After about ten days of the regulated routine between the tower cell and the exercise yard, Elara had almost begun to think Duke Reinhardt had completely forgotten about his "Object Seven." Perhaps, in his eyes, she was merely a whim, a plaything brought back on impulse, whose novelty had quickly faded.
However, it turned out the demon's patience, or rather, his interest in toying with his prey, was far more enduring, and far more... unpredictable than she had imagined.
One afternoon, as Elara finished her hour of "activity" in the courtyard and was about to be "escorted" back to the tower by Knight Kaelen, Frau Helga appeared like a phantom at the courtyard entrance.
"His Grace wishes to see you." The same cold, unquestionable command.
Elara's heart leaped into her throat. Back to that suffocating study? To endure that mental torture again? She unconsciously clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to use the pain to suppress the fear that threatened to make her collapse.
This time, she wasn't taken to the study, but to a room on the second floor of the main keep... perhaps a small drawing-room or lounge. The decor was slightly "softer" than the study, with a roaring fireplace, thick soft Persian rugs on the floor, and several comfortable-looking velvet armchairs. However, the overall color scheme remained dark reds and deep browns. Paintings depicting deep forests and fierce prey hung on the walls, and a massive stag's head mount with glass eyes stared coldly into the room. The atmosphere still carried the cold, hard luxury and oppressive feeling belonging to the castle's master.
Duke Reinhardt sat in an ornately carved wingback chair by the fireplace. He wore no armor or weapons, just a perfectly tailored black velvet doublet, the collar slightly open, revealing the elegant line of his collarbone. The soft firelight danced across his face—as perfect as a Greek sculpture, yet as cold as an iceberg—lending his already aggressively handsome features an air of... lazy danger, like a black panther feigning sleep by the fire, ready to pounce at any moment.
Frau Helga led Elara to the center of the room, gestured for her to kneel, then retreated silently into the shadows, gently closing the door behind her. The heavy door shut out the outside world, and also Elara's last chance of escape.
Only Elara and the Duke remained in the room.
Elara knelt on the cold, hard marble floor, head bowed, not even daring to look at the dancing flames in the fireplace, afraid that even that small flicker of light might attract the demon lord's attention. She could clearly feel the Duke's gaze, like a physical weight, on the top of her head, her neck, her back... It held an undisguised scrutiny and... a possessiveness like appraising his private property, making her skin crawl, every inch tense with nervousness.
Silence, heavy as lead, slowly spread and fermented in the room. The crackling of the logs in the fireplace sounded like a death knell.
Elara didn't know how much time passed—perhaps an instant, perhaps an eternity. Her knees were beginning to go numb, her back aching dully from holding the rigid posture for so long.
"Come here." The Duke finally spoke, his voice low, with a barely perceptible rasp, like someone just waking, yet carrying the weight of an undeniable command.
Elara's heart leaped. She didn't dare disobey. She could only force her numb legs to move, crawling on her knees, slowly, humiliatingly, inch by inch towards the Duke's armchair. The cold floor scraped against her knees, causing a faint pain, but it was nothing compared to the fear and humiliation in her heart.
She stopped a step away from his chair, head still bowed, like the humblest slave awaiting her master's judgment.
The Duke leaned forward slightly. An aura belonging to the powerful—a mix of pine, leather, and the faint scent of gunpowder (or perhaps her imagination?)—instantly enveloped Elara. He reached out his ungloved hand—long-fingered, well-defined, calloused at the tips from years of wielding a sword—and once again lifted Elara's chin. The gesture wasn't rough, but carried an irresistible force, compelling her to raise her head and meet his gaze.
His fingers were cool, yet where they touched her warm skin, it felt like a brand, making her flinch.
"Afraid?" The Duke looked at the undeniable fear and panic in her eyes, like watching a startled fawn. A minuscule, cold, almost cruel curve touched his lips. It wasn't a smile, more like... amusement at his prey's reaction.
Elara's lips trembled violently, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She couldn't form any words. She could only stare helplessly with fear-filled eyes at the man who controlled her everything.
The Duke didn't seem to need her answer. His gaze, like that of the most discerning connoisseur, slowly, meticulously scanned her face—her eyebrows, her eyes, her lashes fluttering slightly with fear, the delicate bridge of her nose, and... her lips, pressed tightly together out of nervousness and fear, looking pale yet incredibly soft.
His gaze lingered on her lips for what seemed... an exceptionally long time. His eyes grew... dark and dangerous, as if appraising a rare treasure, or perhaps contemplating... how to thoroughly possess it, brand it with his mark.
Elara grew flustered and terrified under his intense stare, instinctively wanting to look away, to break free from his hold.
However, this minuscule, almost instinctual act of resistance seemed... to have provoked the volatile demon lord.