Eleanor shifted, leaden-legged, her eyelashes flickering open into the faded gold of the evening light. The draperies had been closed, and the dying blaze of the sun smoldered dimly along their borders. She could not calculate for a moment how long she had slept—only that the chair beside the bed, where he had sat, was vacant.

She thrashed upright with a jolt, her hand grasping the coverlet. The Duke was absent.

The soft crunch of footsteps prompted her head to swivel. The butler, ever dignified, appeared just beyond the doorway. His hands behind him, clasped tightly, his face inscrutable.

"The Grand Duke requested me to tell you, my lady," he replied in a low, honed voice, "that upon awakening, you would come down to dine with him. He expects you below."

Her throat constricted. For an instant, she thought about pretending to sleep once more, but pride compelled her to thrust her legs over the edge of the bed. "Fine," she grumbled, although her tone was not convincing.

The trip down to the dining room was heavy with silence, her slippers striking the buffed floors softly. The butler led her without ever glancing back, as if she might disappear if he turned around.

When the grand double doors swung open, Eleanor's heart reacted involuntarily.

Casimir was already seated at the long dining table, a stretch of ivory linen and silver between them. He didn't glance up when she entered, his eyes fixed instead on the unbroken wine in his goblet. He was calm, still, like a sculpture hewn out of obsidian.

The butler drew out a chair for her. Eleanor sat down on it, her back stiff, unwilling to look in his direction.

Dinner was eaten in silence—steaming platters brought in by servants who hung about long enough to bow before disappearing. The ring of knives against plates was the only noise in the vast room.

Eleanor did not welcome him. He did not address her.

The food, though delicately rich, may as well have been ash in her mouth. She snatched fleeting, challenging glances around the table, trying to catch a flicker of feeling on his face. But Casimir ate with slow deliberateness, every motion with precision, never looking at her.

The silence was appalling.

By the time she laid her fork down, her chest felt tight with suppressed words she dared not release. She pushed her chair back, the scrape of wood against marble cutting through the suffocating stillness.

The butler was instantly at her side, bowing slightly. “Allow me to escort you, my lady.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, Eleanor rose and let herself be guided back through the dim corridors.

But her patience finally broke when she understood where he was taking her. Back to the Grand Duke's quarters.

She stopped just over the threshold, turning to him. "This is madness. Explain to me why I—of all places—am kept here. In his quarters? As if I were…" She bit the inside of her lip, not wanting to speak the word. A possession.

The butler, to his credit, did not blanch. He simply bowed his head, the shadows cast by the chamber lanterns etching deeper lines upon his expressionless face.

"So you will not say anything?" Eleanor asked, her voice growing in exasperation. "Not a single word?"

His silence spoke volumes.

With a snort of irritation, she spun away from him, her skirts whipping sharply around ankles. She went to the sofa and dropped down, her arms clamped tightly about her chest.

The butler made a second bow and departed, the door closing softly behind him.

Alone once more, Eleanor expelled a slow, rough breath. The great room seemed chillier with Casimir gone, its shadows stretched out and unrested.

She attempted to distract herself, tracing the patterns on her sleeve, counting the lines of the ceiling beams, even pacing a few times across the carpet. But the hours crawled on mercilessly, the air thickening with every tick of the clock.

Finally, exhaustion overwhelmed her. Seated on the couch, still muttering to herself about the preposterousness of it all, Eleanor's eyelids began to droop. Even in the depths of effort, she slid into restless sleep, expecting a man who failed to arrive.

The door creaked far into the night, its hinges whispering a reluctant sigh. Eleanor did not move.

Casimir entered, steam still clinging thinly to him. His robe was loose, dark silk open down his throat, and his hair—fresh from his bath—fell in damp strands across his brow. Water dripped down his neck, catching the dim light of the sconces.

He stopped when he saw her curled up on the sofa, sleeping soundly, her cheek against her hand. A soft breath escaped him. She appeared too fragile there, as if the world's weight could break her in sleep.

He crept into the room. His feet stepped silently on the carpet.

He stooped, slipped his arms under her, and picked her up with ease. She moved slightly, her head sinking into his chest, her lips parting in a small, unconscious moan.

He took her to the bed, placing her gently on the cold sheets.

But as he stepped back, clots of water from his hair splashed onto her face. His hair hung over her face. He drew back hastily.

Her lids sprang open, wide, unfocused. A shudder ran through her frame as her arms flashed up, grasping wildly at the fabric of his robe. Her breathing came fast, hard, jagged gasps wrenching from her throat.

