The Duchess (GxG)

The water still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the ensuite, towelling my hair lightly. The steam had fogged the mirror, softening the lines of my reflection until I looked like a ghost version of myself — flushed cheeks, damp skin, eyes already a little tired from the day but dancing with something sharp and mischievous underneath.

I took my time getting dressed. Even alone, even in my own suite, I couldn't bring myself to wear anything dull. I pulled on a silky, backless slate-blue camisole, the straps delicate like ribbon against my shoulders, and a pair of matching wide-leg lounge pants that hugged my waist just right. Comfortable, yes — but still sexy, effortlessly so. The kind of look that said: Yes, I live in a palace. Yes, I look like this doing it.

Padding barefoot down the warm marble floors of the west wing, I followed the subtle smell of herbs and roasted vegetables to the kitchen. The overhead lights were dimmed low, casting everything in a warm golden glow, like honey poured across the countertops.

That's when I saw them — Reya and the palace chef — locked in a one-sided conversation.

Reya stood tall, her broad shoulders angled slightly forward, arms crossed over her chest, voice low but sharp. The chef — a sweet man I vaguely remembered from my childhood, all nerves and nervous smiles — looked like he wanted to evaporate entirely.

"I don't care if you've cooked for three generations of Varnai nobility," Reya was saying, her tone cool and terrifyingly level. "If anything happens to the duchess—foodborne or otherwise—I'll break every bone in your body."

She said it so calmly I nearly choked on my own breath.

Terrifying.

And wildly hot.

I stepped further into the kitchen, just in time for her to give the poor man a firm pat on the back. "Now get to work on dinner," she said, turning toward me.

I raised an eyebrow as I took a seat at the marble kitchen island, letting my eyes drift over her, slow and deliberate. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

She didn't reply. Of course not.

I propped my chin on one hand. "So. What's for dinner, Commander?"

Her eyes met mine — steady, unreadable. "I'm not the chef."

She took a seat across from me at the far end of the counter, folding her arms again like she had no interest in being within reach. Predictable.

"You can sit closer," I offered, tilting my head. "I don't bite... unless that's something you're into."

Not a blink. Not a twitch of a smile. If she were any more composed, she'd be a statue.

I narrowed my eyes slightly. Is she a statue? A highly trained, absurdly attractive statue with perfect posture and combat skills?

Then — a crash. Loud, metallic, followed by a string of panicked swearing from the butler's pantry.

Reya's head snapped toward the sound. Mine did too, but unlike her, I just smiled.

"I think you scared the living hell out of him," I said casually.

Reya didn't even look at me when she replied. "Good."

I blinked. I actually blinked. It was... a reaction. Not a big one. But it had weight. There was something sadistic in her voice, just for a second. A flicker of danger in her expression. It surprised me.

And I loved it.

Before I could poke at that further, the chef returned, carrying a large, steaming plate with both hands. It was beautiful — roasted garlic-herb venison on truffled parsnip puree, paired with wine-glazed carrots and a medley of edible flowers. Classic Lysvenian haute cuisine, a dish usually reserved for visiting heads of state.