Shackled To The Enemy King-Chapter 66: The Winthorp Legacy Dinner (11)

"Say my name."

It was a simple request.

And yet, it hovered dangerously between possession and desire.

Catherine couldn’t respond.

It wasn’t only what he asked... it was how he stood so close, as though he meant to draw her into his gravity, to make her cross a line she didn’t know had existed between them, and take her with him.

"Dorian."

The sound of his name... spoken by another... cut through the moment like a blade.

Catherine jolted.

The music had ended.

She took a hurried step back, pulse racing, breath uneven. Yet even as distance formed, Dorian’s hand lingered at her lower back... still intimate, still claiming, as though reluctant to let go.

She turned.

Edward Blackwood stood there, tall and imposing, authority carved into every line of his face. Beside him stood another man, already smiling in practiced confidence.

Edward didn’t spare Catherine a glance.

"Dorian," he said coolly, "meet Mr. Fitzwilliam. Founder of Fitzwilliam Logistics. He owns two diamond mines in—"

That was all Catherine needed to understand.

She did not belong here.

She slipped free of Dorian’s hold, relief flooding her limbs as she retreated from the space she had nearly surrendered to.

She took only a few steps...

And froze.

Maximilian stood before her.

Her heart dropped with a sickening thud, guilt flaring sharp and irrational, as though she had been caught doing something unforgivable. Like she was caught cheating. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze flicked once... just once... toward the man she had been dancing with.

Then he reached out, took her wrist, and guided her away without a word.

Firm. Controlled. Final.

Dorian watched her leave.

His fingers curled instinctively, as though brushing the bow at the small of her back even after she was gone, as though he could still feel her warmth.

And then...

She disappeared through the doors.

With him.

Again.

Something dark flickered in Dorian’s eyes.

"She’s not the one for you," Edward said quietly.

Dorian turned to his grandfather.

"She was invited by the Remington family," Edward continued, voice low and decisive. "She’s close to that Whitmore. No legacy. No pedigree. I won’t allow a woman like that to taint our noble bloodline."

He patted Dorian’s arm, indulgent. Dismissive.

"If you want entertainment, indulge yourself. But marriage?" Edward smiled thinly. "Your grandfather knows best."

Dorian’s eyes glinted... briefly, unmistakably violet in the low light.

His lips curved, stiff and obedient. "Of course, Grandfather," he said evenly. "You know best."

He turned away.

Catherine and Maximilian were already gone.

Dorian moved to a quiet corner and dialed a familiar number.

Despite the hour, the call connected immediately.

"Mr. Blackwood," came the calm voice of Mrs. Lowe. "How may I help you?"

"My invitation," Dorian said, voice cold with restrained fury. "Did it not reach Catherine?"

He had wanted her here as his guest. Wanted her to question why he had sent her the invite. Wanted to appear before her and watch recognition bloom in her eyes.

Instead...

She arrived with him.

There was a pause. "Sir, I sent the invitation to the lead researcher of Helios. I didn’t realize—"

"You’re fired."

No hesitation.

No anger raised.

Just finality.

"Mr. Blackwood, I’ve served this family for over—"

Click.

The call ended.

Dorian stared at the darkened screen.

Experience meant nothing if it failed at the one thing it was meant to do: understand his intent without needing it spelled out. She had ruined his first move, his first calculation of the night, and that alone was reason enough for dismissal.

In another age, such incompetence would have carried a far more permanent consequence.

Too bad this era no longer had gallows.

-----

Catherine rolled her eyes as Maximilian practically dragged her through the corridors, the music from the gala fading behind them until it became little more than a ghost of sound. She followed him almost mindlessly, heels clicking, temper simmering.

That brief flicker of guilt she’d felt earlier was gone.

She hadn’t slept with anyone. She had danced. And even if she had slept with someone else, it would have meant nothing. The kiss with Maximilian—that was the curse. A technicality. A forced reaction.

She had been clear with him. Painfully clear.

She would never accept him as her husband. Ever.

So, no. She had done nothing wrong.

The logic settled neatly in her mind, even if her heart stubbornly refused to calm down.

It was only after climbing a set of grand stairs, then another, that Catherine slowed. The air felt different here—quieter, more intimate. She looked around.

They were no longer in the public wing.

The floors were polished checkerboard marble, the walls lined with old portraits of stern men in tailored suits, and elegant women frozen mid-smile. The doorframes were carved with care, ornamental in a way that whispered residence, not reception.

Her unease flared.

"Wait," she said, pulling back slightly. "Where are you taking me?"

Maximilian didn’t answer.

He stopped before a door, opened it, and tugged her forward.

That was when Catherine planted her feet.

Hard.

"No," she snapped. "Let go, stupid moose! I’ll scream for help!"

He froze.

Then he looked down... at her wrist in his hand, at the tension in her posture... and exhaled slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. He released her.

Not abruptly.

Too slowly.

Catherine’s balance betrayed her. Her foot twisted, pain lancing up her ankle as she fell back. Her shoulder hit the wall; her head clipped the marble floor with a dull thud.

She gasped, sitting there stunned, clutching her ankle as fire spread through it.

Maximilian turned instantly.

She glared up at him, fury blazing. When he stepped closer, she kicked out with her good leg.

He grunted, staggered... then kept coming, limping now, but relentless.

"Don’t touch me!" She shoved at his chest as he crouched, fists thudding uselessly against him. It was like hitting stone.

Without another word, he scooped her up.

"What are you—!"

He carried her into the room and shut the door behind them.

"If you dare—"

"Rape you?" he scoffed, flicking on the lights. "Don’t flatter yourself."

It was a guest room: large, immaculate, unmistakably prepared for visitors.

"We’re staying here tonight," he said flatly.

"I don’t want to stay here," Catherine shot back. "Take me home."

He didn’t respond.

He set her on the bed—too roughly. She bounced, barely managing to sit upright before she toppled back.

Her chest heaved. "What do you want?"

Maximilian stood there for a moment, just looking at her.

Then he bent down.

He reached for her shoes.

She stiffened, ready to fight again, but he simply frowned at her pumps, muttered something under his breath, and pulled them off. He tossed them aside carelessly.

Then his hands returned to her ankle.

Warm.

Strong.

Infuriatingly gentle.

He began to massage it with practiced precision, thumbs pressing just right. Relief bloomed despite herself, betraying her body before she could stop it.

Catherine bit back a sound.

She hated that he was good at this.

Hated that she let him continue.

His voice cut through the silence. Low. Controlled.

"What did he say?"

Her eyes flew open.