⚠️ Trigger & Content Warning
This chapter contains non-consensual sexual contact, manipulation through magical coercion, and themes of sexual assault under the influence of enchantment. While not graphically described in explicit terms, the events portrayed may be distressing for some readers due to their emotional and psychological weight.
Please prioritize your well-being. If you choose to skip, a brief summary can be provided upon request.
🔞 NSFW Advisory
This chapter includes sexually explicit content, including descriptions of nudity, physical intimacy, and erotic tension, framed within a narrative of power imbalance and emotional violation. Reader discretion is advised.
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Caelan hated these events.
Too much noise. Too many eyes. Finery and false smiles dressed as celebration. The banquet hall sparkled with polished pretense, laughter, music, and clinking crystal, but none of it felt sincere.
He stood near a column, doing his best to disappear into the crowd. A goblet rested in his hand for show. The wine was thick and overly sweet. He didn't bother finishing it.
He scanned the room. Familiar faces. Practiced smiles. Nothing stood out.
Part of him always waited for something to go wrong in these gatherings. Too many people pretending to like each other. Too many smiles that didn't reach their eyes. He didn't trust any of them. Not really. It wasn't just the politics. It was the constant sense that someone in the room always wanted something. Influence. Leverage. Access.
And tonight, the tension under his skin felt worse than usual. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was instinct. Either way, he had learned never to ignore it.
And then there she was.
Evelyne had been watching him all evening. From the moment she entered the hall, her eyes had found him. He looked tired, guarded, like he wanted to be anywhere else. Good. That made him easier to reach. She had planned everything, the wine, the lighting, the pacing of her approach. This was her moment.
He would finally see her. Want her. Belong to her.
She let the potion do its work. It was subtle, designed not to distort reality too much. Only to lower his walls. Nudge his mind into seeing what he wanted most. She had done her research. She knew what he longed for. Who he longed for.
And she would wear that shape until he couldn't tell the difference.
So when his eyes softened and he said Seraphina's name, Evelyne smiled.
She didn't need to correct him. She just needed to keep him close long enough to leave her mark.
She moved with slow, practiced grace, every step intentional. She laughed where expected, brushed arms in passing, and let her eyes find him like it was a performance she knew by heart.
From where he stood, her arrival felt sudden and seamless, like she had always been there. The crowd barely registered around her. For a moment, all sound felt distant, the edges of the room dull and blurred.
A pulse of dizziness formed behind his eyes.
He blinked and adjusted his stance, but the haze didn't lift. It thickened.
The room tilted. Just slightly. Enough to unsteady him.
His throat tightened. He swallowed. The sweetness of the wine sat wrong in his mouth.
A servant approached, silent, forgettable. "Lady Seraphina requests a private conversation."
Caelan nodded. He didn't trust his voice. He followed.
His boots echoed through a quiet corridor. The air turned heavier. The lighting dimmed.
He stumbled once and caught himself.
Nothing felt right.
They reached a heavy wooden door. It closed behind him with a quiet click. When he turned, there was no handle.
He was locked in.
The room was dim, lit by a single lantern. Shadows stretched too far, clinging to the corners.
Evelyne stood near the light. Waiting.
"Seraphina," he murmured, a soft smile touching his lips. The light behind her haloed her silhouette, familiar and welcome.
She stepped forward, voice low and warm. "Caelan."
He nodded slowly, body heavy, the edges of the room too soft. His heart beat with a strange mix of calm and heat. Her touch came next, gentle, loving, as her hands found his shoulders and slipped beneath his cloak.
His muscles relaxed. His thoughts slowed, clouded by warmth.
His cloak slid to the floor.
She touched his tunic, unfastening it with slow, practiced care. The chill that touched his skin barely registered. He leaned into her.
Her lips brushed his neck.
"You're safe," she whispered. "Wanted. Seen."
Then her hands lifted, brushing his jaw. She reached up and gently removed the half-mask he had worn to the banquet, revealing all of him. She looked into his face like she was seeing something precious, something owed. "You're beautiful," she breathed, like it was a vow. "And now, you're mine."
He believed it.
Everything about her felt right in the haze of the spell. Her voice sounded soft. Her movements felt familiar, shaped by what he wanted most to believe.
He didn't question why she felt slightly different, why the scent lingered just off, why her voice carried something sharper than memory. The potion blurred the lines. He couldn't see clearly enough to resist.
He was caught in the illusion.
The potion worked like truth. His body was warm, heavy, slow. He didn't fight.
He couldn't.
She lowered herself to the floor. Her mouth grazed his skin. Her hands tugged at his belt.
"Don't fight it," she said. "You belong to me."
And in his mind, he didn't resist. He thought he was with Seraphina. The spell shaped Evelyne's voice, her movements, even her warmth into something familiar. Something wanted. He let himself fall into it, not out of desire for Evelyne, but because every part of him believed he was with the woman he loved.
