Lahat ng Kabanata ng THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

A week has passed since the gathering, yet her fingers - so still, so sharp - stay with me. His voice too, rough but low, keeps returning. Cold seeps under the door; heat flickers behind the walls. Neither feels real. Both refuse to leave.A knock arrives when the sun hangs low. Not sent by Mrs. Greyson. The man who steps forward is Starwood, captain by rank, standing at my doorway. His body seems loose. Yet his gaze holds stillness like it's watching more than just me.He tells me you’re wanted in the west library by His Grace. Nothing more is said. There’s no reason given. Not even a time. The words come across less like an invitation, more like something I’m expected to obey.A jolt runs through me. West library - that’s off-limits. I’ve never been here before. “Right now?”“When you’re set,” he tells her - Alex’s soft nudge meaning this moment.Breathing fast, I stay on his heels. Quiet fills the west wing, along with a sharp chill. These faces on the walls do not grin - they star

Quiet settles into the house now that the party is done, yet something lingers. A trace of motion stays behind, like echoes of music clinging to cold walls long after silence returns. Restless energy runs through me without warning. The weight of too many glances burns under my skin again, along with Christian’s twisted expression, sharp and unkind. Heat flashes at the thought of Noah’s palm pressed against me, firm and impossible to forget. His words return - low, steady, edged with threat - as though spoken just seconds ago.Out there, beyond four walls, a path waits. Walking pulls me forward, away from the chair I’ve worn down. The yard feels like a cage now. Step by step, streets offer something else.A small nod comes from Mrs. Greyson after I mention wanting to see the first-level rooms. Down the eastern hall, she tells me, hang the ancestor pictures - those ones can be looked at, apparently without issue. Her voice makes it sound like allowing eyes on canvas is some kind of fav

Two days pass without meeting anyone except Liza and Mrs. Greyson. Food arrives at my door each time. Nothing written. No messages. From the west wing, nothing comes - but it feels heavy, sharp, like noise. Again I go back to the hall, to how he sounded broken, looked wild, said only one word so deep it cuts when remembered. Leave.It struck me how out of place I seemed. That moment, standing there, reminded me I did not belong.By day three, the visitor isn’t Mrs. Greyson. Captain Alex Starwood appears instead. In the doorway he stands, face composed like always. Yet his gaze doesn’t rest. Watchfulness lives behind his steady look.“Good morning, Miss Rimestone. His Grace has asked that I attend to you this morning. Would you come with me?”Tension grips my gut. Could this be retribution? Or just another teaching moment? The question comes: "What's the destination?"“The old riding hall,” he says, turning to lead the way. “It’s empty this time of day. And the floor is padded with saw

A shape slips into my thoughts, late on a Thursday. It does not knock.Up there in the sunroom, I hold a plant book but do not really read. Light pours down through the panels, heating my arms. A drawing catches my eye - strange flower, opens only at night - and then everything splits apart.A shape appears - soft, light-colored flower parts. Then without warning, the air carries a burnt scent.Smoke stings my eyes instead of warm woodsmoke. Burning paper mixes with something sour - like melted bindings. Light shifts, first amber, then deep crimson, flickering like breathless pulses. A wave rolls across the skin, thin and harsh, nothing gentle about it. Far off, fire hisses like starving teeth while voices yell into the smoke. A hammer hits inside my skull, each blow drilling through the back of my sight.Smoke first. Then flames reached the Royal Archives. Not just any room - the west wing burned. Those old land grant scrolls? Gone. The ones needed for the Rothmere case disappeared i

A sudden invitation arrives the evening following that endless falling dream. Not a crisis this time, but something polished. The palace hosts a formal dinner. Guests gather under gilded ceilings for the arrival of envoys from Arcadia.“It is not optional,” Mrs. Greyson informs me, laying out a gown of midnight blue velvet. “His Grace was explicit. You are to be a vision of serene loyalty.”Quiet? Not even close. My insides are splintered, thin lines spreading from a breath too soft to name. Habit alone keeps me standing, piece glued to piece. That tale of Beatrice - her voice lingers. The dream creeps in after it. Together they’ve taken up space behind my eyes. Each blink brings her again - the woman, Lillian - mid-fall. There’s Noah, facing away, motionless. My eyes shut, it plays once more.Liza lifts the fabric up, guiding it over my arms. Heavy, that dress, stitched with small silver dots along the collar and cuffs. Long sleeves hang down, close around the throat - like something