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Chapter 10 - Confrontation in Silence

Isolde's POV

I jolted upright, instinctively bringing my hands before me and bowing my head. The bed creaked softly under the sudden motion.

The Duke stopped when the steward halted the chair, his storm-gray eyes widening slightly as they swept over me. For a heartbeat, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of my own heartbeat and the quiet hum of the chandeliers.

He said nothing at first. Instead, he raised a hand, and the steward wheeled back a few steps, obediently leaving the room. Then the Duke's gaze returned to me, sharp and calculating, as if weighing every detail.

"Why are you here?" His voice was measured, controlled, yet it carried an authority that pressed down on me. "How did you enter my manor?"

I kept my head bowed, fingers tightly clasped before me, and spoke cautiously. "Your Grace… I…Lady Marguerite sent me. She said…" My voice faltered, unsure how much to reveal.

He didn't interrupt, only tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied me. There was no anger in his tone, only curiosity, edged with the weight of expectation.

I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady. "She said… I would be moving in tonight. My chambers have been prepared, sir."

The Duke's gaze lingered on me for a long moment, then finally spoke again, softer this time, though no less commanding: "Very well. Then we shall see what you make of this place… and what it will make of you."

I swallowed hard, bowing my head lower, aware that in that single sentence, every expectation, every trial that awaited me in Ravenshade Manor had just begun.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of us moved. His words still hung in the air, cold, final, and I dared not raise my eyes.

Then, suddenly, I heard the faint scrape of the chair's wheels against the polished floor. The Duke's hands tightened on the armrests, his expression shifting, jaw set, eyes narrowing in focus, and before I could react, he pushed himself upward.

"My lord…"

The word escaped before I could stop it.

His fingers gripped the carved edge of the chair, muscles tense beneath his coat as he tried to stand. His leg faltered slightly, and the chair shifted beneath him.

Instinctively, I moved forward, ready to help. "Please, let me…"

"Do not touch me."

The sharp command froze me in place. He steadied himself with one hand on the armrest, jaw tight, chest rising and falling rapidly. For the briefest moment, I glimpsed a flicker of pain, quickly masked by his pride.

I lowered my hand, heart hammering. "I only meant…"

"You meant well," he interrupted, voice low and tense, "but I do not need your help."

He let himself slump back slightly into the chair, regaining composure. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, stern and unyielding.

Then, without a word, he reached a small bell at his bedside and rang it sharply. Almost instantly, the door opened and a steward entered, moving quickly and efficiently to assist him. I stood quietly, hands folded in my lap, watching every motion.

The steward helped him into a more comfortable position on the bed, adjusting pillows and blankets with quiet precision. Elias did not meet my eyes, but his storm-gray gaze flicked toward me briefly, sharp, assessing, unreadable.

Finally, the steward withdrew, leaving the room quiet except for the faint rustle of linens.

"You may rest," the Duke said at last, voice controlled, clipped, and absolute.

I lowered myself onto the opposite side of the bed, careful not to intrude. My hands remained folded in my lap, pulse still racing, every nerve alert. The chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow across the room, but even their light could not soften the tension between us.

*****

I lay on the opposite side of the bed, careful not to disturb him, but sleep refused to come. Every tick of the clock, every faint creak of the floorboards, seemed amplified in the heavy silence of the room.

My mind refused to settle. Elias's storm-gray eyes, so sharp and unreadable, haunted me. That brief flicker of pain when he tried to stand, quickly masked, replaced by steel, kept replaying in my thoughts. Pride, fear, anger… what was it? Or all of it at once?

I turned slightly, careful not to brush against him, and watched the shadowed contours of his face in the golden glow of the chandelier. Even at rest, he seemed alert, a coiled strength barely restrained.

A soft sigh escaped me. I had expected the night to bring some comfort after the day's trials, yet here I was, heart pounding, pulse uneven. I thought of the ball, the council meeting, Lady Marguerite's veiled criticisms, and now this. His presence alone demanded vigilance, and my body refused to obey my mind's wish for rest.

I shifted again, pulling the blankets closer, trying to anchor myself to the simple act of breathing, counting each inhale and exhale. But the room seemed to close in around me. The chandelier's light danced across the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward me, teasing me with imagined movement.

Part of me wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, to bridge the distance between us, yet the memory of his sharp, clipped command kept my hand frozen. He had made it clear: I was to observe, not interfere.

Minutes stretched into hours. My eyes traced the pattern of the chandelier above, over and over, as though memorizing it might quiet my mind. Yet every thought inevitably returned to him: the command in his voice, the controlled rigidity of his posture, the way he had tolerated the steward's presence but not mine.

Sleep was a stranger. Rest was forbidden.

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