The Duke's study was a fortress of mahogany and leather. Sunlight, filtered through the heavy drapes, illuminated dust motes swirling in the air. Emmeline, her heart hammering against her ribs, stood at the threshold, the faint scent of aged parchment and leather filling her nostrils. The Duke, hunched over a cluttered desk, was lost in a world of papers, quill scratching against parchment, a symphony of political maneuvering.
"Your Grace," Emmeline began, her voice barely a whisper above the rhythmic scratching. "I… I wish to speak with you."
He didn't look up. His fingers danced across the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration. The air in the room thickened, charged with unspoken tension.
"What is it, Emmeline?" he finally muttered, his voice devoid of warmth. His gaze remained fixed on the documents.
"What if," she pressed, "what if I chose to stay?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face. His hand paused mid-stroke, but he didn't look up. "Your choice," he grunted, his words harsh, almost dismissive.
Emmeline's frustration simmered. "Your Grace, you mentioned leaving, I heard that, but if it were for me…" But the question was swallowed by the Duke's unyielding focus. The silence stretched, suffocating.
"Did you ever love Isabelle?" she asked, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Or was she just, what they said? Just a rumour that needed to be forgotten?"
The Duke's head snapped up. His eyes, usually a cool grey, now blazed with an unexpected fury. The room seemed to dim around them, the light lost in the storm brewing in his gaze. Emmeline felt a tremor of fear, a premonition of the violence that simmered beneath the surface.
He rose from his desk, his movements a predatory ballet. With an unsettling strength, he drew her into the light. The force of his movement pinned her against the wall, his powerful frame looming over her small form. The scent of leather and woodsmoke filled her nostrils. Her heart hammered against her ribs, the pounding a painful counterpoint to the oppressive silence. His built physique, honed by years of rigorous training, dominated her tiny frame. His touch, powerful and cold, sent a shiver down her spine.
"You do not speak of her, Emmeline," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I command it." His words were a suffocating blanket, crushing any possibility of defiance.
Her breath hitched. His eyes, dark and intense, held a terrifying power. His hand tightened against her arm, the pressure digging into her flesh. She could feel the muscles straining under the surface of his skin. Emmeline felt trapped, her body responding to the unseen forces at play. His voice, like a low growl, pressed against her ear.
"I command it," he repeated, his voice a threat as he released his hand.
The room felt like a cage, the air thick with unspoken danger. Emmeline didn't dare move, her breath catching in her throat. The Duke, his expression unreadable, turned and left her there, the echo of his final command ringing in her ears, and the dread of his power hanging heavy in the air. The image of his powerful form pressing against her lingered, a stark reminder of the precariousness of her position.