Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The evening, with all its splendour and intrigue, took a sudden, unwelcome turn when Cerys felt a familiar, grasping hand upon her arm. She turned to see her mother, eyes sharp with purpose, her smile fixed in a way that spoke more of ambition than affection.

"Cerys, there you are! I've been looking everywhere for you," her mother exclaimed, though the tightness of her grip belied the casualness of her tone. "Come with me, there are some very influential gentlemen I want you to meet."

The warning bells that had been silent since her unsettling interaction with the Duke of Shadowmoor now clamoured in her mind. Cerys knew all too well the type of "influential gentlemen" her mother sought to introduce her to. Older men, seeking to bolster their social standing or sate their boredom with young, naive girls from good families. Her mother's ambitions were clear, viewing Cerys not as a daughter but as a commodity to be traded on the social market for the right price.

"Mother, I was just—" Cerys began, attempting to extract herself from her mother's grip, but her protest was cut short.

"This is not a request," her mother hissed, the veneer of politeness slipping to reveal the cold, calculating matriarch beneath. "You will do as you're told if you know what's good for you and our family."

Dragged through the ballroom, Cerys felt every bit the prisoner, paraded before those whose eyes lingered too long, smiles that hid predatory intentions. Her mother's introductions were a blur of titles and names, each man more lecherous than the last, their veiled comments and invasive glances making Cerys's skin crawl.

With each introduction, her spirit sank further. The defiance and curiosity that had been kindled within her throughout the evening were now smothered beneath a suffocating blanket of humiliation and anger. Was this to be her fate? Traded among these men like a piece of art, valued only for her youth and the status her marriage could bring to an undeserving suitor?

Her thoughts raced, desperate for an escape, but her mother's watchful eye was ever-present, a silent warning against any attempt to flee. The grandeur of the Goldenbloom estate, once merely oppressive in its display of wealth, now felt like a gilded cage, trapping her in a life dictated by the ambitions of others.

As the evening dragged on, Cerys's sense of isolation deepened. The Crown Prince and even the dangerous Duke of Shadowmoor seemed like distant memories. Her only solace was the knowledge that this charade would eventually end, that she would return to her room and be alone with her thoughts, free from the prying eyes and lecherous smiles of the so-called gentlemen her mother favoured.

Finally, as the night waned and the guests began to depart, Cerys's mother released her from her social duties with a dismissive wave, her attention already shifting to new plots and plans. Exhausted and disillusioned, Cerys made her way through the dwindling crowd, each step taking her further away from the ballroom and its gilded horrors.

Seeking a moment of solitude, she wandered down a less-travelled corridor of the estate, away from the remnants of the party and the suffocating atmosphere of the ballroom. Her thoughts were a tumultuous sea, crashing with waves of frustration, anger, and a desperate yearning for freedom.

It was in this state of turmoil that she stumbled upon a scene that would forever alter the course of her life. Turning a corner, she found herself face to face with Azrael Blackwood, the Duke of Shadowmoor. The man who had earlier in the evening held her in a gaze that was both unsettling and electric was now a figure out of a nightmare.

In the dim light, Azrael stood, a bloody sword in his hand, and at his feet lay a man, lifeless, his clothing stained dark with blood. The sight of the Duke, his hands and suit marred by the violence he had wrought, struck a chord of primal fear in Cerys. He looked every inch the dangerous, evil nobleman the rumours claimed him to be, his handsomeness lending a devilish aura to the scene.

Cerys's breath caught in her throat, and she instinctively stepped back, her movement causing a soft sound that was enough to alert Azrael to her presence. His head snapped up, and his gaze locked onto hers. There was a moment where time seemed to freeze, Cerys's heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it across the distance that separated them.

Then, with a fluidity that belied his earlier act of violence, Azrael stepped towards her, the bloody sword still in his hand. Panic surged within Cerys, urging her to flee, but her feet refused to move, as if rooted to the spot by the intensity of Azrael's gaze.

"You shouldn't be here," Azrael said, his voice low, a dangerous undertone beneath the calm exterior. Despite the situation, there was no threat in his tone directed at her; instead, it was a statement of fact, an acknowledgment of the gravity of what she had witnessed.

Cerys's voice was a mere whisper, a mix of fear and defiance. "What have you done?"

Azrael's eyes, cold and unreadable, surveyed her for a moment. "What was necessary," he replied, sheathing his sword with a motion that seemed almost regretful. "This is not a matter for delicate sensibilities."

"But he's dead," Cerys managed to say, her voice stronger now, a mix of horror and accusation.

"Go back to the party, my lady. Forget what you've seen here," Azrael instructed, turning away from her to attend to the grim task of dealing with the aftermath of his actions.

But Cerys knew she could never forget, not the sight of the blood, nor the cold, fatal determination in Azrael's eyes. As she turned and fled back to the safety of the ballroom, her mind raced with a new sense of purpose. The world she thought she knew, a world of gilded cages and suffocating expectations, had just expanded into something much darker and far more dangerous.

And Azrael Blackwood, the Duke of Shadowmoor, stood at the centre of it all.