Page 75 of Maid For The Dark Elf

"It was rather theatrical," Mother agrees, though her tone carries affection rather than criticism. "Though effective. Your father and I spent decades dancing around our feelings before he finally worked up the courage to propose."

"I was being strategic," Father protests mildly. "I needed to ensure she wouldn't reject me."

"For three years?" Mother's eyebrow arches elegantly. "That wasn't strategy, darling. That was cowardice."

Emeric's scarred face splits into a rare grin. "At least Caelric didn't wait three years to grow a backbone."

"Thank you for that ringing endorsement," I mutter, though I can't suppress my own smile.

Rosalie steps closer to me, her fingers finding mine again. "Are you certain about this? All of you? Because once word spreads through Vhoig's noble circles, there won't be any taking it back."

"Good," Asterion says, finally looking up from his historical musings. "The nobility needs shaking up. They've grown complacent, thinking their bloodlines make them superior to everyone else. Maybe watching one of the Great Houses choose love over lineage will remind them that strength comes from character, not breeding."

"Besides," Nythessa adds, her pale violet eyes gleaming with calculation, "the scandal will be delicious. Half the court will be horrified, the other half will be secretly envious, and everyone will be talking about House Vaerith. There's no such thing as bad attention when you're positioning yourself as progressive rather than traditional."

"Too bad Aurelia isn't here to eat it up with you," Nerina laughs.

"Someone has to think practically about these things," Nythessa replies with a slight smile. "Love is wonderful, but it doesn't navigate court intrigue by itself."

Father moves to stand before Rosalie, his imposing height making her seem even more petite. For a moment, I tense, uncertain what he intends to say. Then he extends his hand to her with formal courtesy.

"Welcome to House Vaerith, Rosalie. Not as our son's companion or our guest, but as family."

34

ROSALIE

Sunlight streams through the tall windows of my chambers, casting warm patterns across silk sheets that still feel impossibly luxurious against my skin. Three months, and I still wake expecting to find myself on the narrow servant's cot in House Ardyn's cramped quarters. Instead, I stretch languidly in a bed larger than any room I once called my own, marveling at the simple miracle of waking without a list of duties already pressing against my thoughts.

No bells summon me to service. No mistress waits impatiently for her morning tea. No punishment lurks behind every potential mistake.

The freedom still feels foreign, like wearing clothes tailored for someone else's body. I rise and dress in one of the gowns Nerina insisted on commissioning—deep forest green silk that complements my hazel eyes, she claimed—and make my way through corridors that have become home rather than workplace.

Voices drift from the dining hall, familiar laughter drawing me toward the heart of House Vaerith's daily rhythm. I pause in the doorway, watching the scene that has become as natural to me as breathing.

Emeric lounges in his chair with deceptive casualness, his crimson eyes fixed on Nikolai with predatory amusement. "So the mysterious cuts on your knuckles are from 'training accidents' again?"

"Training is dangerous work." Nikolai's emerald eyes dance with mischief as he reaches for the honey pot. "Especially when you're working with new techniques."

"Techniques involving tavern patrons and betting pools, I assume?" Emeric's scarred face splits into a knowing grin. "Because those look remarkably similar to the marks I used to sport after underground fighting matches."

"I have no idea what you're implying."

"I'm not implying anything. I'm directly stating that you've been sneaking into the city to pick fights with dock workers and farmers who think they can take down a noble."

Seralyth glances up from her tea with an expression of familiar maternal exasperation. "Nikolai, please tell me you haven't been gambling on illegal fights."

"I would never gamble on illegal fights." Nikolai's tone carries perfect sincerity. "That would be irresponsible."

"But participating in them is perfectly reasonable?" I slip into my usual seat, accepting the plate of fruit and pastries that appears at my elbow as if by magic.

"Completely different situation," he insists, winking at me. "One involves risking money. The other just involves risking my face."

"Your face isn't worth that much to begin with," Nerina observes without looking up from her correspondence. "Though I suppose the improvement might be worth the risk."

Nikolai clutches his chest in mock devastation. "My own cousin wounds me with such cruel words."

"You'll survive." She waves a piece of parchment with obvious irritation. "Unlike my patience with this latest marriage proposal. Lord Theron apparently believes comparing my beauty to 'moonlight dancing upon fresh snow' constitutes poetry."