Mine, Always...

The gardens of House Caelyn were vast—easy to hide in, intentionally or not. The hedges were high, the flowers always in bloom, and the air carried the careful touch of the estate gardeners.

Avelwen sat beneath an old willow, its sweeping branches shielding her from the world. Her crimson braids shifted in the breeze like silk ribbons. A pale dress lay folded beneath her, the fabric brushing the grass. She tilted her face toward the sky, letting the sun warm her dark, glossy skin, which shimmered with golden undertones.

A faint smile played on her lips. The scent of wild roses lingered.

Then—

“Lusienn!”

A voice—sharp, clear. A maid’s call from behind the hedges.

Avelwen opened her eyes.

He stood there.

Not ten paces away, still and silent beneath the curtain of willow leaves.

Tall. Refined. Slender but strong. His golden-brown skin caught the light. His black hair, tied loosely at the nape, moved slightly in the breeze.

And his eyes—dark red—were fixed on her.

His expression gave nothing away. Calm. Controlled. But his gaze was... heavy. Like he’d been watching longer than she realized.

Then—he blinked.

He bowed slightly.

“Pardon me, my lady.”

His voice was low. Smooth. Neither apologetic nor bold. As he turned to leave, she noticed his hands—elegant, veined. A servant’s hands. Quiet, capable.

And then he was gone.

The willow closed behind him. The garden fell silent again.

But the moment didn’t pass.

Her heart beat oddly in her chest. Her smile was gone—but something warmer took its place.

The Caelyn estate was never louder than when the Duke and Duchess returned—yet never quieter for Avelwen.

Their dinners were formal performances. Avelwen sat at the far end of the long table, silent, untouched by conversation. The Duke and Duchess spoke only to each other—politics, travel, distant scandals. Not once did their eyes meet hers.

She no longer tried.

She cut her food quietly, staring past the chandeliers and painted walls, until the weight of her own presence became unbearable.

“May I excuse myself,” she asked softly.

No one responded.

She softly got up and left.

The hallway outside was cooler, quieter. Her steps echoed gently along the polished floor.

Then—footsteps.

Lusienn appeared, documents in hand, his figure composed and silent. As they passed, she glanced at him—nothing more.

“I hope dinner was pleasant, my lady.” He said.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t expect a reply.

Her steps paused. Just for a beat.

She said nothing.

Just kept walking.

Neither of them looked back.

But both were smiling.

Days passed, she kept seeing him.

Not by chance.

She knew the hallways he walked. The times he reported to the Duke. Where he stood during formal receptions—She began lingering in those places longer.

Once, she waited near the western corridor just to see him pass. He didn’t look her way, but she saw the pause in his step—the way his hand tensed ever so slightly at his side.

Another time, during a diplomatic gathering, she spotted him across the room. Dozens of nobles moved between them, but still—his eyes found her.

Dark. Watchful.

She held his gaze for a full heartbeat.

Then he looked away.

Not out of shame.

But control.

She knew he was trying not to look.

This thrilled her.

As she wandered down the halls one night, toward the empty kitchen where the hearth still glowed, and the quiet hum of the estate slowed to a hush.

Lusienn stood near the wine rack, retrieving a bottle. His hair still damp from a bath. White undershirt slightly wrinkled. He looked up, startled at first—but said nothing.

She stepped forward, taking the bottle gently from his hand, walking toward the kitchen island and stools she sat down..

They didn’t speak as they sat across from one another. The sound of wine filling their glasses echoed softly in the kitchen. They drank in silence.

The alcohol began to settle into their bodies—slowly dulling the distance between them. Avelwen could feel her limbs relaxing, her posture softening. She didn’t usually drink. The alcohol was hitting faster than anticipated. Her face was flushed, cheeks glowing faintly in the moonlight. Her eyelids drooped just slightly.

Across from her, Lusienn remained calm—at least on the outside.

But inside, the burn of the wine crept through him with each sip.

He was no stranger to wine, but this was his third—his limit. His face was starting to warm. His tongue a little looser. The tightness he always held across his shoulders slowly beginning to release.

He sipped his third glass.

He glanced up—watching her carefully. Her flushed face. Her relaxed posture. The way her nightgown clung softly to her form, the faint movement of her chest as she breathed.

She was tipsy.

Maybe even drunk.

He hesitated.

Could he really speak freely to her in this moment? Would it be taking advantage? Would she even remember?

But another opportunity like this may never come again.

He set his glass down, the base hitting the counter harder than he meant.

With his glass in one hand, he reached out with the other, gripping the nearest stool. He dragged it slowly across the floor to sit diagonally from her—closer now. Close enough that if he dared, he could reach across and take her hand. He could feel the energy shift in the room as he sat.

He leaned in, gaze heavy.

The wine deepened his voice. It came out lower, almost husky.

“The Duke and your family…” he started slowly, “have always treated me kindly. Especially after my father passed.”

He paused.

His eyes dropped to the rim of his glass, then back to her face.

“The Duke treats me almost as if I were his son.”

Another pause.

“But they’ve never offered the same kindness to you.”

