QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 90: Racing heart

Chapter 90 – Evelyne POV

I watch as she walks into the room and quietly closes the door behind her.

Merin.

It’s late. I told Daphne to come later—I had something to handle first. And that something is the Duke’s favorite maid.

"Your Grace," she says and bows. She looks nervous. As she should be.

"You know why you’re here, don’t you?" I say, my tone calm, almost bored. I lean back in the high-backed chair by the hearth, legs crossed.

She doesn’t respond.

I sigh.

"There isn’t a place in this castle I do not have eyes in," I say, swirling the wine in my goblet. "I know you’re pregnant."

She flinches. Her eyes drop to the floor like she’s hoping it will swallow her.

This is a headache I didn’t ask for. That ridiculous tonic the Marquis gave the Duke has proven far too effective. It did what it promised. Far too well.

I’d rather be wrapped in Daphne’s arms right now. I will be—soon. First, I must deal with this nuisance.

"Since he likes you," I say, setting the goblet down, "this ends now."

I motion to Frida, who steps forward and places a small vial into the maid’s shaking hands.

"This will get rid of the child."

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise her eyes. Doesn’t speak.

"Be smart," I continue.

"If any of the ladies find out, it won’t just be the child dealt with. They will want your head. You know well you should not have fallen pregnant."

"I... I didn’t plan to," she whispers.

"Spare me. It’s happened. I’m offering you a way out."

She stays silent, clutching the vial but unmoving.

"And don’t be foolish enough to run," I add, standing slowly. "I will not be disgraced by a bastard child claiming the title of firstborn. If you try anything, you will be dealt with. Without hesitation."

Her face is pale. She bows again, almost to the floor.

"You may go," I say. "You have until moonrise."

She turns and leaves, and the room feels cold again.

I sit back down. My fingers rub circles into my temples. All this over a passing whim. She should have known better. He should have known better.

Frida waits by the door. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

"Have her watched," I say. "Quietly."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Frida responds and leaves the room, disappearing down the corridor like a shadow vanishing into candlelight.

And as soon as the door closes, the tension in my spine vanishes.

I stand, practically giddy. The weight of politics, of bloodlines, of bastards and concubines—it all melts away under the warmth curling through my chest.

I fluff my hair quickly, straighten the lace trim on my nightgown. I smooth the fabric down my thighs and try not to look like I’m waiting, though I absolutely am.

I don’t have to wait long.

I hear it—the soft thud of boots landing on the stone of my balcony. That sound, reckless and familiar, makes my stomach flip.

She walks in through the curtains like the night itself, all shadows and mischief. Dressed in black again, of course, with that smirk half-formed on her lips.

I don’t let her speak.

I launch forward and jump on her, wrapping my arms around her neck and my legs around her waist as I kiss her—desperate and without a trace of nobility.

She catches me, of course she does.

Strong arms steady around my body as she stumbles back a step with a surprised laugh, kissing me back just as hard.

I think she likes it when I’m like this—reckless, bold, shameless.

She turns us, pressing me against the cold balcony door now shut behind us, her mouth never leaving mine.

With me in her arms, she carries me effortlessly across the room—confident steps like she owns the place. Maybe she does. Maybe I’ve handed her more than just access to my chambers.

The flickering candlelight dances across the walls, casting long, golden shadows. The room feels warmer with her in it.

"Someone’s eager," she murmurs, amused, before dropping me gently onto the bed like I’m weightless.

My body bounces softly against the mattress, and I prop myself up on my elbows, trying to look composed, seductive, and entirely unaffected—which is difficult when my heart is racing like a startled deer.

"Do you hate it?"

I ask, tilting my head just slightly, testing her.

She pauses for the briefest second, eyes locking on mine. Her smile deepens—not teasing this time, but something more reverent. As though I’ve asked if she hates breathing.

"No," she says, her voice low and unhurried, "not at all, Duchess. Not at all."

She leans in again, and this time her kiss is slower. Deeper. Less rushed and more meaningful, like she’s tasting every second of it. Her hand slides up along my side, skimming over the thin silk of my nightgown.

And I shiver.

Because even now—after everything, after all the secret meetings and late-night touches—she still kisses me like it matters.

Her lips taste like the wind, like night air and trouble. The good kind.

The kind I’ve been dreaming of for days, even though every night we do this.

The room is candlelit, flickering shadows against the stone walls, but all I see is her. The way her lashes lower when she leans in. The way she looks at me like I’m something precious—no, like I’m something she wants to ruin beautifully.

She kisses my neck, my collarbone, dragging her teeth just enough to make me gasp. Her hands slide beneath the gown, up my waist, over the ribs that rise and fall too fast.

"You’re trembling," she whispers.

"You’re not helping."

She chuckles low in her throat, and that laugh vibrates against my skin, makes me bite my lip.

"Good."

She kisses lower. Slower. She worships.

I bury my hands in her hair, thread my fingers through the silky strands, and let myself get lost. My breath hitches, her name leaves my lips more than once, and she seems to know every place on my body where my composure shatters.

"Say it again," she murmurs into my skin.

"What?"

"My name."

"Daphne."

Her eyes lift to mine, molten and so gentle it makes something deep in me ache.

"You say it like a prayer."

Maybe that’s what she is.

I try to say something witty, something clever to take back control—but then she moves again, and words abandon me completely.

I arch, and she holds me down, murmuring praise and kisses into my shoulder.

By the time it’s over, my heart has forgotten how to beat normally.

She collapses beside me, her arms pulling me close, and I let her. I let myself be held. It’s terrifying, to feel this much.

I feel her breath against the side of my neck, warm and

real. Grounding.

"I missed you," she whispers.

I swallow.

"You saw me yesterday."

I respond pretending to be unaffected despite my racing heart.