He laid her down gently upon the bed, as if afraid she might shatter. Then, without a word, he sat beside her, hands clasped tightly together, jaw clenched in restraint. The silence stretched, fragile and heavy, until he finally exhaled—a breath drawn from somewhere deep within his chest.
"So... what now? Aren't you going to take your medication?"
She understood his meaning instantly. The words stung with implication, but she responded swiftly, without hesitation.
"No," she whispered, voice unwavering. "I don't think I'll be needing it anymore."
He turned to her slowly, his eyes searching her face for the truth buried in her calm. Then, almost instinctively, he rested his head against her shoulder. His fingers moved behind her, careful yet desperate, undoing the delicate threads of her dress with a tenderness that belied the storm beneath his skin.
"Olivia," he said, his voice low and husky, "I can't hold back any longer. You need to take your medicine. I won't blame you... if my touch makes your skin crawl."
His words landed like daggers—merciless in their honesty. She had once welcomed the numbness those pills offered, a shield from the horror of his closeness, simply because he was the enemy of her father. That truth had bound her heart in ice for so long. But now... her father was nothing but a distant shadow, and the man before her was no longer the enemy.
Her dress slipped from her shoulders as his fingers undid the last tie, and her pale skin was exposed under the dim light. He paused—not out of hesitation, but reverence. His gaze met hers, a question burning in the depths of his eyes.
"Are you sure about this? Because I won't be able to stop."
She raised her hand and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, slowly, deliberately. Then, pressing her lips against the hollow of his collarbone, she left a kiss—soft, slow, and sure. When she pulled back, her eyes sparkled with something unspoken.
"I think that kiss proves I don't need those pills anymore," she murmured, a sly smile curling on her lips.
That was all the permission he needed. His restraint shattered. He fell upon her with the hunger of a man starved for warmth, for truth, for a kind of redemption only her body could offer. His hands traced every curve of her form, memorizing the way her skin responded to his touch, while his lips marked her with reverence—as if branding her not with possession, but devotion.
It was a night thick with heat and need, but more than that, it was the first time it felt real. It wasn't just bodies entangled in shadow and sweat—it was something raw, something human.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was forcing himself on a ghost.
For the first time, she wasn't a battleground.
And for the first time, they met not as enemies, but as equals—in longing, in surrender, in the trembling, fragile thing called trust.
The final hours of the night passed like a breath held too long—swift, silent, unnoticed until it was gone. Faint strands of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the room and announcing, with quiet authority, the arrival of morning.
Mathias stirred with a groan, his hand instinctively reaching up to cradle his pounding head. The dull ache of a hangover pulsed behind his eyes—a familiar, unwelcome companion. He blinked against the light, disoriented by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. This wasn't his room.
Confusion gave way to alarm as he turned and saw her—Olivia—lying beside him.
Her bare body was barely concealed beneath the white sheets, her breathing soft and slow, lost in dreams he could not enter. For a moment, time held still. Then a thought struck him like ice water:
Did I force her into this? Was I too drunk to know what I was doing?
Panic surged in his chest. He shot upright, stumbling from the bed as guilt coiled in his stomach like smoke. The memory of her eyes, her voice, the way she had touched him—was it real? Or just a drunken illusion built on desire and regret?
He fled to the bathroom, hoping the water might wash away more than the taste of alcohol and sweat clinging to his skin. The shower was brief, frantic—less a ritual of cleansing and more an escape. When he stepped out, wrapped only in a towel around his waist, he moved toward the mirror, drying his hair with jerky, anxious movements.
And then he saw it.
A mark—faint but unmistakable—just above his collarbone. Red. Fresh. Her lips had left it there.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the tender spot as if to make sure it was real. And with that touch, memories began to flicker back into clarity—her mouth, her laugh, her whispered "yes" when he had asked if she was sure.
The breath caught in his throat.
He stared at his reflection, no longer with horror, but wonder. A smile, uncertain at first, began to tug at the corners of his lips. It was not triumph he felt, nor pride, but a quiet, soul-deep relief.
Thank God…
He exhaled, voice low and cracked from emotion.
Thank God I didn't force myself on her.