She kissed along his collarbone, her hands slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, nails grazing his chest with deliberate pressure. Her touch wasn't rushed, it was slow, calculated, designed to coax a reaction. And it worked. His breath hitched, muscles responding as if guided by memory.
She whispered in his ear again, words too close to ones he remembered Seraphina saying, twisted just enough to feel familiar. Her lips found the edge of his jaw, her fingers now sliding across his waist. He let out a soft sound, not pleasure exactly, but something close. Something drugged.
His mind kept seeing Seraphina. The way she had touched him once. The way she had looked at him when she thought no one noticed. This moment felt like that, only... off.
Something didn't fit. The warmth wasn't right. The scent, the cadence of her breathing, even the rhythm of her movements, they were all wrong.
A ripple of unease stirred in his chest.
His fingers twitched.
In the haze of the potion, something within him began to fray. The spell still spun its lie, but the corners had started to lift. Her hands still moved, lips still mapped his skin like familiar terrain, but the warmth was wrong, the cadence rehearsed.
He murmured her name again.
Not the one touching him.
The one he thought he saw.
"Seraphina."
Evelyne paused for a beat, a flicker of irritation in her breath. But she didn't stop. She pressed closer, more insistent now, as if trying to drown out the truth clinging to his voice.
There was worship in her rhythm. Celebration in her touch. But it was all too eager, too theatrical, too desperate to be real. His body, still under the spell, followed the script, but his soul was slipping.
Her mouth lingered a moment longer, working him until his breath caught. He gasped, eyes unfocused, hips tensing beneath her touch.
The spell coaxed him to the edge, and then over. He came, warmth, release, a rush of false completion.
She watched him with satisfaction, reading his body's response as victory.
In his mind, Seraphina kissed him after.
And Evelyne smiled like she had won everything.
She noticed his still hard manhood. Still smiling, Evelyne climbed onto the bed, breath ragged with anticipation, and moved to straddle him, ready to claim more. One hand anchored on his shoulder, the other guiding him to her entrance, holding steady as she hovered above, poised but not yet joining him. She whispered something again, words he barely heard.
Then the door burst open.
Air rushed in. Light spilled over the stone floor.
Evelyne froze.
Seraphina stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the scene.
Behind her, Caelan's assistant hovered, pale and wide-eyed.
Seraphina didn't wait.
She crossed the room and grabbed Evelyne by the hair, pulling her away with force. Evelyne hit the ground, snarling like a cornered animal.
Seraphina dropped her cloak over Caelan's exposed body. She steadied him. Her hands were firm. Grounding.
He leaned into her, too weak to hold himself upright.
She wrapped her arms around him like armor.
Then she turned her gaze on Evelyne.
"You don't touch him again."
Evelyne straightened, breathing hard, half-naked and flushed with fury.
"You're interrupting something beautiful," she snapped. "He wanted this. We were…"
"Seraphina," Caelan mumbled, still dazed, eyes unfocused. He whispered it again, and again, voice slurred with drugged pleasure. "Seraphina... Seraphina, love me more."
Seraphina glared at Evelyne. The other too flustered to speak. The silence thickened.
Seraphina's expression stayed cold. She laid Caelan gently back to bed and moved forward, grabbed Evelyne by the arm, and shoved her fully to the floor just outside the chamber.
Gasps echoed behind her.
She crouched, retrieved Caelan's tunic and cloak, and wrapped them tightly around his shoulders. She motioned to the steward.
"Make him decent," she said.
The steward obeyed at once, face pale, hands steady. The knight-assistant said nothing, but his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes said enough. They had seen his state. His vacant look. His slack limbs.
He had been drugged.
And Seraphina stood between him and the world, daring anyone to deny it.
Footsteps crowded the doorway. Whispers began.
Court members stared. Some gasped. No one stepped forward.
Seraphina didn't explain. She didn't need to.
She looped Caelan's arm over her shoulder. His assistant took the other.
Together, they walked him out.
Caelan's mask was gone. His face had been visible when she found him. But his body had slumped, hair fallen forward, hiding most of his features. The cloak she'd thrown around him had helped shield him. And thankfully, most eyes had been too stunned, too fixated on Evelyne, too lost in the scandal, to really notice. Whispers had already begun, gossip blooming faster than any glance at his face.
By the time they stepped into the hall, no one was looking at Caelan for who he was. They were looking at what had happened. And that was enough. The room behind them fell silent.
Caelan's head rested on her shoulder. His breath trembled.
She held him steady.
"You're safe," she whispered. "I've got you."
But inside, she hated herself for not getting there sooner. For letting the first violation happen while she was still riding to reach him. The image of Evelyne touching him with false tenderness burned into her mind. She couldn't scrub it out. Couldn't forget the sound of his voice, drugged and soft, calling her name in a moment that should have belonged to them, something sacred, something stolen.
Still, she was grateful they had made it when they did. Before Evelyne could take more. Before it could break him further.
She breathed in and held him tighter.
They would face the rest together.
And even in his dazed situation, he believed her.