Page 6

W illiam moved through the glade, each step muffled by moss and pine needles. The night breathed around him—whispers of ancient trees, the hush of unseen water. And beneath it all, a hum. Elusive. Beckoning. Like a forgotten melody just beyond reach.

He parted a curtain of mist, and the world shifted.

A clearing opened before him, glowing as if the moon had chosen this one spot to anoint. Silver light pooled over the grass, soft as silk.

And there she was.

The sprite.

She danced, her milky skin bathed in moonlight, limbs unfolding with the rhythm of a world untouched by time. She skimmed over the meadow, and wherever the tip of her toe kissed the earth, a white flower bloomed—reaching for her as if longing to dance. Mist clung to her ankles, and the wind moved to her breathless tempo, carrying the hush of the overture through the trees like a secret only he was allowed to hear.

“Helene,” William breathed.

She turned to him, startled. A smile lit her pouting lips. There was a promise in those heart-shaped lips. A promise for which he burned.

She twirled around him, enticing and playful. He wanted to explore her beauty and travel through her milky limbs.

With an impish flick of her wrist, she made William’s evening attire vanish, and moistness coated his naked skin.

“Helene,” he warned, his voice gaining strength.

She stopped dancing. “Why do you follow me, William?”

Her question echoed in the meadow.

His mind was sluggish. Why couldn’t he form words?

“I need you to understand.” His tone was a mixture of plea and command.

The sprite laughed softly, and the sound brushed against his chest.

“Understand what? That you seek to cage what stirs you most?”

She flitted closer, lightning quick, and twirled a lock of his hair on her finger. William held still, his skin tingling, waiting. Her face—so close. Lips near his ear. The silvery light solidified, becoming gossamer threads, linking her to him. Too elusive. He needed more. Skin, heat, mouth.

William tried to grasp her hand, but she evaded him, darting over trees and sweet-smelling flowers. The grass broke under his strides as he chased her. When he was about to catch her, she flew to the tallest branch and perched out of his reach, her dainty feet swinging to and fro.

William placed his palms over his knees, panting. This—this hollow yawned awake in him. His spirit yearned for her. Something moved inside him, a force brushing against his ribs. Wings. He banked them. Always like this. She wished him to fly after her. But he could not. Would not.

Frustration welled in his chest, and the trees around him twisted, their gnarled branches spreading like claws, a canopy of ghostly fingers snatching away the moonlight. The mist thickened, swirling into shadows that darkened the air, pressing in around him.

She floated back to the grass, her delicate arms crossed in front of her, eyes moist. “You have no right to invade my glen.”

Guilt weighed his shoulders, constricting his breaths, but it was she—she who invaded his dreams. William reached out again. Caught her hand. As their fingers met, the dream shimmered and then dissolved. The sprite smiled sadly and faded away with the mist, leaving him alone.

William gasped awake, his hands clenching the sheets. His skin tingled from the misty touch. How cruel to be pulled back into the stark reality of his bed. His heart raced out of control. He should have taken the pills. Why had he not taken the pills? He couldn’t live like this anymore.

Shadows still soaked the house as he entered the music room. He lowered himself onto the piano bench, every motion stiff, reluctant. The lid groaned open. He stared at the keys like the trapdoors they were—each note a step into her spell, each chord a surrender. His fingers went to them anyway, slow at first, then faster. The music bucked and twisted, louder, sharper, until the air rang with the violence of sound. A guttural chord burst beneath his hands—too loud for the hour, too jagged for silence. It mattered not. He was still alone. Spent, his body hunched forward until his brow met the wood, the final keys trapped beneath his weight.

You cannot hold on to a dream, nor can you control your heart.

The sprite’s voice lingered in the music’s aftermath—like a note he had forgotten to play.

His fingers twitched on the keys. Empty.

No.

The memory surged—Helene’s skin beneath his hands, the scent of her hair, the way her body yielded and resisted in the same breath. The green room. The warmth. The closeness. How much closer he needed to be.

The sprite was wrong.

The Duke of Albemarle could grasp a dream.

And he would.