Page 49 of Maid For The Dark Elf

My heartbeat gradually slows, matching the rhythm of hers beneath my palm. Rosalie's breathing evens out, her body soft and pliant against mine on the cold stone. I could stay like this forever—her warmth pressed against my chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across my shoulder.

This is what I want. Not just tonight, not just stolen moments between duty and obligation. Every night. Her voice calling my name in the darkness, her laughter echoing through our chambers, her hand in mine as we face whatever the future brings.

"I could get used to this," I murmur against her hair, tasting the faint sweetness that always clings to her.

"Dangerous words." But she smiles as she says it, tilting her head back to meet my eyes. "Very dangerous."

"The most worthwhile things usually are."

She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through both our chests. "Spoken like a true noble. Everything's a conquest to be won."

"Not everything." I brush a strand of chestnut hair from her face, marveling at how right this feels despite every rational argument against it. "You're not a conquest, Rosalie. You're... you're home."

Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her features before she masks it with that careful composure she's perfected over years of servitude. "Caelric..."

"I know what you're going to say." I capture her hand, pressing it flat against my chest. "I know all the reasons this is impossible. But I don't care anymore."

"You have to care. We both do." She sits up slowly, gathering her scattered clothing. "Someone needs to return to reality."

I watch her dress, memorizing every movement, every curve revealed and concealed by fabric. The sight of her smoothing down her skirts, transforming back into the invisible servant the rest of the world sees, makes something twist painfully in my chest.

"Go back first," I tell her, rising to collect my own clothes. "I'll follow in a few minutes."

She nods, then pauses at the alcove entrance. "Caelric?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. More than I should, more than is safe for either of us." Her voice carries quiet certainty that makes my throat tight.

I step behind her, fingers working through the tangles we've created, smoothing each strand back into place with reverent care. This simple act—tending to her after passion—feels more intimate than anything we've shared.

"There." I press a soft kiss to the crown of her head. "I love you."

She turns in my arms for one last kiss, brief and sweet and tasting of promises neither of us can make. Then she's gone, slipping back toward the ballroom like a shadow.

I lean against the stone wall, breathing deeply. The scent of rirzed herb from the gardens mingles with the lingering trace of her perfume. Gods, I love that woman more than I even understand. More than duty, more than family honor, more than my own future.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a certainty that cuts through every doubt and obligation. This is what I want. She is what I want.

I straighten my doublet and step into the corridor, already counting the minutes until I can see her again.

"Caelric."

My father's voice stops me cold. He stands at the far end of the hallway, hands clasped behind his back, violet eyes reflecting the floating mage-lights with glacial intensity. Every line of his posture radiates controlled fury.

"Father." I force my voice to remain steady. "Enjoying the celebration?"

"Walk with me."

It's not a request. I fall into step beside him, my mind racing through possible explanations, plausible denials. How much does he know? How much did he see?

"Tell me, son, what do you know about the concept of discretion?"

The question lands like acid in my stomach. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Of course you don't." His tone carries the cutting edge I remember from childhood lessons in statecraft. "Perhaps I should be more specific. What do you know about conducting an affair without destroying your family's reputation in the process?"

My stomach drops. "Father⁠—"