Beneath her trembling fingertips, his skin burned—taut, seething with formidable strength. The steady thunder of his heartbeat traveled through her palm, pulsing so fiercely that Caelith's fingers tingled with its force.
Rhaegar's throat bobbed heavily. His gaze, fixed upon her, darkened into something fearsome—like a great beast long crouched in shadow, at last watching its prey step willingly into the snare. He seized her slender wrist and pressed her palm more firmly against his chest.
"Do you feel it?" he murmured, his voice roughened beyond disguise. "It races thus because of you."
Heat flooded Caelith's cheeks anew. She tried to withdraw her hand, yet his hold was unyielding. His eyes roamed her form with tangible intensity, lingering upon the gentle rise and fall of her breath beneath the pearl-colored folds of her bridal robes. That white silk—emblem of matrimony and honor—now seemed the most perilous of hues.
"Are you afraid?" Rhaegar's low scoff carried a note of dark amusement. "Where is that courage you possessed a moment ago?"
"Afraid? Never!" she retorted before she could restrain herself, the words sharpened by pride cornered beyond retreat.
The instant the defiance left her lips, regret followed. It sounded less like a protest and more like an invitation.
Indeed, the shadow in his eyes deepened.
Without another word, Rhaegar swept her into his arms.
A startled cry escaped her as she instinctively clasped his neck. His arms were powerful and certain as iron bands, bearing her across the chamber toward the grand bed within the inner room.
She barely had time to gather her thoughts before her body sank into the softness of layered silks and brocade.
In the next moment, his weight followed, solid and inescapable. Calloused hands moved with swift impatience, loosening the intricate knots of her ceremonial gown.
Layer upon layer of white and gold fell away, revealing the pale under-robe beneath—moon-white silk embroidered with twin peony blossoms.
The cool air kissed her newly bared skin, drawing a tremor from her limbs.
Rhaegar was not gentle—nor did he feign to be. There was urgency in him, a hunger long bridled and now unbound. He lowered his head and claimed her lips again, deeper than before, fiercer—his kiss a conquest rather than a question.
Dizziness swept through Caelith, leaving her breathless, her resistance dissolving into fragile stillness.
One garment after another slipped from her until, at last, the final veil of modesty was cast beyond the bed curtains. She shuddered and folded her arms about herself, instinctively seeking what little refuge remained.
Through the heavy drapes, candlelight filtered dimly, bathing the chamber in a dusky amber glow.
Rhaegar hovered above her, studying her in that muted radiance. Her skin shone pale as carved ivory against the red sheets; her form, slender yet gracefully curved, trembled like a blossom caught in storm-wind—poised between innocence and awakening.
His gaze darkened further.
He bent his head.
The unfamiliar sensation sent a tremor coursing through her entire being. She bit down upon her lower lip, fighting to silence the sound that nearly escaped her throat.
"Hold it," he whispered against her ear, his breath scorching the delicate shell. "The walls are thin."
As though to confirm his warning, faint sounds rose once more from the neighboring chamber—Yvaine's pleading voice laced with feigned tears, and Dorian's murmured reassurances thick with indulgence.
Caelith stiffened. Whatever fragile haze had begun to veil her senses shattered beneath the weight of humiliation and simmering wrath. She opened her eyes and looked up at the man above her.
Rhaegar was watching her as well.
Desire burned there, yes—but also scrutiny, and something deeper she could not name. A shadowed intensity that reached beyond mere appetite.
Abruptly, he asked, "Has Dorian ever claimed you?"
She faltered, understanding dawning with mortifying clarity. Color surged across her cheeks, yet she gave a faint, resolute shake of her head.
Something flickered across Rhaegar's expression—swift as lightning across a midnight sky. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something more possessive still.
A slow, deliberate smile curved his lips, darker than before—no longer solely the smile of a predator, but of a man who had discovered a treasure untouched and resolved to keep it.
"Good," he murmured.
His lips descended once more. This time there was, faintly, an edge of restraint—an almost imperceptible patience woven into the heat of his kiss.
Yet that restraint did not endure.
A fragile sound escaped her lips. "It hurts…"
"Remember this feeling," Rhaegar breathed against her ear, his voice low and roughened to a whisper. "Remember who gave it to you."
The bed curtains swayed; candlelight fractured into restless shadows. The jubilant crackle of wedding candles beyond the chamber mingled cruelly with the muffled sounds from the adjoining room. All of it tangled together—celebration and betrayal, pleasure and humiliation—until Caelith felt herself drawn downward into a fathomless tide from which there could be no retreat.
***
Much later.
Exhaustion claimed her so completely that even her fingertips felt too heavy to stir. Through the haze of half-sleep, she sensed Rhaegar rising from the bed.
She forced her eyes open a fraction.
He sat at the edge of the couch with his back to her. In the dim glow, his broad, well-forged back was revealed—and across it lay several pale, old scars. They cut across muscle and sinew like ghostly remnants of past battles, startlingly vivid beneath the muted light.
