The Duke Who Does Not Bow
1025 Words
Chapter Two
Silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding, like a drawn blade, and neither dared to lower.
Duke Adrian Blackwell stood just beyond the threshold, his presence commanding without effort. He did not rush forward. He did not soften his gaze. Instead, he studied her with a precision that felt disturbingly intimate — as though he were dissecting the very soul behind her eyes.
“Lady Camila Everhart,” he said at last, voice calm, polished, and cold as winter glass. “It appears the gods have chosen to return you.”
Return? Elisha almost smiled.
If only he knew what had truly come back.
“You sound disappointed, Your Grace,” she replied lightly.
A flicker of something — surprise, perhaps — ghosted through his expression before his features smoothed once more into indifference.
“Disappointment would imply expectation,”he said. “I do not indulge either.”
How refreshing. No false concern. No syrupy sympathy like the rest of the court would offer her once word of her awakening spread. Duke Blackwell spoke as though he stood before an equal, not a broken ornament.
Elisha shifted against the pillows, feigning weakness while observing him keenly. “Then why has a man of your status come to see a woman forgotten by her own family?”
A subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed that he had not expected such bluntness.
“Because,” he answered, “your sudden awakening has caused… interest.”
Interest. What a gentle word for scandal.
Outside these walls, she well knew the whispers must have already begun.
The abandoned fiancée awakens.
The dead girl walks again.
What will happen to the prince’s current bride?
“Is it the court’s interest,” she murmured, “or yours?”
The question hung there, daring him to retreat.
He did not.
His gaze dropped briefly to her bandaged wrist, the faint bruises shadowing her pale skin, the ghost of a life nearly erased.
“I prefer to see with my own eyes before I judge,” he said. “And what I see does not match what I was told.”
“And what were you told?” she asked.
“That you were timid,” Adrian replied coolly. “Breakable. A girl who cried when her sister raised her voice.”
Elisha let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. “And do I appear breakable to you now?”
His lips twitched — a ghost of a smile never fully born.
“No,” he admitted. “You appear… aware.”
Aware. Alive. Dangerous.Something unspoken pulsed between them, an invisible thread tightening with every exchanged word.
“How long have you been watching me, Your Grace?” she asked softly.
His eyes sharpened. “Long enough to notice you no longer avert your gaze.”
He was right. Old Camila would have bowed her head, trembling beneath the pressure of nobility. But Elisha had survived a life that had taught her fear was a luxury.
“I see no reason to,” she said. “I have already tasted death. It is not as frightening as people believe it to be.”
For the first time, she saw genuine emotion crack through his icy exterior — a flicker of intrigue so raw it startled even him.
“You speak like someone who does not fear consequences,” he said.
“I speak like someone who has nothing to lose.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “Or perhaps… everything to own.”
Adrian studied her longer than propriety allowed, as though committing her face to memory — searching for the docile noble girl everyone else remembered and failing to find her.
“You will find this court unforgiving,” he finally said. “They will not welcome the resurrection of a girl they already buried.”
“Then they should have buried me properly,” she replied, eyes gleaming. “Or not at all.”
A faint sound escaped him — not quite laughter but close enough to be alarming.
“I came here expecting weakness,” he confessed. “Instead, I find a woman who sharpens her tongue against the world.”
Elisha tilted her head. “And does the Duke of Blackwell enjoy sharp edges, or does he prefer obedient silence?”
His gaze darkened, something more dangerous pooling within it.
“I prefer honesty,” he murmured. “It is rarer than gold.”
Another knock echoed at the door — hesitant, anxious.
“My lady… your parents wish to see you,” the maid announced from the hallway.
Ah. The Everharts.
The people who had allowed their daughter to rot while they celebrated another’s lies.
Elisha’s fingers tightened briefly beneath the coverlet, but her expression remained deceptively serene.
“Let them wait,” she said coolly. “I am currently occupied.”
The maid stammered in surprise, clearly unused to such defiance. Adrian observed her keenly.
“You deny your own parents?” he asked.
“I deny those who are meant to be denied,” she answered without the slightest tremor. “There is a difference.”
A slow, deliberate nod followed.
“I see,” he said. “Very clearly.”
He turned toward the door, pausing just before leaving.
“You changed, Lady Camila,” he added.“And change, in this kingdom, is not a mercy. It is a provocation.”
She met his gaze one last time, unflinching.
“Then let them be provoked, Your Grace,” she replied. “I have slept long enough.”
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then Adrian Blackwell inclined his head — a minimal gesture, yet astonishing for a man known to bow to no one but the Crown.
“I look forward to observing what you choose to become,” he said quietly.
As the door closed behind him, Elisha exhaled slowly.
The board had shifted. The first piece had moved.
And somewhere in the corridors beyond, the life that had stolen Camila’s place was about to learn a terrifying truth.
The forgotten do not remain forgotten forever.
- Writer
