Stolen by the Cursed Duke (Stolen by the Duke #3)

Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

M agnus stood near the edge of the ballroom, his eyes fixed on Charlotte as she moved through the crowd, her green gown a beacon in the sea of muted colors. She laughed, her head tilting back in a way that sent a pang of something sharp and unwelcome through his chest.

Mine.

The sound of her laughter carried faintly across the room, and Magnus’ gaze narrowed as he took in the man beside her—a tall, well-groomed gentleman with an easy smile and an air of familiarity. Reginald’s friend, Magnus recalled. Harrington, wasn’t it? The man leaned closer to Charlotte, saying something that made her laugh again, her cheeks flushed with genuine amusement.

A muscle in Magnus’s jaw ticked. He clenched the glass in his hand, the sharp edge of jealousy cutting deeper with every passing moment.

She’s mine.

Then the music began, the orchestra launching into a lively waltz. Harrington extended his hand, his grin widening as he asked Charlotte to dance. She accepted with a graceful nod, placing her gloved hand in his.

That was the moment Magnus saw red.

He set his drink down with deliberate care, striding toward them with long, purposeful steps. The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively, his presence commanding attention as he closed the distance between them. Harrington glanced up, his smile faltering at the sight of the imposing duke bearing down on him.

“Duchess,” Magnus said, his voice low and firm as he reached them. He didn’t wait for her response before taking her hand and pulling her toward the dance floor. “You’ll dance with me.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in indignation. “Your Grace,” she began, her tone icy, “what has gotten into you?”

Magnus ignored her, his grip on her hand unyielding as he guided her into the first steps of the dance. His movements were precise, his lead firm—too firm, almost domineering. He knew it but could not stop. Didn’t want to stop. Charlotte followed out of necessity, her feet moving in time with his but her posture stiff with resistance.

“That was incredibly rude,” she hissed under her breath. “You can’t simply drag me away from a perfectly polite conversation.”

“I can, and I did,” Magnus replied, his voice curt. His gaze locked onto hers, his expression cold and hard. “You belong to me, Charlotte. No other man has the right to touch you.”

Her lips parted, a spark of anger igniting in her amber eyes, and it struck him again just how beautiful she was. “Belong to you?” she echoed, her tone sharp. “Ah yes, I forgot. I am merely a possession now. An object for you to hoard.”

“You are my wife,” Magnus said, his voice low but brimming with intensity. “And that means no other man will lay claim to you. Not Harrington. Not anyone.”

Charlotte’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second before she regained her footing, her chin tilting defiantly. “You told me I was free to do as I pleased.”

“Not with another man,” Magnus bit out, his grip tightening slightly on her waist. “You’re mine.”

The air between them crackled with tension, the heat of their argument mirrored in the sharp, almost aggressive turns of their dance. Magnus’ hand at her back was firm, guiding her movements with an authority that bordered on control. Charlotte’s own steps grew sharper in defiance, her movements a challenge to his dominance.

“Perhaps you should make up your mind, Your Grace,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Am I free, or am I yours?”

Magnus faltered for a fraction of a second. He didn’t know—and neither did he know what he wanted. “You’re both,” he said eventually, his gaze never wavering. “And that’s precisely the problem.”

For a moment, neither spoke, the intensity of their argument overshadowed by the unspoken tension that simmered beneath the surface. Magnus’ hand flexed against her waist, the warmth of her body seeping through the fabric of her gown. Her scent—a subtle blend of jasmine and something sweeter—filled his senses, clouding his thoughts. It riled him that he had even noticed. That he even cared.

I must not allow myself to fall.

Their steps slowed as the music shifted into a softer cadence, the swirling notes wrapping around them like a spell. Charlotte’s defiance softened though her eyes still burned with determination.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, her voice quieter now.

“And yet, you’re still here,” Magnus murmured in return, his voice dropping to an intimate pitch that sent a shiver down her spine.

The music swelled toward its final notes, and Magnus’ grip on her loosened slightly though his gaze remained locked on hers. As the last note faded into the air, he released her hand with deliberate slowness, his expression a mix of triumph and something deeper—something almost tender.

“Thank you for the dance, Duch—” but before he could finish his sentence, she slipped from him, darting through the crowd.

Magnus stood frozen, rooted to the spot as Charlotte disappeared, her gown fluttering in the candlelight like a phantom as she rushed away from him. A deep, unrelenting ache stirred within him, a mix of frustration and longing that he could no longer suppress. Around him, the ballroom’s lively chatter and laughter became an indistinct murmur. Nothing mattered but her.

He would not allow her to run away from him.

Without a second thought, he moved, his long strides carrying him across the polished floors, weaving through clusters of oblivious guests. His sharp eyes never wavered, locked onto the faint glimmer of her gown as it slipped through an archway. She would not escape him. Not tonight.

The corridor was dimmer, quieter, the sounds of the ball fading as he pursued her. Her hurried steps echoed against the stone walls, and for a moment, he hesitated, his grip tightening on his control. But then she glanced back, her eyes meeting his, and the spark of defiance in her gaze reignited the fire in his chest.

“Charlotte,” he called, his voice a low, commanding growl that stopped her in her tracks.

She turned slowly, her breaths coming fast, her cheeks flushed from the chase. “What do you want, Magnus?” she snapped, her voice trembling with anger and something deeper—something that called to him like a siren’s song. “Another dance? Another reminder that I belong to you?”

He advanced slowly, his steps measured, his eyes locked on her. “What I want,” he said, his voice rough, “is an explanation. What were you thinking, laughing with him? Accepting his hand? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “Notice? You have barely acknowledged my existence these past weeks. Why should it matter to you who I dance with?”

