Eleanor had been waiting in the library, curled up in an ancient leather chair, when the door creaked open. She looked up, heart pounding slightly at the sight of Lucian standing in the doorway.
He had changed.
Gone was the attire he had worn before. Instead, he was dressed in deep midnight blue, the long, flowing tunic embroidered with golden thread. A heavy belt sat low on his hips, fastened with an ornate metal buckle. His dark hair was slightly tousled, but his eyes, piercing and unreadable, held the same quiet amusement as before.
“You look comfortable,” Lucian said, stepping inside, his tone smooth, laced with something that made Eleanor’s pulse quicken.
She shut the book she had been reading. “I suppose I am.”
His lips curved, though his expression remained enigmatic. “Not for long, I’m afraid.”
Eleanor frowned slightly. “Why?”
Lucian crossed the room in slow, measured steps, stopping just before her. “Tonight is a special night. One where we step into the echoes of the past and let history breathe again.” He reached for her hand, lifting it gently. “And I would like you to be a part of it.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. She had seen the rituals in the hidden chamber— the strange, intoxicating world where power was balanced on the edge of reverence. And now, he was asking her to take part?
“What kind of… reenactment?” she asked, cautious.
Lucian’s fingers trailed along her wrist, his touch deliberate but light. “A medieval tableau,” he murmured. “A ruler and his captive. The moment of surrender, where power and defiance meet, only to be rewritten by desire.”
Her lips parted. “You want me to play the captive?”
His smirk deepened. “You wear defiance well, Eleanor. And I…” His fingers tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I know how to make surrender look like a gift rather than a loss.”
A slow shiver ran down her spine.
“Come,” he said, his voice lower now. “Let me prepare you.”
Lucian led her through a side passage, away from the vast, book-filled chamber. The air grew warmer, richer with the scent of burning candles and something floral, intoxicating. They entered a smaller room, dimly lit, with a low vanity and a collection of garments draped over a velvet chaise.
Eleanor touched the fabric— fine silks, embroidered with gold and silver.
Lucian stepped behind her, his fingers brushing over the sleeve of her dress. “Your attire is too modern. If you are to be my captive, you must look the part.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. “And what does that entail?”
Lucian reached past her, picking up a gown of deep burgundy silk. It was delicate yet regal, the kind of dress meant to be worn by someone on display. He let the fabric slip through his fingers before turning to her.
“Let me?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet.
She hesitated but nodded.
Lucian undid the buttons on her dress with slow, deliberate movements. Eleanor felt the cool air brush her skin as he worked, unhurried, his fingers barely touching her yet making her hyper-aware of every movement. When the dress slid down her arms, leaving her in only her undergarments, he stepped back slightly and lifted the silk gown.
“Arms up,” he instructed.
Eleanor obeyed, and the silk cascaded over her skin like water. Lucian’s hands adjusted the fabric, smoothing it over her waist, his fingers grazing her bare shoulders before fastening the delicate ties at the back.
When he was done, he stepped away and let his gaze sweep over her.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
Eleanor swallowed, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks.
Lucian extended his arm. “Now, come and meet the others.”
~
The main chamber was transformed.
It was no longer simply a place of whispered conversations and stolen glances. Tonight, it was a court of power and spectacle.
Golden candelabras flickered, their light dancing across the polished marble floors. The air was filled with murmurs, the hushed laughter of masked figures dressed in elaborate period attire. Silk and velvet flowed around them, the colors deep and rich— crimson, gold, obsidian.
At the far end of the room, a raised dais stood, where a throne-like chair had been placed.
Lucian led Eleanor through the crowd, his grip on her waist firm but not forceful. Whispers followed them, some curious, some approving.
A woman in deep emerald silk approached, her mask golden and shaped like delicate vines. “Is this your chosen one for the night, Lucian?” she asked, her voice warm and calm.
Lucian’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on Eleanor’s waist. “She is,” he confirmed smoothly.
The woman’s gaze swept over Eleanor with quiet amusement. “A defiant one?”
Lucian chuckled. “For now.”
Eleanor felt her pulse race. She was not used to being spoken of like this— as if she were a character in a story rather than herself.
The woman smiled, as if satisfied, then stepped away.
Lucian leaned down slightly, his breath warm against Eleanor’s ear. “Are you frightened?”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “No.”