He swallowed hard. The words hung in the air like something heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I’ve always watched how they treat you. Coldly. Distantly.”

He glanced down again, his jaw tensing.

“It’s not right.”

Avelwen’s fingers curled around the stem of her glass.

Her voice cut through the warm air like a blade.

“Don’t pity me.”

It was sharp. Immediate. Not cruel—but firm.

She wasn’t slurring. She meant every word.

Lusienn’s head lifted slightly, caught off guard by her tone.

She wasn’t trying to wound him. He could tell. But she meant it.

He stared at her for a moment—silent.

And then, almost as if it had been pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, he said it:

“I’m not pitying you.”

His voice had softened now.

“I admire you.”

“You’ve carried yourself through this place with grace—even when no one looked your way. You walk like someone who’s never been ignored. You speak like someone who was never silenced. That’s not weakness, Avelwen. That’s strength.”

Her eyes met his—wide, unreadable.

He wasn’t trying to flatter her. His voice didn’t waver with romance or charm. It was truth. Honest and unpolished.

“I couldn’t have survived what you did and still held my head high,” he added. “But you… you made it effortless.”

The silence between them grew heavier.

Something was unraveling.

Lusienn lifted his glass slowly to his lips and finished his third drink, never breaking eye contact.

He felt comfortable, too comfortable with her.

But he knew he didn’t want to leave.

Lusienn set his glass aside.

And then he rose.

He stepped around the kitchen island toward her.

And before she could speak—he pulled her toward him.

His hands, calloused and veined, gripped her waist tighter than he intended, pressing her against him. Her breath hitched. His eyes scanned her face as if searching for something—permission? A sign? Or maybe he just wanted to memorize her.

But even as he leaned in, a storm churned within him.

This was wrong.

He knew it. He knew the rules. The lines they weren’t meant to cross.

And yet—he had already crossed them.

Something in him had snapped the moment she looked at him with longing instead of command. And now, as his lips met hers, he tried to hold on to that reason, that distance, that duty. But it was slipping—fast.

The kiss wasn’t tender.

It was desperate. Hungry.

Avelwen responded instantly, arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers tangling in his loose ponytail. The kiss deepened. His hands slid from her waist, up her back, and then—he lifted her slightly, setting her on the kitchen island, standing between her legs, pressing closer.

He hated how much he needed this.

Every part of him screamed to stop. To pull away.

But her warmth grounded him. Her breath, her trembling lips, the way she clung to him—it soothed something inside him.

Still, guilt coiled in his gut.

He wasn’t supposed to want her like this.

He was supposed to protect her.

Not ruin her.

Their lips broke only when her head tilted back with a soft gasp. Her gown slipped lower, the loose knot at her chest now barely hanging on.

Lusienn’s eyes dropped to her collarbone.

He hesitated—just for a breath. The man he was trained to be fought for air.

But the man she’d awakened reached out.

“Mine,” he whispered, just a single word.

His voice betrayed him. It cracked with desire.

He leaned down and began kissing a trail down her neck—slow, reverent—until he reached the upper curve of her chest.

Then, he marked her.

One kiss.

Then another.

Then one more—just above her heart.

Each one darker than the last. His mouth lingered, lips parted, breath warm.

“Only I get to see this,” he murmured. “Only me.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her heart pounding so loud she swore he could hear it. She tilted her head back, baring more skin, wanting him to claim her completely.

He kissed her again, this time slower, as if trying to memorize the moment before it broke him.

Because he knew it would.

And for a moment—they weren’t noble and servant.

They weren’t broken or bound.

They were just… obsessed.

Possessed..

Since the night in the kitchen, their obsession and possession had spiraled out of control.

The maids and servants whispered amongst themselves but never dared to address the gossip with either the lady or Lusienn himself. Their encounters became more frequent, more brazen, more bold—meetings late at night in the kitchen, sneaking out away under the willow tree in the night, even Lusienn’s own bed chambers, where no lady of House Caelyn should ever be seen.

They started interfering with each other’s lives more boldly.

Avelwen began to interfere with Lusienn’s duties. She summoned him for trivial matters during important tasks, interrupted meetings, and gave him personal errands designed to pull him away from the Duke. If others sought his attention, she would appear—softly, suddenly—drawing him away with a look or a command.

She reassigned maids who looked too familiar with Lusienn. Any servant who lingered too long around him found themselves packing their belongings the same day. She watched the Duke grow increasingly irritated at Lusienn’s delays.

She smiled whenever Lusienn was scolded—because he never blamed her.

He never said no.

He always came.

Lusienn changed too.

He began selecting her dresses each morning, laying out fabrics and accessories like offerings. Even her hairpins were chosen by his hand. He learned her schedule and manipulated it—canceling her outings, rerouting her engagements.

The Crown Prince’s letters were intercepted.

Burned.

He never mentioned them to Avelwen. He simply stood in the servant's quarters one night, watching the parchment curl and blacken over the hearth, his lips drawn into a tight line.

If someone asked him why, he’d say nothing.

She belonged to him.

But desire always leaves footprints. And soon, the Duke followed them.