How had he come by so many wounds?
Before she could dwell upon it, he drew on an outer robe with careless efficiency and crossed to the table. Pouring himself a cup of cold tea left from earlier, he tipped his head back and drank it in a single draught. The motion of his throat—strong and defined—carried a stark, almost dangerous elegance.
Flustered, Caelith turned her gaze away—only for it to fall upon the floor beside the bed.
There lay her moon-white undergarment, embroidered with twin peony blossoms, discarded near his boots as though it had been nothing more than a silk wrapping. The sight sent heat rushing anew to her cheeks. She instinctively shrank deeper beneath the covers, clutching them to her chin.
Rhaegar turned and caught her movement.
He strode back unhurriedly and seated himself at the bedside. His gaze settled upon the half of her face still visible above the quilt—tear-streaks not yet dried, the corners of her eyes flushed, her expression bearing the fragile vulnerability of one wholly undone.
He lifted his hand, as if to touch her cheek.
Caelith stiffened at once.
His hand paused midair.
Instead, he bent and retrieved the fallen garment from the floor. The pale silk shimmered faintly in his grasp, its fine embroidery delicate and meticulous. It still carried the faint fragrance of her skin—mingled now with the warmth of what had passed between them. His fingers moved absently across the stitched lotus petals.
"This…" he said at length, giving it a slight, idle shake, his tone too still to decipher, "I shall keep this as a souvenir."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "Return it to me!"
It was an intimate belonging—how could it remain in the possession of a man who was not her husband?
"Return it?" One brow arched as he leaned closer, enveloping both her and the quilt within the shadow of his frame. "Come and reclaim it, then—next time."
Next time?
The words struck her silent. Before she could press him further, a light knock sounded at the chamber door.
A young woman's voice followed, hushed yet urgent. "My lady? The lord… the lord appears to be coming this way."
It was Dolly, her personal maid.
In an instant, Caelith's drowsiness shattered. Cold sweat prickled at her spine.
Was Dorian actually coming here? But had he not been—
Rhaegar had heard it as well, yet not a trace of alarm touched him.
Instead, he regarded her pale, fear-stricken face with deliberate calm. There was even a hint of wicked amusement in his eyes as he reached out and lightly tapped the tip of her nose, as though soothing a startled creature rather than standing on the precipice of scandal.
"So it seems," Rhaegar drawled, his tone edged with mockery, "your honored husband is about to get you."
"Go—quickly!" Caelith urged, panic seizing her at last. She pushed against him with trembling hands. "If Dorian sees—"
"Go?" Rhaegar rose unhurriedly to his full height. "This is my chamber. Where, pray, should I depart?"
Her breath caught.
Indeed, this was the guest chamber prepared for the Commander of the Shadow Guard to rest between ceremonies. Dorian must surely be coming here in search of him.
Then she—she must be the one to flee.
Ignoring the soreness that weighed upon every limb, she scrambled from the bed in flustered haste. Her bridal robes lay strewn across the floor in white disarray; her inner garments were nowhere in sight. Her fingers trembled so violently she could barely fasten a single tie.
Rhaegar watched her struggle in silence. A shadow passed briefly through his eyes—too fleeting to be named. At last, he bent, gathering her discarded inner robe and outer garments from the floor, and extended them to her.
"Take the rear window," he said calmly, as though offering idle commentary on the weather. "There stands an old oak tree beyond it. Step upon the lower boughs and descend. Beneath lies the flower garden—no one will see you."
Caelith seized the garments and hastily drew them over her skin, caring little for neatness or dignity. She hurried to the rear casement and pushed it open. A breath of night air swept in, cool and bracing against her flushed face.
Below, just as he had said, a venerable tree spread its branches wide and welcoming in the darkness.
She swallowed, lifted her skirts, and climbed onto the sill.
"Caelith." His voice, low and measured, halted her.
She turned.
Rhaegar stood at the edge of candlelight, half his figure claimed by shadow, half revealed in gold. In his hand, he still held the moon-white silk she had not reclaimed. His gaze rested on her with inscrutable intensity.
"Remember," he said quietly, "you owe me."
Her heart jolted at the words, though she had no time to unravel their meaning. She turned away at once, grasped the window frame, and carefully lowered herself onto the waiting branches. Inch by cautious inch, she descended, sliding at last down the rough bark into the perfumed darkness of the flower garden below.
Almost at the same moment, a knock sounded at the front door—firm, hurried.
"Rhaegar?" Dorian's voice called through the wood. "Are you asleep? I have urgent business."
Rhaegar did not answer at once.
Instead, he looked at the silk still clasped in his hand—the delicate undergarment faintly scented with a woman's warmth. With slow composure, he folded it neatly and slipped it inside his robe, tucking it close against his heart.
Only then did he move to the door and draw it open.
Dorian stood tall, his attire slightly disordered, his expression touched with unease—and something perilously akin to guilt.
"What matter brings you at such an hour?"