Page 23 of Maid For The Dark Elf

She moves to examine a cabinet filled with ceremonial items, her movements graceful despite the gravity of our situation. The way she handles Lord Aethan's possessions speaks of genuine affection rather than mere duty, and I admire her loyalty.

"Wait." Her head snaps up, listening intently. "Someone's coming."

Footsteps echo from the main corridor, accompanied by low voices. We exchange a look of mutual panic before she grabs my wrist, pulling me toward a narrow alcove behind the bookshelf.

The space barely accommodates one person, forcing us to press together with her back against my chest. Her soft curves align perfectly with my body, and the lavender scent of her hair fills my nostrils. Every breath brings her closer, her shoulder blades moving against my ribs as she strains to hear the approaching conversation.

"—certain he kept records of the arrangement—" The voice cuts through the study door.

I should focus on the words, on identifying the speaker, on gathering intelligence that might solve this mystery. Instead, I'm acutely aware of Rosalie's warm body molded against mine, of the way her breathing quickens as she concentrates. My hands rest on her waist to steady us both in the cramped space, and the contact sends heat racing through my veins.

"—years of payments, all documented—" Another voice responds, muffled by the wooden barrier.

Rosalie tilts her head, trying to catch every word, and her hair brushes against my jaw. The innocent contact makes my pulse stutter. She seems completely absorbed in listening, unaware that my attention has fractured between the conversation and the sensation of her pressed against me.

"They're leaving," she breathes, her voice barely audible.

The footsteps fade into silence, leaving us pressed together in the cramped alcove. I force myself to step back as Rosalie emerges from our hiding spot, though the loss of her warmth against my chest feels like a physical ache.

"What arrangement?" She brushes dust from her cloak, her brow furrowed in concentration. "What payments were they discussing?"

"You didn't recognize the voices?"

"No, but..." She trails off, moving back to Lord Aethan's desk with troubled steps. "I thought I knew everything about his business dealings. He trusted me with his correspondence, his appointments, even his private meetings with other nobles."

The genuine confusion in her voice strikes me as oddly touching. She handles one of his letter openers with the reverence of someone examining a relic, her hazel eyes distant with memory.

"He never mentioned any ongoing payments to anyone. Financial arrangements, yes—taxes to the Crown, stipends to distant relatives, donations to various causes. But nothing that would require such secrecy."

"Perhaps he kept certain matters private for good reason."

"But why hide it from me?" Her voice carries a note of hurt that surprises me with its intensity. "He said I was the only person in this house he could trust completely. Why would he..."

She stops mid-sentence, her fingers tightening around the letter opener. The moonlight catches the uncertainty flickering across her delicate features, and I study the way her chestnut hair frames her face when she's lost in thought.

The sight triggers an unwelcome realization that lodges in my body like a splinter. Why did Aethan trust her so completely? What had she done to earn such unprecedented favor from a Dark Elf lord?

The obvious answer presents itself with uncomfortable clarity. Human servants who rise to positions of intimate trust rarely do so through competence alone. Not in our society, where such arrangements follow predictable patterns.

"Caelric?" Her voice pulls me from increasingly dark speculation. "You've gone very quiet."

"I'm considering possibilities." The words come out more curtly than I intend.

She tilts her head, studying my expression with those perceptive hazel eyes that seem to catch every nuance of emotion. "What kind of possibilities?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not prepared to voice. How do I ask whether she shared Lord Aethan's bed? How do I explain the unexpected jealousy that burns through me at the thought?

It's common enough among our kind—Dark Elf nobles taking human lovers for their novelty and compliance. Half the court indulges in such dalliances, treating them as fashionable diversions rather than genuine relationships.

But the idea of Rosalie in another man's arms, even a man as honorable as Aethan apparently was, makes my jaw clench with irrational possessiveness.

"We should return," I say instead, turning toward the hidden passage. "Dawn approaches, and your absence will be noticed."

She follows without argument, though I catch her puzzled glance as we navigate the narrow corridors. The journey back feels interminable, every step reminding me of our earlier proximity, of how perfectly she fit against my body in that cramped alcove.

We emerge into the moonlit courtyard where our evening began. The ancient oak stands sentinel over our parting, its branches casting intricate shadows across the ground between us.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For trusting me enough to include me in this search."