The Lord Is a Girl: Share All Pain With the Heir

The linen binder dug into Christal's ribs, a cage of fabric that made every breath a shallow, desperate gasp.

She feigned dizziness from the wine, a convenient excuse to slip away from the nobles gathered for the welcome banquet. Their loud laughter and glittering jewels felt a world away.

She walked quickly, escaping the brightly lit hall.

The cobblestone path was cool beneath her thin-soled boots, leading her toward the natural grotto spring marked on a map of the estate. It was a place reserved for the Montgomery family's core members, a place she hoped would be empty.

Steam billowed from the grotto's entrance. Moonlight filtered through a hole in the stone ceiling, shattering across the water's surface like scattered silver.

After a quick glance to confirm she was alone, she tore at the buttons of her riding vest and shirt. The tailored menswear fell away, revealing the tightly bound curves of a woman's body.

She unwound the binder, a long, strangled sigh escaping her lips. The freedom was dizzying. Red welts bloomed on her skin, a painful reminder of the path she had chosen.

Slipping into the warm spring, she submerged herself up to her shoulders, the water a gentle caress. She closed her eyes. Her brother's face appeared in her mind, his last wish a heavy weight in her heart.

A sudden thud from the entrance shattered the quiet.

It was followed by a man's ragged breathing.

Christal's heart hammered against her ribs. She sank lower into the water like a startled deer, only her eyes visible, fixed on the dark silhouette at the entrance.

A tall figure staggered in, pulling at his cravat. His handsome face was contorted, flushed and slick with sweat. It was Auguste de Montgomery, her cousin by title, the formidable heir to this entire estate.

Her mind went blank. Of all people, why him? She shrank back, trying to merge with the shadows of the grotto, praying he wouldn't see her.

Auguste let out a low growl, as if consumed by an invisible fire. He stumbled toward the pool, desperate to douse the heat raging through his body.

He stepped into the water without hesitation. A faint hiss rose as the cool spring met his feverish skin, but the burning inside him did not subside.

His gaze swept the dim grotto, and then it locked onto a shape beneath the water, a pale form distinct from the dark rock. A predator's glint flashed in his eyes as he moved directly toward her.

Christal's eyes widened in terror. She wanted to flee, but fear had turned her limbs to stone.

His hand closed around her arm. His palm was a branding iron. A choked gasp escaped her lips.

"Who?" Auguste's voice was hoarse, thick with a pressure that stole the air. His reason was gone, devoured by whatever drug he'd been given. He was moving on pure instinct.

She didn't dare make a sound. She struggled, but the difference in their strength was absolute. Her resistance was useless.

He dragged her from the water. In the moonlight, her drenched skin and terrified female face gave his clouded mind a moment's pause. He smelled her scent, not of perfume, but of clean skin and spring water.

"Help me..." he murmured. What was left of his sanity knew something was wrong, but the drug was a tidal wave, and it swept him under.

He leaned in, giving her no chance to resist. A brutal, possessive kiss crushed her lips.

The world exploded in Christal's mind. Humiliation and fear made her dizzy. She clawed at his shoulder, her nails digging deep, drawing blood.

The pain only seemed to spur him on. His movements grew rougher. Pinned against the slick rock wall, her strength gave out.

Despair washed over her. She stopped fighting. Tears mixed with the spring water on her cheeks.

The night was a long, chaotic blur of lapping water and stifled gasps. Christal's consciousness drifted in and out, lost in a haze of pain and violation.

Sometime during the feverish madness, driven by a primal, clouded instinct, Auguste had pulled the heavy signet ring from his finger and pressed it blindly into her trembling hand.

When the first hint of dawn pierced the grotto, it was Christal who awoke first. A sharp pain wracked her body, pulling her back to consciousness. She lay frozen, her terrified eyes fixing on the sleeping man beside her.

In the pale morning light, his sharp features were undeniable. The realization of who she had just spent the night with—Auguste de Montgomery, her cousin by title—gripped her with a fear far worse than the physical agony.

She had to leave before he opened his eyes. She scrambled up, ignoring the ache in her limbs. Fearing what would happen if she lingered even a second longer, she snatched her ruined clothes and stumbled out of that nightmarish grotto, a fugitive from her own life.

Sometime later, Auguste awoke. The drug had worn off. He sat up, his brow furrowing as he looked at the empty, damp rocks around him.

His memory of the night was in pieces. He remembered someone tampering with his wine, then an uncontrollable fire, and a mysterious woman. But he had not seen her face clearly in the dark, and he had absolutely no idea who she was.

Auguste stood, straightening his own ruined clothes, his usual cold authority returning like a mask. He glanced at the deep scratches on his shoulder, his eyes turning to ice.

He looked down at his bare hand. He didn't know her name or her face, but he vividly remembered one thing: in the depths of his delirious state, he had given her his ring. It was a marker. A way to find her.