Chapter 11

The Devil in Her Thoughts

The palace was quiet at this hour, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the tall, arched windows. The stone walls of the servant's quarters carried a faint chill, but Elowen hardly noticed.

She lay on her cot, staring up at the wooden ceiling, utterly ruined.

Her mind was a disaster.

Her body felt restless.

And worst of all… she couldn't stop thinking about him.

Morris.

His golden eyes watching her in the water.

His smirk, lazy and arrogant as he drank her in.

The deep, rich sound of his laughter when he teased her.

The heat of his hands on her skin.

Her face burned.

She clenched the thin blanket over her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Stop it. Stop thinking about him.

But the mark on her neck throbbed.

A dull, pulsing warmth. Not painful, but not ignorable either. It was almost… comforting.

As if… he was thinking about her, too.

Her heart skipped.

"No," she whispered, pressing her palm against the mark as if she could smother the sensation. "He's the devil. He's evil. I don't—I don't care what he looks like."

But gods, what he looked like.

Tall, broad, his dark hair slicked back from the water, drops trailing down his chest. His voice like silk, whispering against her skin.

"I must say… for a wife, you're rather demanding."

Elowen let out a strangled noise and buried her face into her pillow.

This was not okay.

She was not okay.

She hated him. Hated him.

And yet…

A part of her had enjoyed it.

The teasing. The way he looked at her. The way he touched her.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively at the memory of his fingers brushing against her skin—of the way he had held her waist, the warmth of his breath fanning over her ear.

No. No, no, no.

This was not happening.

She was not attracted to him. Not even a little.

Right?

Right?

Elowen had barely slept by the time dawn arrived.

Her body was heavy with exhaustion, but her mind had refused to quiet.

She moved through the morning like a ghost, carrying out her chores on autopilot.

Scrubbing the floors. Washing linens. Avoiding people.

Avoiding mirrors.

Because every time she caught a glimpse of herself, she saw her flushed cheeks, the restless look in her eyes, the way she bit her lip as if remembering something she shouldn't.

She hated it.

She hated him.

Or, at least, she wanted to.

But as she worked, her mind kept drifting.

"Tell me, little lamb… did you summon me because you missed me?"

She had wanted to slap him. She had slapped him.

But there had been that moment.

That moment.

When his hand had brushed over her chest, and he had stilled.

When for one second, he had looked as shaken as she was.

When he had swallowed, his golden eyes darkening, his lips parting as if—

Elowen dropped the linen she was folding and let out a frustrated groan.

She needed to scrub him out of her head.

By midday, Elowen found herself standing in front of a tall mirror in the servants' washroom.

She had intended to freshen up—to splash water on her face, shake off the morning's fatigue.

But when she looked at herself…

She barely recognized the girl staring back.

Her lips were swollen, like she had been biting them too much.

Her cheeks were red, a faint, lingering flush that hadn't faded since last night.

Her eyes—

They were the worst.

There was a look in them. A restlessness. A hunger she refused to name.

Elowen stepped back, breathing fast.

No.

No.

She looked like a girl who had spent the night thinking about a man.

She looked like a girl who had spent the night longing.

Her pulse pounded.

"No," she whispered, gripping the edge of the wash basin. "I don't—I don't like him. I don't—"

Her mark pulsed.

A slow, warm sensation.

Her breath caught.

And then, in the mirror—

Golden eyes appeared behind her.

Morris Always Knows When She's Thinking About Him

A sharp gasp tore from Elowen's lips as she whipped around.

But—there was no one there.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Had she imagined it?

Had she really—?

A chuckle.

Low. Amused.

Inside her head.

Her stomach dropped.

"You're thinking about me, little lamb."

Elowen's face went up in flames.

"I AM NOT."

Another chuckle.

"Oh? Then why do you look so flustered?"

"I—" She gripped the basin tighter, furious. "Go away!"

"I can't," Morris said smoothly, his voice curling around her like smoke.

Elowen's heart was racing. "Why not?"

A slow pause. Then, his voice turned wicked.

"Because you keep calling for me."

Elowen gasped. "I did not—"

"Not with words," Morris cut her off, voice dripping with amusement. "But with thoughts. With the mark."

Her hand flew to her neck.

"You're lying," she whispered, but deep down, she wasn't sure.

Morris hummed. "Am I?"

Her cheeks burned.

She could feel him smirking.

That bastard.

"You should see yourself right now," he purred. "All flustered and desperate. It's adorable."

"I—" Elowen splashed cold water on her face, furious with herself. "I don't care! I don't care about you! I don't want to see you ever again!"

A pause.

Then, Morris's voice darkened.

"You don't mean that."

Elowen's breath hitched.

Her pulse pounded.

The mark throbbed.

And for one terrifying moment, she wasn't sure if he was right.

That night, as Elowen lay in bed, her body curled tightly beneath the thin blanket, the mark pulsed.

And this time, she didn't fight it.

This time, she let herself think of him.

And deep in the Devil's realm, Morris smirked.

Because he knew.

She was his.

Whether she admitted it or not.