Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 65: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner(10)

Katerina’s fingers clenched her skirts until they trembled as the maids moved around her in practiced silence, stripping away layer after layer of silk. Each rustle of fabric felt like another piece of her dignity slipping away, dissolving into the cold air of the tent. Dorian watched... not with hunger, but with possession. Like a man assessing the spoils of a war he had already won.

Her lips had trembled, but she did not cry.

This was the bargain she had chosen. To save Elyndra, she would give herself.

When the maids withdrew, and the tent flap fell closed, sealing her inside with the man who had nearly destroyed everything she loved, Katerina swallowed her fear and clung to the only words that kept her upright.

"For my people."

She could hear him stripping and she didn’t care to look. This was not how she envisioned her first time to be.

Dorian reached for her.

He did not speak.

He did not soothe.

He did not ask.

She met it all with stillness. A stillness so complete it felt like death.

Her chin stayed lowered as he pulled her close, skin against skin, the heat of him overwhelming, the weight of him undeniable. Her breath shook in her chest, but she held it like a secret. She had no right to fear. No right to resist. This was the price she had chosen, the last thing she still controlled.

Her heart had hammered wildly, begging her to run.

Her mind had whispered: Stay still. Stay silent. Survive.

She had turned her face away, unwilling to meet the eyes of the man who had sworn to erase her kingdom only days before. She would not give him her terror. She would not give him anything more.

Her hands had twisted into the sheets until her knuckles ached. She had buried her face against her arm, teeth biting into her own skin to stop the sounds rising in her throat.

Not a cry.

Not a gasp.

Not a word.

There had been no romance.

No tenderness.

No memory worth keeping.

The fur beneath her skin was soft, but nothing else was soft as she stared at the flickering candle on the side.

Only duty.

Only pain.

Only the quiet, irreversible understanding that the girl she had been: hopeful, gentle, unscarred... that girl had died somewhere between that bath and this tent. Between betrayal and sacrifice.

She had endured.

Because she had to.

When it was over, she had risen on numb legs, covering herself with just her arms and hands, and forced her voice into something steady, something regal, despite the fracture beneath it.

"Your Majesty."

She had bowed.

Because that was what her new life demanded.

Time had changed things. Slowly. Reluctantly. He had softened toward her, learned restraint, learned respect. Duty had turned into partnership. Distance into understanding.

And now... As the soft music enveloped them and his warmth held her...

He stood before her again, younger, unburdened by that history, watching her as though she were the only thing anchoring him in the room.

The intensity of his gaze unsettled her far more than anger ever could.

Catherine looked away again, toward the soft blaze of the chandeliers, toward the blurred silhouettes of the crowd... toward anything that was not the quiet gravity pulling her back to him. Her fingers tightened in his grasp before she could stop herself.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His thumb brushed gently over her knuckles: not possessive, not demanding. Grounding. Patient. As though he were anchoring her to the present, refusing to let her drift too far from him.

Her throat tightened.

In her past life, he had never looked at her like this.

Back then, his attention had been sharp-edged, purposeful. He had watched her the way a general watched a battlefield... measuring, alert, always prepared to lose something. His gaze had carried duty, vigilance, and restraint.

This gaze was different.

This gaze held nothing else in this moment.

No politics.

No calculations.

No war.

Only her.

Catherine swallowed and finally forced herself to meet his eyes.

The moment stretched.

Something flickered across his face—recognition, perhaps. Or something gentler. Something dangerously close to fondness. He did not smile. Instead, he leaned in just enough for his voice to reach her alone.

"You haven’t said anything."

Her heart stuttered.

"About what, Mr. Blackwood?" she asked, her chest still pounding. For a breathless second, she wondered if he meant the past... their past.

"About working with BioQuant," he said calmly.

Relief and confusion tangled in her chest.

For an instant, Catherine wondered if his interest lay in Helios... or in her. She didn’t know whether that thought frightened her or stirred something warmer, something far more dangerous.

"I do like research, Mr. Blackwood," she said.

When she glanced up again, she nearly faltered.

He had moved closer.

"To find a cure for Alzheimer’s?" he asked quietly.

Her breath caught. Catherine took a careful step back, forcing space between them, though her pulse still raced as if she’d run miles. She lifted her chin and smiled: polite, measured.

"I’m sure Dr. Renfield will find a cure within three months."

She hung the blade neatly and precisely where Ashley would feel it. A time limit. One Ashley would surely fail. Then, she’d be exposed, failed to keep her promise to Big Pharma. That would be her end.

Dorian tilted his head, studying her as their steps slowed, his movements adjusting seamlessly to hers, as though he had memorized her rhythm without effort.

"What if I want you, Catherine?"

The words landed softly.

Dangerously.

Her breath hitched. She felt exposed. Seen. The music swelled around them, Claire de Lune wrapping the moment in quiet longing.

"I’m just a junior researcher, Mr. Blackwood," she replied, though her heart refused to steady.

His hand slid lower—to her waist, to the bow at the small of her back. A place only a husband could ever touch.

He didn’t stop there.

He drew her closer, close enough that his breath brushed her ear, his lips hovering just shy of her skin.

"Say my name."

Her heart skipped violently.

Never...not once... had she called him by his name. He had been her king. Older. Untouchable. Even as his queen, she had never allowed herself that intimacy.

What are you asking of me now?

-----

Across the hall, Maximilian returned just as Sebastian disappeared toward the security room.

And what he saw...

Catherine.

And him.

Dancing far too closely. Standing as though the world had already crowned them an official couple. Intimate. Unmistakable.

Something inside Maximilian sank.

His hands clenched at his sides as jealousy flared sharp and uninvited, his chest tightening at the sight he could not look away from.