weaving contradictions from whole cloth, watching to see which version of events the Ardyn relatives will accept or challenge.

"Negotiations?" Lady Thessa exchanges a sharp glance with her cousin. "We understood it was more of an... advisory role."

"Perhaps I misunderstood." Aurelia's laugh tinkles like silver bells. "Politics can be so confusing for us ladies. Though I do hope Lord Aethan returns soon—Lady Sylvareth seemed quite distressed at the uncertainty."

The word 'uncertainty' lands like a stone in still water. Therovar's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, while Lady Thessa's fingers drum against her wine goblet.

"Distressed?" Therovar's tone carries forced lightness. "Surely not. Sylvareth understands the importance of Crown service."

"Of course," Aurelia agrees smoothly. "Though one can hardly blame her for worrying. After all, when Lord Glar disappeared on similar business five years ago..."

She lets the sentence hang unfinished, a masterpiece of implication. Lord Glar never disappeared—he died of fever in his own bed—but the suggestion plants seeds of doubt about the true nature of Aethan's mission.

Lady Thessa's composure cracks slightly. "The situations are hardly comparable."

"Naturally." Aurelia's smile never wavers. "I'm sure the King's precautions are far more thorough now. The increased security, the additional escorts..."

Another fabrication, but delivered with such confidence that both Ardyn relatives nod along automatically before catching themselves.

I turn back to Lord Korrath, filing away every contradiction. The relatives know more than they're admitting, but their knowledge contains gaps that Aurelia's probing reveals like cracks in a foundation.

Lady Sylvareth sweeps through the doors in burgundy silk, her hair arranged in elaborate braids that catch the magical light. She moves with the desperate brightness of someone determined to appear untroubled, accepting condolences and well-wishes.

Behind her follow the usual retinue of House Ardyn servants, their gray uniforms a stark contrast to our guests' finery. My eyes scan the group automatically, searching for...

She's not there.

The realization hits with unexpected force. The human servant with intelligent eyes and steady composure remains absent, likely tending to whatever duties keep her at the estate. A perfectly logical explanation that shouldn't matter in the slightest.

Yet disappointment settles in my gut like a stone.

"The grain situation requires delicate handling," Lord Korrath continues, oblivious to my distraction. "Too much regulation stifles trade, too little invites corruption."

I nod and offer appropriate responses while my mind wanders down dangerous paths. Three days have passed since our brief encounter, yet I find myself remembering the precise shades in her eyes, the way she held herself with quiet dignity despite obvious embarrassment. Her voice, soft but clear, thanking me for simple courtesy as if kindness were a rare gift.

This preoccupation disturbs me more than I care to admit. I've spent my entire life maintaining careful emotional distance, viewing every interaction through the lens of political necessity. Marriage will be a strategic alliance, friendship a tool of statecraft, even family affection tempered by duty to our house's future.

Yet thoughts of a woman whose name I don't even know intrude at the most inappropriate moments.

I ignore the formal farewells, the drifting conversations, the final servants clearing away the last wine goblets. My body moves through the motions of hosting while my mind remains fixed on thoughts that have no place in the royal investigation. Aurelia gives me a questioning glance as I excuse myself too early, but I offer no explanation.

The stone corridors of our wing feel colder than usual tonight, my footsteps echoing too loudly against polished marble. I strip off formal silks in my dressing chamber, the fabrics sliding from my shoulders like discarded roles.

Steam rises from the bathing pool in my private chambers, water heated by enchanted stones placed beneath the basin hours earlier. The air smells of cool mint and soaked stone. I sink into the heat with a groan that carries more exhaustion than relief, water rising to my chin. For several minutes I simply exist—no family obligations, no political maneuvering, no ghostly thoughts of a woman whose face won't leave my consciousness.

She appears unbidden, kneeling in my imagination with that same careful dignity she showed when I helped her up. In reality she’s barely taller than my chest, her head tilting upward to meet my eyes. Bronze skin warmed by torchlight, chestnut hair that falls like shadowed silk. Hazel eyes that see more than they should—intelligent, observant, wary.

My hand slides beneath the water, palm curving over the hard length of my cock. A simple fantasy begins—her finding some excuse to approach me privately later that night, perhaps delivering a forgotten item from Lady Ardyn. She enters my chambers uninvited, eyes widening at finding me bathing but not leaving. Instead she kneels by the pool's edge, her gaze never leaving mine. Not submissive, but offering something she's chosen.

"Sir," she whispers, her voice exactly as I remember—soft but clear, carrying no trace of servility despite the title. Her fingers trail across the surface of the water, creating slow ripples that lap against my chest.

In the fantasy, I don't speak. I lift my chin slightly, permission rather than command. She leans forward, deliberately slow, and wraps her slender hand around me beneath the water. Her skin is warmer than the bath, her grip firm but not rough. She strokes with a rhythm that suggests she's imagined this as many times as I have.

Heat coils in my belly, a tightness spreading through my thighs. I press my head back against the basin's edge, teeth clenching. Her other hand rests on my shoulder, her thumb tracing the line of my collarbone. She watches my face with an expression I can't place—curiosity mixed with something like hunger.

"Please," she whispers again, bending closer until her lips brush against my ear. "I want to watch you."