Chapter 16
Irritation seeped from every motion as Daniel wiped away the blood clot. However, as if he had no intention of unleashing prolonged anger, his eyes—which had reddened like the bloodstain at his lips—slowly returned to their reddish-brown hue. In that fleeting instant, Dominic instinctively yanked Muriel's arm, sensing danger. At the same moment, the door—left ajar in the haste of Dominic and the physician rushing in—grew noisy again. Thud, thud, thud, thud. Brutally honest footsteps pounding the floor with full body weight. The heavy, boisterous sound alone revealed who was approaching. Ricardo's belated bellow snapped Muriel back to reason, even as she teetered on the edge of madness despite Daniel's chilling warning.
"What the hell? Why's the room such a damn mess?"
Only then did Muriel take in the room's chaos—traces of rifling everywhere. Drawers left half-open, books toppled haphazardly from the shelves. In the midst, Duke Rihardt sat with an aloof expression betraying no trace of male desire. His calm demeanor seemed to declare utter detachment from the disarray. Overlapping that was Frida's fierce glare, surely aimed at her husband's room earlier as she snorted in fury.
"Just you wait. I'll get that key back no matter what."
Good lord. The culprit behind this mess was undoubtedly her reckless young miss.
'Sigh... this young miss really...'
Muriel nearly dropped her sword from exhaustion. Frida, possessed of a temperament that charged headlong without regard for fire or water once fixated, was the culprit. Foolish to assume she'd obediently lie still with just a fever. Muriel vividly pictured the sequence leading to Frida's collapse, as if witnessed firsthand. No need to speculate. She'd snuck in to search the room during the duke's absence, panicked upon his return, and fainted. So fearful, yet recklessly courting disaster time and again. If she was going to cause trouble, why not do it with Muriel present? She'd have stood guard. Seething, Muriel sheathed her sword with a fierce thrust. Humans truly were fickle. Moments ago, Frida had seemed a fragile woman felled by terror of the duke's might; now, she appeared an irrepressible troublemaker. Ricardo, face etched with worry, shoved Muriel aside once more and strode to the bedside.
"I knew it. Knew from the start when you pushed yourself too hard. You look like a delicate willow branch swaying in the breeze, but once you start something, you're stubborn as an ox."
Worn out, Ricardo paced, repeating 'Aigoo, what to do!' He even prodded Daniel's shin several times where he sat, but neither paid the other mind. Just then, Anton, who had been examining Frida, straightened with relief.
"Phew. Seems she fainted from extreme shock, but no need for concern. Her pulse has returned to normal."
The moment the physician finished, Ricardo seized his collar outright.
"What? Some bastard scared our precious Duchess?"
Hanging helplessly by his collar, Anton's neck paled as white as Frida's on the bed.
"K-Kek. H-How would I know? Wh-When I arrived, she was already unconscious. P-Please let go, Captain."
Finally, Dominic shook his head and intervened, prying his father's arm loose.
"Father, let go and calm down."
"Calm down? Our precious Duchess was intimidated by some scum, and you want me calm?!"
As Dominic detached his father's grip, the terrified Anton massaged his throat and scurried back.
"Kek. I never said that, Captain."
"Same difference. Why else would our lady faint from shock? Just find out who. I'll snap their arms clean off right now..."
Ricardo rampaged, bellowing; Dominic restrained his father. Muriel watched them pitifully. A bone-chilling command silenced the room, freezing spines.
"Get out. All of you."
Gazes converged on Duke Rihardt, seated rigidly. Arms loosely crossed, he slowly tapped his forearm—now subtly muscled after days—with his right index finger. Sensing the dire mood, Dominic moved first. Gripping his father's wrist tightly, he shot warning glances to stay silent and backed away. He signaled the others to leave as well. But Muriel hesitated, eyes fixed on the still-unconscious Frida.
"Do you have more to say to me, Lady Rosivalt?"
Daniel's voice to the wavering knight was utterly emotionless. Damn. The knight bit her lower lip hard. She'd swung first without assessing context. Even if ordered dragged out and beheaded, she'd accept. She'd always prided herself on composure above all, yet here she was with this blunder. Turning to Daniel's broad back facing the entrance, she bowed deeply.
"No. I'll pay for my rashness whenever and however Your Grace desires."
Noting the shift in the knight's resolve, Daniel's lips twisted faintly.