Magnus stopped just inches away, his imposing figure towering over hers. “Because you’re mine,” he said simply, the words slipping out before he could temper them.

“So you keep saying.” Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as she straightened her back. “You have no right to claim me like that. One moment, you avoid me like I am a plague; the next, you’re dragging me across a dance floor and asserting your supposed ownership. You kiss me then pretend I don’t exist. You buy me a gown then refuse to speak to me. I can’t keep up with your games, Magnus. I won’t.”

The raw emotion in her voice cut through him like a blade, and for a moment, he was silent, his chest rising and falling heavily as he processed her words. He always held himself in so much control, but with her… he felt as though he completely lost it. His hands found the wall on either side of her, caging her in, and his gaze burned with a fire that matched her own.

“You think this is a game?” he rasped, his voice low and rough. “You think I enjoy this? Do you have any idea what you do to me, Charlotte?”

She tilted her chin defiantly though her breath hitched at his proximity. “Then let go,” she said, her voice trembling but steady. “Let go of whatever it is that’s holding you back.”

Her words broke something in him. Magnus growled, a sound deep and raw, and he closed the short distance between them in an instant. His lips captured hers in a fierce, consuming kiss, his hands moving to her waist and pulling her against him with an urgency that left no room for doubt. She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, her own fire igniting in response to his.

“Don’t stop this time,” she whispered against his lips, her voice a plea that sent a shiver through him.

Magnus pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his breathing ragged. His eyes searched hers, finding only trust and desire, and it was his undoing. Wordlessly, he took her hand and led her down the corridor, his grip firm but gentle. They passed several closed doors before he stopped at one, pushing it open with deliberate care and pulling her inside.

The room was quiet, intimate, the flicker of the fireplace casting warm shadows on the walls. Magnus locked the door behind them, the soft click echoing in the stillness. For a moment, he stood there, his back to the room, his chest heaving as he wrestled with the storm of emotions within him.

When he turned, his expression was no longer one of restraint. It was raw, unguarded, and utterly consuming. He needed her, and he needed her now.

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her close. She looked both fearful and desirous, and that in itself set something alight within him.

“You drive me mad,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “I have never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

Charlotte’s breath hitched, her hands resting against his chest as she felt the pounding of his heart beneath her palms. “Then stop fighting it,” she said softly, her eyes searching his. “Stop fighting me.”

Her words shattered the last of his resistance. Magnus captured her lips again, his kiss searing and possessive, his hands exploring her with a reverence that belied his urgency. He backed her toward the edge of the room, her touch setting his skin aflame as he sought to claim every part of her, mind and soul.

He thrust her against the wall, and without asking permission or waiting any longer, he hitched her skirt up, the fabric creeping up her leg and making her shudder. He caressed the soft milkiness of her thighs, already slick with her yearning.

His touch made her mewl, her head leaning back and her eyes closed. He licked his lips as she watched her, his breath shallow. To see the wanton pleasure within her stirred his own craving, and he pressed against her harder, his fingers circling her thigh faster.

“Do it,” she moaned, her voice barely more than a rasp.

Magnus chuckled, unable to stop himself. “Well, well,” he murmured. “You are as hot and shameless as I always suspected you to be. And now you are mine to pleasure as I wish.”

“Y-yes, Your Grace,” she muttered, her head still back, her eyes still closed as she allowed the sensations to wash over her body.

He took her hand in his, holding it above her head while he teased her, her hips thrust out in silent pleading. He brushed over her sex so softly, so gently, knowing it would drive her wild with need. She swallowed, and he kissed her neck, breathing in every inch of her as he teased.

“Please,” she said in a croak.

“Not yet.”

He didn’t part her, not yet. He needed her closer, begging, pleading. He wanted her on the very edge before he gave her what she desired most truly. He kissed the bare flesh at her bosom, still holding her still, not allowing her to roam over his body. Not allowing her the chance to pleasure him.

He was enjoying himself far too much, his manhood pressing into her thigh with its own tease.

“Please,” she croaked again. “Please, Your Grace.”

He growled at her use of his title, the formality between them stark. He parted her legs easily, her body ready for whatever he had to offer, and he probed her gently at first, slight and tender. But Charlotte pushed her body closer to him, groaning. She looked at him, her eyes burning into his, defiant, yes, but also compliant and desperate. Magnus smirked. She would do anything for him at that moment, and they both knew it. She truly was his.

“Are you going to be a good girl, Duchess?”

Charlotte pressed her lips together and nodded furiously. Yes, she would do exactly what she was told now, at least until she was satisfied, and then she would take to fighting him again. Or at least, he hoped she would.

He thrust into her, deep and intrusive, moving his hand in a rhythm he knew would break her. She moaned loudly, throwing her head back further and pushing her hips onto his hand, forcing him even deeper.

“Pl…” she muttered, unable to even finish the word.

Magnus held her up as her body shook, her knees weakening at the pleasure. Eventually, the tension within her released, and with a final cry, she fell against him, her breath hot on his neck, her legs unable to hold her up any longer.

He guided her to the couch, allowing her gown to fall back to the floor, and he helped her down then sat next to her, so close that their breaths mingled. Magnus’ actions were deliberate, his touch a blend of control and tenderness, as though he wanted to memorize every detail of her to ensure she knew just how deeply he felt her presence in his life.

Magnus pressed a lingering kiss to her hand, his touch gentle despite the storm they had just weathered. His lips lingered against her skin as he whispered, “Enough for tonight.”

Charlotte looked up at him, her gaze questioning, her body still humming with desire. “Magnus…”

He met her eyes, his own filled with an unspoken promise. “No,” he said firmly, his voice hoarse yet resolute. “That is enough for tonight.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Charlotte wanting more.