QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 98: Red ears

Chapter 98 - Daphne POV

I’m mindless as I dress, still dazed, my fingers clumsy as they fumble with the laces of the gown Jane has laid out for me. Something about the Duke wanting to speak to all his wives—whatever. I barely register her fussing over my hair, or the brief scolding about how wrinkled my shift was. My body moves out of habit, like it’s been trained to get ready for noble events, but my mind? My mind is lost.

Lost in her.

Evelyn.

Her flushed face, the way she gasped my name, the tremble in her thighs as she came apart in my arms.

The warm scent of her skin. The way her fingers dug into my back as if to ground herself.

It’s everything.

I’ve never been someone who needed to finish to feel satisfied. Watching her unravel, hearing her moan and whimper and beg—it lit something inside me. Something primal. Something possessive.

It wasn’t like before, those stolen nights in the dark where our breathing had to be shallow, and our touches silent. Where I had to bury my face in her neck to muffle her sounds, or she’d bite her lip until she almost bled to keep quiet. No. Today was different.

It was daylight.

She was radiant, shameless, free.

I want to see that again.

I need to.

I blink and suddenly I’m sitting in the dining hall.

What?

When did I get here?

The long wooden table stretches out beneath the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Outside the tall windows, the sun is beginning its descent behind the hills, casting a golden hue over the white stone walls of the estate. The concubines are seated with their swollen bellies, fanning themselves lazily. There’s the occasional clink of silverware or the shuffling of a maid bringing more wine.

And then there’s Evelyn.

Across from me.

Perfect posture. Perfectly composed. Her hair pinned up in that regal twist she wears during formal meetings. Not a strand out of place. Her lips are calm, her expression unreadable. The very picture of nobility.

You wouldn’t think she’d been trembling in my arms hours ago, gasping my name like a prayer.

Gods.

She’s good at this. This pretending.

My gaze lingers.

Just for a moment.

And she looks up.

We make eye contact.

Something flickers in her eyes—guilt, maybe? Panic? Heat? I can’t tell. But she looks away so quickly it’s as if my gaze physically burned her.

The Duke’s voice cuts through the hum of the room.

"Thank you all for joining me tonight. As you know, our efforts in sanitation have earned favor in the capital, and there’s talk of further land grants. I—"

I tune him out.

It’s a gift, really. The ability to look attentive while your mind drifts elsewhere.

I’m back in the carriage, her thighs bracketing mine, her voice a whimper in my ear.

"Please... Daphne... please."

My fingers tighten around the stem of the goblet.

The voice echoes in my mind, raw and desperate. Her voice. Gasping my name. Pleading for me.

I try to blink it away, but the memory refuses to leave. It’s embedded under my skin like heat, coiling around every thought.

The goblet’s edge is slightly chipped. Ugly, really. Everything in this room is ornate but tasteless—gilded chairs, velvet drapes, half a dozen candles flickering on the long table, the smell of wax thick in the air.

And across from me, she sits.

So calm. So perfectly composed.

Her hair is pinned, not a strand out of place. Her lips—those same lips that had gasped against mine just hours ago—are painted that deep red that makes my heart misbehave.

And her neck—there’s a faint smudge of powder I recognize too well. She tried to cover it, but I see it. The mark I left. The one her gown couldn’t quite hide. It’s like a signature only I know to look for.

Dammit.

She doesn’t look at me. Not yet.

Cedric drones on about something at the head of the table, gesturing toward papers I have no interest in. Something about land tax distribution. The duchy. The future.

I don’t care.

Not when my entire world is sitting across from me, pretending nothing happened.

That’s when she finally dares to lift her gaze.

Her eyes meet mine.

And I smirk.

I wink—subtle, quick.

Her expression falters for the smallest second.

Then she looks away again, posture stiffening ever so slightly. She reaches for her goblet with a little more force than necessary.

I should behave.

But I want to watch her squirm.

Because I remember her body—how it arched against me, how she cried out with abandon, how she begged. Not demure. Not composed. Not a duchess, but a woman.

My woman.

I take a sip of the wine. It’s bitter. Flat.

Unlike her.1

And tonight, I’ll taste her again.

Even if I have to keep her quiet. Even if her lips tremble against my shoulder instead of crying out the way I love.

It’s a shame, truly, not to hear those desperate sounds again—her breathless moans, the way she gasps my name like it’s the only word she remembers.

But that’s fine.

The desperate way she tries to hold it in—biting her knuckles, burying her face into my shoulder, clutching the sheets like they might save her from the wave I pull her under—has its own kind of charm.

Maybe even more than hearing her cry out. Okay not more, they are of equal measure.

Because there’s something intoxicating about knowing I can unravel her like that. Quietly. Thoroughly.

She doesn’t need to scream.

Her trembling thighs, her flushed skin, her eyes glazed and pleading—they tell me everything.

And tonight, I plan to see all of it. Slowly. Completely.

We make eye contact—and she glares at me.

That sharp, practiced duchess glare meant to silence rooms, freeze diplomats, and dismantle noblemen.

As if she knows exactly what I’m planning.

And maybe she does.

I merely tilt my head, raise my brows, and offer the most innocent expression I can muster.

Me? I say with a look.

I’m just sitting here.

Behaving.

She narrows her eyes, a subtle twitch in her jaw. Her hand tightens ever so slightly around her goblet, the same fingers that clutched my shirt only hours ago.

And then—she looks away, composed as ever.

But her ears are red.