Lucian laughed softly. “Good.”
~
He led her toward a quieter section of the chamber, where a low table was set with goblets of wine and scattered parchment. He poured her a drink, pressing the cool metal of the goblet into her hands.
“This reenactment,” he began, swirling his own drink, “is based on a tradition from the courts of old. A captured noblewoman, brought before her conqueror, given one last moment to resist before yielding.”
Eleanor swallowed, her fingers tight around the goblet. “And… how does this end?”
Lucian’s gaze met hers, dark and unreadable. “That depends on you.”
She exhaled slowly. “Tell me more.”
Lucian took her hand and traced idle patterns along her wrist as he spoke. “The captive is not simply overpowered. You must be persuaded, your submission earned rather than taken.” His fingers brushed her palm. “It is not about force. It is about the dance between surrender and defiance.”
Eleanor’s heartbeat thrummed louder. “And my role?”
Lucian smiled. “You will be presented before the court. I will offer you a choice— resist, and be tamed before them… or yield willingly, and be honored for your surrender.”
Eleanor bit her lip. “And how does one… resist?”
Lucian chuckled. “With words. With defiance in your eyes. With the tilt of your chin. But in the end, Eleanor…” He leaned closer. “The choice is always mine to grant or deny.”
A slow shiver traveled through her.
Lucian tilted his head. “So… what will it be?”
Eleanor hesitated, breath shallow, caught between the thrill of the unknown and the undeniable pull of intrigue.
Lucian’s hand cupped her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Say yes,” he murmured, his lips barely an inch from hers. “Let history breathe through us tonight.”
Eleanor exhaled, heart hammering.
And then—
She nodded.
“Yes.”
Lucian’s slow, knowing smile was the last thing she saw before the world around them shifted, pulling her into the past, into the hands of a ruler who would make her surrender feel like a coronation.
~
Eleanor stood in the center of the grand chamber, her breath shallow, her pulse a delicate tremor beneath her skin. The silk of her gown clung to her curves, deep red against the cold stone floor. The air was thick with candle smoke and something else— anticipation. The court watched in silence, their gazes heavy, waiting.
Lucian sat upon his throne, a dark god wrapped in velvet and shadow. The candlelight licked over his sharp features, catching the silver clasps of his tunic, the fur-lined mantle draped over his broad shoulders. He looked untouchable, a ruler carved from darkness and desire.
He lifted two fingers. “Come.”
She didn’t move.
His smirk was slow, indulgent, like a man watching a bird flutter uselessly in a gilded cage. He stood, his steps measured as he descended toward her. His boots struck the floor in a steady rhythm, the sound low and commanding. When he reached her, he did not touch her immediately.
No, Lucian was a man who savored his power. He let his gaze travel over her body first, the way the silk skimmed her breasts, the way her throat worked as she swallowed.
“So proud,” he murmured, his voice like dark honey. His fingers lifted to trace the delicate line of her collarbone, slow, teasing. “So stubborn.” He trailed lower, barely touching her skin, as if daring her to step away. “But even the fiercest creatures learn to kneel.”
Eleanor exhaled sharply, willing herself to remain still, to not betray how the heat of his touch spread through her, how his nearness made her pulse skitter like a frightened bird.
His fingers brushed lower, tracing the inside of her wrist. He lifted it between them, pressing his thumb against the rapid beat of her pulse.
“Your heart gives you away,” he murmured, his lips hovering just over her skin. A whisper of warmth. A cruel promise. “It sings for me.”
She clenched her jaw. “I am not yours.”
His smirk deepened, wicked and knowing. “Not yet.”
Lucian let her wrist go only to let his palm skate down her arm, his fingertips barely grazing the silk of her gown, a whisper of sensation that sent chills through her. He took his time, savoring the way she shivered under his touch.
Then he leaned in, his breath fanning against her ear. “You want to fight,” he mused, voice a seduction of silk and steel. His hand slid to the small of her back, pressing just enough to make her aware of his strength, of the way he could hold her exactly where he wanted. “But tell me, Eleanor… how long will you last before you beg?”
She sucked in a breath, her body betraying her, the heat in his words curling low in her stomach.
Lucian pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, waiting, watching. Then, so slowly it was torment, he lifted a single finger to her chin, tilting her face up until she was caught in his gaze, bound by the weight of it.