"See that you do."
One thing clear: whatever she steeled for, it'd be worse. He held no mercy for those daring to touch Daniel. Dominic judged fleeing best for now. He yanked his whispering father—questioning the meaning—harder. The physician had already bolted. But Ricardo, seeming compliant, shook off his son and approached Daniel. Staring intently, he craned his neck toward the bloodied lip.
"Why's your lip busted like that, my lord? The great Duke Rihardt wouldn't get hit like an idiot—your lip was fine till morning, so why..."
"Ricardo Molly."
White sclera beneath slowly rising lids flashed crimson, startling Ricardo into recoiling.
"Scram."
Before Daniel finished the two syllables, Ricardo was fleeing.
"Now."
The room emptied in a blink; the duke's bedroom door slammed shut. *** Alone at last, Daniel's gaze fell on the pale woman atop the bed. Her face, unchanged from discovery behind the bookshelf—pale, yet fever-flushed. Her torn, ragged dress hem rose faintly with breaths too weak to confirm. His brows furrowed naturally. Why tear at it if you couldn't even rip it properly, inviting such misunderstanding? He'd heard of madmen, ruthless killers, heartless brutes... but never faced accusations of attempted assault. Recalling the knight's disgusted glare fueled sudden annoyance. How absurd to fail dodging a punch—even caught off-guard after three dormant years. Worse followed. He'd endured Muriel Rosivalt's absurd ravings. He, Daniel, who repaid slights manifold. All because of that unpredictable woman now unconscious on his bed, Duchess Rihardt.
"Ha! Ransacking the room?"
The reason his wife committed such folly was obvious. One item she'd seek in his room: the secret vault key.
"I'm confiscating the key from today. Retrieve it once your fever breaks."
He'd heard she'd suffered for days. Her heat had been palpable when he carried her; clearly not recovered. Yet she'd searched his room for it in that state.
"You're insane. Truly."
A disbelieving chuckle escaped. His noble veneer—decent even among Shendal's polished fops—lay utterly stripped.
"Are you in your right mind?"
The vault wasn't fleeing. He'd permitted free use. What urgency drove her to sneak like a thief, search, and collapse? Just rest, recover, then retrieve it. No bangs obscuring his eyes, yet Daniel roughly swept his hair back.
"A delicately raised noble lady, so money-mad?"
Harkbon Count was northern wealth incarnate. Had they squandered it all? Lived pinched? Unlikely. No such rumors reached him, privy to most imperial nobles' secrets. Then what?
"Some deficient woman?"
Perhaps. Normal women didn't exhaust dowries on farmland or roads in this forsaken valley unrelated to them. Unsatisfied yet with the answer, his reddish-brown eyes lingered long on Frida's face. The sole surviving daughter of noble Harkbon, producers of saints. Chosen as his wife for inability to bear Rihardt heirs. Thus, amplifying his guilt each moment. Unable to look away for ages, Daniel's lips parted slowly.
"What exactly are you?"p>
Absurd, foolish question—laughter leaked through parted lips. *** The ducal bedrooms bore subtly differing ash tree ceiling murals. Flowering ash and new furniture's rich wood scent proclaimed one truth.
'This is the duke's bedroom.'
Frida squeezed her eyes shut in mortification. Caught sneaking for the key—humiliating enough. Trapped behind the bookshelf, screaming for help. Even fainting atop it. Ricardo once taught a fitting word: utter disgrace. How apt. He was a master of language, not sword.
"Haa..."
Tensing her eyelids in shame, Frida startled at a sudden 'thud'.
"Were you here for the key?"
As if yanked by shoulders, she bolted upright, twisting her neck. Daniel sat nearby, chair pulled close, gazing steadily. Blink, blink. As Frida blinked repeatedly at his eyes, Daniel's unwavering stare never faltered. The calm, composed gaze held icy chill—as intended. Daniel spoke evenly.
"Madam, if the urge surges again to rummage my bedroom, kindly restrain it."
He'd thought boundaries set with due courtesy to his wife. Unforeseen she'd breach so easily. If lines weren't firm, he'd build walls. Thicker, sturdier.
"I am not magnanimous."
Frida puffed her cheeks rosy, wide doe eyes flaring. About to avert lest guilt stir again from those damnable eyes, her large, clear, mystical purple orbs thrust before Daniel's nose.
"Your Grace, please touch me."