Eventually, after months of secret, unadulterated fun and late-night rendezvous’, the gossip around the mansion reached the Duke’s ears. He ignored it as much as possible. He didn’t react—just gave cold, icy stares at those who dared gossip in front of him about his own daughter.

Then they were caught.

It happened in the conservatory—a hidden wing of the estate where only the most delicate flowers bloomed, and the marble floors echoed even the softest footstep.

Lusienn had slipped away during his break, following a note left delicately on his desk in handwriting he had come to know. Avelwen was already there, standing among the orchids. Her back was to him.

Lusienns body instinctively glided towards her, stepping toward her their eyes met. Her hands slid into his without hesitation.

He kissed her.

Soft, slow, then deep.

His mind spiraled as his lips crossed hers. Every kiss felt like surrender. Every breath was a warning.

An act they couldn’t come back from.

But she now belonged to him.

And he belonged to her. Entirely.

Her fingers wove into his hair. His hands gripped her waist, pressing her flush against him. He wasn’t sure when he stopped thinking and simply gave in.

Neither of them noticed the door creak open.

They didn’t see the Duke standing in the threshold.

But he saw everything.

His face was unreadable, carved in stone.

When they finally noticed him, it was too late. Avelwen didn’t recoil. She didn’t flinch. Lusienn instinctively moved to place himself between her and the Duke.

The Duke said nothing.

He simply turned and walked away.

The silence he left behind was louder than any outburst.

Lusienn felt the moment crack inside him—the part of him that still believed this could end any other way. He looked at Avelwen, and in her eyes, there was no fear.

There was only hunger.

And the cost of it arrived that same evening.

The summons came swiftly.

Lusienn stood before the Duke in his study, the scent of leather and smoke thick in the air. Shadows from the hearth danced against the walls, flickering like a judgment passed by flame.

He already knew what was to come.

The Duke stood behind his desk, arms clasped behind his back, gaze steady.

“You were like a son to me,” he began, voice calm. Too calm. “Your father served with loyalty. And I gave him my word I would raise you well.”

Lusienn bowed his head, but said nothing.

The words carved into him.

“And you repay that mercy by fornicating with my daughter!”

Lusienn didn’t flinch, he didn’t even feel guilty.

He wanted to say it wasn’t just a touch.

It was everything.

His reason. His ruin. His only clarity.

“I should have you executed,” the Duke continued. “But I will not dishonor your father's memory.”

His voice sharpened like steel.

“You will leave this house tomorrow.”

Lusienn's throat tightened.

She would wake in her bed and he would not be there.

He thought of her laugh. Her breath against his neck. Her whispered confessions, drunk on wine and desperation.

He thought of the marks he left on her chest.

His name etched into her in places no one else could reach.

“Yes, my lord,” he said finally.

He bowed low.

But his jaw was tight, and his fists clenched behind his back so hard his nails drew blood.

This wasn't mercy.

This was exile.

And it was worse.

Because he couldn't take her with him.

In no world could he live without Avelwen.

He’d trade loyalty, legacy—everything—for just one more breath beside her.

The hour was late.

The estate was quiet.

Shadows crept along the corridors, soft and still as breath.

Avelwen moved through the manor like a ghost, barefoot, her nightgown fluttering faintly behind her. Lusienn followed, silent, steps syncing with hers as though rehearsed. Neither of them spoke. There was no need to.

They knew where they were going.

They knew what they were doing.

In the kitchen, the hearth had long gone cold.

Avelwen moved first this time—no hesitation, no glance for permission. She went to the tall cabinet near the back wall, reached for the wine, and cradled the bottle in both hands like it was sacred.

Lusienn moved to the drawers, retrieving two glasses with steady hands. He set them down gently on the island, the sound barely audible.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need too.

Avelwen poured.

The liquid flowed dark and rich into the glass, the candlelight catching on its surface like blood. She paused only once—to reach into the silk pocket hidden along her hip. Her fingers emerged with a small crystal bottle. White powder glistened faintly within.

She didn’t tremble.

She poured it evenly into both glasses.

Slow acting.

Painless.

Just sleep.

Sleep they would never wake from.

When she finished, she handed one glass to Lusienn. He took it with quiet reverence, his fingers brushing hers.

Then she raised hers in a silent toast.

And he mirrored her.

They drank.

No words.

No confessions.

Only the hum of obsession in the silence between them.

And then—they moved toward each other.

Not rushed.

But desperate.

Lusienn pulled her into his arms, holding her tighter than ever before. Avelwen clung to him, her fingers digging into his back as though he might vanish if she let go. Their mouths found each other again—hungry, slow, claiming.

Their bodies pressed flush, breath mingling, movements tangled in aching finality.

They crossed the line again, one last time.

Their final act of devotion was not gentle.

It was consuming.

They collapsed together in the corner of the kitchen, arms still wrapped tightly around one another, heads resting against the wall.

The poison crawled slowly through their veins, lulling them like a lullaby.

Avelwen’s breathing slowed first.

Lusienn cradled her face, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her lips.

“Mine,” he whispered.

“Always,” she breathed back, her voice nearly gone.

Their eyes closed.

And the world—finally—left them alone.