“Say the word, and I will stop,” he murmured, voice softer now, intimate. “But if you don’t…” His thumb brushed over her lower lip, slow, deliberate. “I will take everything from you. Your control, your defiance. I will unravel you, piece by piece, until all you know is me.”
Her body tensed, every nerve burning. She wanted to speak, to push him away, to hold onto the last frayed edges of resistance.
But she couldn’t.
Because she already knew— she was lost the moment he touched her.
Eleanor’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. The moment stretched between them, heavy with unsaid things, with the surrender she had yet to voice.
Lucian saw it before she spoke, the way her shoulders softened, the way her lips parted as though she might protest but never did. His smirk was slow, victorious, as he reached for her, one hand sliding through the silk at her waist, gathering it between his fingers.
“You are exquisite when you yield,” he murmured, his voice dark velvet against her skin.
He turned her with practiced ease, his touch firm but never forceful, until her back was flush against his chest. The warmth of him seeped through the silk, branding her. His breath, hot and steady, caressed the curve of her neck.
“You will give me everything,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, a promise and a threat entwined.
Eleanor shuddered, her eyes fluttering shut as he pulled her arms gently behind her. The silk ties were already in his hand— smooth, cool, inevitable. He looped them around her wrists, slow, deliberate. The slide of fabric against her skin was a caress, a binding, a claiming.
“Lucian…” Her voice was barely a breath, a mix of apprehension and something else, something far more dangerous.
“Hush, little dove.” He tightened the silk, not enough to hurt, only to remind her she was his now. “You need only feel.”
A blindfold appeared in his grasp, deep crimson to match her gown. He brushed the soft fabric over her lips first, teasing, before lifting it to her eyes. The world disappeared, swallowed by darkness, leaving her with only sensation. The steady rhythm of his breath. The press of his body against hers.
“Perfect.” His voice held satisfaction, rich and deep.
The chamber had grown eerily silent, the court watching with rapt attention. They were an audience to her undoing, silent witnesses to her fall.
Lucian shifted, his fingers tracing the column of her throat, his touch featherlight. He took his time, dragging his knuckles down the line of her collarbone, lower still, where the silk of her gown bared the delicate swell of her breasts. He didn’t rush, didn’t claim— he teased, lingering, letting the anticipation coil inside her like a slow-burning fire.
Eleanor’s breathing hitched as his fingers trailed down her waist, over the silk gathered at her hips. He tightened his grip, pulling her even closer against him, making her feel the solid heat of his body.
“You tremble,” he mused, his lips curving in amusement against her ear.
From our workshop
She did. Not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of it all. The blindness. The bindings. The weight of countless eyes upon her. And him. Just him.
Lucian’s hand slid lower, teasing the edge of her gown before retreating, drawing a frustrated whimper from her throat. He chuckled, low and indulgent.
“So eager,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapping around her. “And yet, you still fight.”
He turned her then, slow, careful, until she faced him, blind to everything but acutely aware of his presence. The heat of him, the faint scent of leather and spice that clung to him.
His hands cupped her face, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones, a touch too tender for a man who relished control.
“Do you trust me, Eleanor?”
The question was unexpected, a whisper against the storm raging inside her.
She swallowed hard. “Yes.”
The moment the word left her lips, something shifted between them. The last of her resistance cracked, and he felt it.
Lucian’s mouth descended upon hers, claiming, consuming. There was nothing soft about the way he kissed her— this was ownership, a branding. His hands tangled in her hair, angling her head back as he deepened the kiss, drawing out the pleasure, forcing her to take everything he gave.
Eleanor melted into him, her bound hands pressing against her ass as if to hold onto something solid, something real in the chaos of sensation.
The court watched in silence, their gazes heavy, but she no longer cared. She was lost in him. In the way he pulled her against him, in the way he devoured her, in the way he stripped her down without ever needing to remove a single piece of fabric.
Lucian broke the kiss, his lips a breath away from hers, his hands tracing down her arms. “Kneel.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a test. A final breaking of the last of her defiance.
Eleanor hesitated for only a second. And then, slowly, deliberately, she let herself sink to her knees before him.
The smirk that curved his lips was pure triumph. “Good girl.”
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