"No… no—"

Casimir halted. Her terror was almost tangible, raw, as if the splash of water had pulled her back into some half-repressed nightmare.

“Eleanor,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. He leaned closer, his arms tightening around her as her trembling worsened. “It’s only me. Casimir. You’re safe, my princess.”

But she clung harder, her fingers twisting into the silk of his robe as though she might drown without it.

A shadow crossed his eyes. He remembered. He always remembered.

"You still have so many fears, Princess…" His voice was a whisper, thick with regret. His jaw locked, his next words under his breath—words he had never intended she should hear. "And it was my failure… not being able to protect you then."

He swore softly, bitterly, as if the memory hurt him as much as it hurt her.

Slowly, gently, he slid a hand into her hair, his fingers interweaving softly through the tresses. He started to stroke, calming, massaging tenderly at her scalp as if commanding her fear to recede under his ministrations.

Her breathing started to stabilize, if only a little.

He tilted his head, stroking back the wet tangles of his own hair, and kissed her forehead. One more, gentle, on her temple. One more to the hollow of her cheek. All slow, soft, a recitation of unuttered vows.

Her name came out in one word, over and over, in hushed tones, like a whispered prayer only he could hear.

Finally, her shaking subsided. Her eyelids drifted shut, her fingers relaxing against his robe. She settled back into sleep, her features relaxing into the wan serenity of deep sleep.

Casimir let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing though his eyes still cast a shadowed look. He stayed there, fingers tracing her hair once more before he moved back.

He walked across the room to the mirror, grabbing a cloth with which to dry his hair thoroughly this time, as if resolved to never allow such a lapse again. For a whole minute he stood there, looking at his reflection, his jaw clenched in silent remonstration.

Then, without a further look at the bed, he glided from the room and left her to her imaginings.

The morning light was weak when Eleanor came awake. Her eyes opened, bleary, the sleep still weighing on her. She reached up to touch her cheek idly, though she didn't know why, as if something was still there.

But the night itself was a haze—no distinct recollection, only the sense of warmth, of her own terror and a calming voice.

And then—

The water.

Her breast constricted as another recollection rose, unwanted. Not of this past night, but long ago.

She was little once more, a child in a white dress, the air full of laughter that had turned cutting, brutal. A push between the shoulder blades, abrupt and ruthless. The bracing cold of the lake engulfing her completely.

Water all around her. In her nose, down her throat. The world reduced to a deafening roar, light shattering overhead as she flailed like a flail. Panic engulfed her as thoroughly as the water. She had assumed—she had known—she was going to die.

And then—fingers. Firm, confident, heaving her up, hauling her towards the surface.

She coughed and choked, her chest thudding as water and air fought in her lungs. She recalled falling over on the muddy bank, her body shaking wildly, tears blurring her vision.

And there—herside—Casimir.

He had been white, his breathing labored, his own frame shaking. She recalled now, so clearly it tightened her stomach—he had been sick that day, lying in bed with a fever. The whole house had known he was too sick to get out of bed. And yet…

He had arrived.

No one had witnessed him getting up. No one had gone to bring him. How he had known, how he had managed to get there in time—was a mystery.

But it had been his arms that had dragged her from the brink of death. His voice had soothed her tears. His eyes—smoldering with a fire too hot for a boy to possess, given his tender years—that had etched themselves into her mind.

It had always been him.

Her breathing caught.

What would have happened to me if Casimir hadn't been there?

The idea spun deeper, keener. What would her existence have been like if he hadn't been so… clingy- possessive with his affection...? So reluctant to let her wander out of his eye, even then?

She sat up straight, her fingers around the sheets.

And realization slammed into her like ice: she had considered his clinginess not as a prison, but as deliverance.

Her lips parted. "What did I just." She shook her head hard, her hands pushing into her temples.

No. She could not let herself think this. Whatever connected her to him, she must cut them free before they choked her.

Her determination firmed. She would go back to the Marquis. She would inform him of everything.

But just as she composed herself, a civilized knock was heard at the door.

Enter," she called out, her voice trembling.

A young maid entered, holding a breakfast tray. She put it down gently upon the side table before folding her hands in a respectful bow.

"My lady," the maid replied, "I was told to tell you… This morning, you are to go with His Grace for your dress fitting."

Eleanor braced herself, the words hitting her with the cold finality that she had not been expecting.

The contract. The marriage. The Duke's shadow descending again.