Chapter 12
I ascended the stairs to the third floor, proceeding cautiously down the hallway toward the room at its distant end.
The passage lay hushed. My footfalls reverberated through the unlit corridor, swallowed by shadows.
A sharper chill gripped this level compared to the one below—whether from the air itself or my dread of the Duke’s response to an intruder, I couldn’t say. A shiver coursed through me all the same.
‘Why does this seem so eerily familiar?’
Out of nowhere, a recollection from my early career days surfaced.
Once, a model had balked at finishing a session and barricaded herself in the lounge. I’d slipped inside disguised as a stylist to coax the door ajar.
‘I ended up pleading on my knees…’
“Please! Just one final pizza shot! I beg you!”
“You’re really putting in the effort. How could I say no to that? Fetch the outfit.”
The model had trudged back to the set, grudgingly.
Did it end smoothly? Hardly.
The following day, her agency lodged a complaint against us for ‘invading the model’s privacy with excessive demands.’ I drafted the groveling apology and suffered a three-month pay cut.
‘Maybe I should retreat while I can?’
Debating whether I’d be drafting divorce documents rather than a mere apology this time, I arrived at the door.
I meant to knock, but my arms were laden with the tea service. When I nudged it lightly with the tray, the door—ajar—gave way, and I tumbled inside.
Flustered, I staggered further into the space.
“Duke?”
The sitting room stood vacant. A faint glow emanated from a marble lamp atop the table.
No one around?
I wavered, debating departure, when a faint trickle of water drifted from the bathroom—not the bedroom.
‘Is he showering?’
Clutching the tray, I edged toward the bathroom, planning a quick peek before fleeing. As I pressed near the door to listen, the flow ceased abruptly.
What if the Duke emerged right then?
“…!”
A jolt of terror pierced me, sharp as a pinprick.
Caught lurking with a tea tray in the dead of night, anyone would assume I meant to poison him.
In the kindest light, they’d peg me as a voyeur spying on his bath.
‘I have to get out of here!’
Instinct urged flight, yet my legs rooted me in place.
A soft rustle emanated from within as he fastened his robe.
The tray’s teapot and cups rattled in my grip. Escape now was impossible without notice.
My thoughts scattered.
The bathroom door flew open, and I stood petrified, tray in hand.
From the billowing steam stepped a towering figure in a flimsy bathrobe, his skin still glistening.
The garment draped open, exposing sculpted shoulders and a chiseled torso. His sleek neck arched above prominent collarbones.
I gulped.
Lifting my gaze to meet his at last, I stifled a gasp.
‘Is this the visage of a deity?’
Piercing gaze, aquiline nose, crimson lips pressed thin. Handsome scarcely captured his entrancing features.
Damp ebony strands shed droplets that trailed down his chest.
‘This defies reason…’
A mere side character, bearing this?
I’d encountered striking men before, but none had ever ensnared me so utterly.
At last, amid the haze, the Duke spotted me.
He halted, squinting as if doubting his senses.
“…”
We locked eyes in mutual shock. His widened abruptly in dismay, and he cinched his robe shut.
“Y-you! How did you—?”
Of course. I’d invaded his private quarters without invitation.
The truth crashed over me; I fumbled for words.
“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you were un— No, I only meant to see you—!”
In my frenzy, I backed away—
Slip!
“Eek!”
Balance deserted me in a heartbeat; the tray launched skyward.
‘Disaster.’
Watching it arc, one certainty struck: my skull was doomed to meet the floor. Regrets swirled—chief among them,
‘If only I’d savored one extra serving of tomato stew…’
Resigned to fate, I glimpsed the Duke lunging forward. Strong hands seized my waist; the other cradled my head.
With a resounding clatter, teapot and cups shattered on the floor.
“Ouch!”
‘What just occurred?’
I lay cradled against him, enveloped in warmth and yielding firmness. Motionless, I marveled—expecting oblivion, yet my head throbbed only mildly.
‘It weighs a ton.’
A droplet splashed my cheek.
Eyes fluttering open, I found raven locks hovering overhead, framing profound eyes like moonlit pools gazing down.
Curiously, those obsidian depths, fringed by lush lashes, quivered with unease.
‘They resemble a wounded wolf’s.’
His heat seeped into me, kindling something profound beyond mere warmth.
Utterly snug.
Drowsiness tugged at me until another droplet jolted me awake.
There I sprawled on the floor, pinned beneath him, precisely.
He’d shielded my head from impact.
“…Are you all right?”
His voice quavered.
Even now, its resonant timbre evoked echoes in some vast cavern.
“I’m fine. And you, Your Grace?”
The Duke, gaping in astonishment, clamped his lips shut.
‘Is he furious?’
He rose swiftly, putting space between us.
‘Granted, it’s my mess, but a hand up wouldn’t hurt, with me flat on the ground?’
Tempted to scowl, I bit back, given my culpability, and hauled myself upright alone.
“Ah!”
Hand pressing down, agony lanced through it; a yelp escaped. My palm bore a gash, welling crimson.
“Ah!”
Wheeling toward the Grand Duke, I cried out louder still.
Bathed in lunar glow, his right arm gleamed scarlet. Not water from the rent robe—blood.
“Y-Your Grace! You’re hurt!”
I lunged forward in alarm, but he recoiled, retreating.
“D-Don’t come closer. It’s not safe.”
Safety was his pretext, yet my nearness plainly unnerved him.
“Your Grace?”
Whittley burst in then, eyes bulging at the scene.
“My Lady?”
“…See the Lady to her quarters. Her hand’s injured—summon the royal physician at once.”
The Grand Duke pressed his unmarred hand to his brow. His fingers shook faintly.
“Come along, My Lady.”
“Wait! The Grand Duke’s wound is graver than mine! We must—”
“Whittley.”
The Grand Duke’s tone sliced sharp.
“My Lady, I’ll see to His Grace myself. You need to go.”
Chaos reigned.
Moonlight silvered the frigid chamber.
Teacups and saucers lay in ruins across the floor.
The Grand Duke stood drenched, robe askew, blood seeping still.
And I—the culprit.
‘How can I just walk away?’
I lingered, resisting Whittley’s lead. Our eyes met.
Beneath his shielding hand, those keen eyes shadowed with remorse and dread—as though he’d wounded me.
Why that gaze?
His unsteady stare held mine briefly before he averted it, visibly rattled.
Words failed me. Silently, I trailed Whittley out.
Even as the royal physician bound my hand and maids restored my room, I held my tongue.
Whittley, ever steady, inquired after my well-being before departing.
‘Off to tend the Grand Duke, no doubt.’
Sober now, the night’s haze long dissipated.
What madness had driven me to charge his room?
His flinch, those shadowed eyes flickering with doubt—they lingered.
No anger stirred in me. His reaction made perfect sense.
