Page 44 of Maid For The Dark Elf

Focus. Evidence. Facts. Things I can control.

Three hours later, I want to put my fist through the nearest wall.

"Another dead end," Nikolai announces, dropping a stack of financial records onto the library table with more force than necessary. His emerald eyes reflect the same frustration that's been gnawing at me all week. "The payments to Cousin Theron trace back to a merchant company that dissolved two years ago. The merchant company's records lead to a banking house that claims no knowledge of any transactions. The banking house's ledgers show deposits from sources that don't exist."

I lean back in my chair, studying the ceiling as if the painted stars might offer divine inspiration. "Someone's had years to construct this web. Every thread we pull reveals three more, all leading nowhere."

"It's deliberate," Asterion adds from across the table, not looking up from the genealogical charts spread before him. "Whoever orchestrated Aethan's disappearance didn't act impulsively. This level of preparation suggests planning that spans decades, possibly longer."

Nikolai's jaw tightens. "Which means we're not investigating a crime—we're investigating a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy that's still active," I mutter, rubbing my temples where a headache has taken root. "Every suspect we identify turns out to be another pawn. We're chasing shadows while the real puppet master remains invisible."

Nikolai sets down his quill and fixes me with a look I recognize from childhood—the expression he wore when he was about to say something I wouldn't want to hear.

"There's something else bothering you besides the investigation."

I keep my expression neutral, though my pulse quickens. "The investigation is enough."

"No, it isn't." He leans forward, his voice dropping to the tone we use for conversations that must never leave this room. "You've been carrying yourself like a man walking to his execution for days. This isn't about dead ends or missing lords."

The words are harsh, dangerous and accurate. I consider deflecting, changing the subject, returning to the safety of financial records and forged correspondence. But this is Nikolai—the brother who shared every secret of our youth, who's never betrayed a confidence or judged a confession.

"Tell me something," I say carefully. "Do you ever wonder if duty should always come before personal happiness?"

His eyebrows rise slightly, but his expression remains thoughtful rather than surprised. "That's a dangerous question for the heir to House Vaerith."

"It's a human question."

"Which makes it dangerous." He glances toward the library door, ensuring we're alone. "What brought this on?"

I think of my father's words, of marriage preparations beginning after Aurelia's wedding, of the cage that's been constructed around my entire life without my ever noticing the bars.

"The weight of expectations, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to make one choice—just one—based entirely on what I want rather than what's expected."

Nikolai studies my face intently. "And what is it you want?"

The question strikes like lightning, illuminating everything I've been trying to keep hidden. What do I want? Rosalie's laugh in moonlight. Her hand in mine without shame or secrecy. The right to choose my own future without considering political alliances or bloodline advantages.

"Something impossible."

Evening shadows creep across the Ardyn estate as I position myself behind the ancient weeping tree that dominates the eastern garden. Its drooping branches create a natural curtain, hiding me from the manor's windows while providing a clear view of the servants' entrance.

I've been waiting nearly an hour, my heart throbbing in my chest in such a way that it makes my head thick. The conversation with Nikolai replays in my mind, each word sharpening my resolve. Something impossible. Perhaps. But I'm tired of accepting impossibility without testing its boundaries.

The door opens, and Rosalie steps into the twilight, a basket of linens balanced on her hip. She moves with that unconscious grace I've come to associate with her—efficient, quiet, designed not to attract attention. Tonight, however, her usual composure seems strained. Her shoulders carry tension, and her gaze darts nervously toward the manor's darkened windows.

She passes close to the tree, close enough that I see the worry lines creasing her brow. Without thinking, I reach out and catch her wrist, pulling her into the shadows beneath the drooping branches.

Her gasp pierces the evening air, the basket tumbling from her hands as she spins to face me. For a heartbeat, genuine fear flashes in her hazel eyes before recognition replaces it.

"Caelric!" Her hand flies to her chest, where I can see her heart racing beneath the thin fabric of her dress. "You nearly frightened me to death!"

"I'm sorry." I catch her other hand, steadying her against the tree's massive trunk. "I needed to see you."

The fear fades from her expression, replaced by something softer and infinitely more dangerous. In the filtered moonlight, her skin seems to glow, and I find myself memorizing every detail—the way her chestnut hair escapes its simple braid, the curve of her lips, the intelligence that never quite leaves her eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispers, though she makes no move to pull away. "If someone sees⁠—"