Then, after a pause, a darker, more honest whisper rose from the hollow of his chest:
Well… I did force myself. I was ready to. But she agreed.
She said yes.
And that made all the difference.
He leaned both hands against the counter, staring into the eyes of the man he almost couldn't recognize—haunted by the thought of what he might have become, yet strangely comforted by what he hadn't.
For a fleeting moment, the shame receded. He hadn't lost the last thread of his dignity. He hadn't become the kind of man who takes what isn't freely given—not from her.
Not from his wife.
He stepped out of the bathroom, a thin mist still clinging to his skin, only to find Olivia standing by the door—waiting.
She had changed into a nightgown, a soft, silken thing that clung to her frame like moonlight. But his gaze wasn't drawn to the fabric—it was to her neck. Crimson marks, like faded embers, trailed across her skin in wild, scattered constellations. Evidence of passion... and of guilt.
Her voice sliced through the silence, sharp and defensive.
"Why are you staring like that?"
He blinked, caught in the act. "Ah... it's nothing. Just... your neck."
"What about it?" Her tone didn't shift, still cool, unreadable.
"Nothing," he muttered again, turning away too quickly. "I'll call the maid. She can help you with your bath."
She didn't answer. That silence, so characteristic of her, fell like a curtain between them. Without another glance, Olivia turned and slipped into the bathroom, leaving only the faint scent of lavender behind her.
Mathias ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed. Whatever warmth they had shared in the night had already begun to frost over again.
But before he could gather his thoughts, a series of urgent knocks broke the fragile quiet. He stiffened, the weight of his morning guilt still heavy on his chest. Tugging his towel more securely around his hips, he walked briskly toward the door and opened it.
Elsewhere in the duchy, another man had been wide awake since before dawn.
Prince Kyle had not slept—not even for a moment. His mind had been a battleground of conflicting emotions. The night before, Mathias had stunned him by offering a dowry to Layla—an act unexpected but understandable. But Olivia?
She had given away that necklace. The necklace she had once paraded like a royal banner. The heirloom she had always claimed was the only thing her grandmother ever gave her that held meaning.
The gesture unsettled him.
He felt a slow, growing unease twist in his gut—not jealousy, no, but something far colder: confusion, guilt, perhaps even shame. So it was no surprise that, by first light, he was already at the duchy gates.
The staff greeted him with bows and careful smiles. Leon and Isabella were the first to receive him—surprised, certainly, but too well-bred to show it plainly.
"The Duke," Leon explained, "is not available this morning… or at least, not that we know of."
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "You mean he left last night without telling anyone? Where did he go?"
Leon shook his head. "Honestly, I have no idea."
Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Strange. But then, that's not why I'm here."
Leon tilted his head, curiosity flickering behind his eyes. "No?"
"I came to see Olivia."
Leon paused. "Is she in her office?"
Kyle shrugged casually. "I thought I'd check her room first. We need to talk."
Leon stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. His voice was calm but firm. "Kyle... I know Olivia isn't the perfect sister. But she is Mathias' wife. He doesn't take kindly to anyone treating her harshly. Even if she is a sorceress."
Kyle gave a tired smile. "Leon, she's my sister too. I'm not here to hurt her."
Leon's gaze didn't waver. "I have brothers. I know how 'not hurting' can still end in bloodshed. Just... don't start anything. Please."
Kyle laughed softly, despite himself. "Fair enough. You know, you're not wrong. Disaster does seem to follow whenever Olivia and I share a room."
"Then let's hope today is the exception," Leon muttered.
Kyle nodded. "I'm going. Alone."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "No, you're not. I don't trust you."
"Fine, fine," Kyle relented, amused.
Together, they made their way down the corridor toward Olivia's chambers. Along the way, they ran into her personal maid—Kira—a young woman who bowed deeply at the sight of the prince.
"Your Highness," she greeted, her voice tight with nerves.
"Is your lady in her office or her room?" Kyle asked, trying to sound as casual as a man with royal blood could manage.
"She's in her room, Your Highness," Kira replied, gesturing respectfully. "This way, please."
After several increasingly insistent knocks, the door finally creaked open.
Kira, the maid, straightened her back reflexively, prepared to deliver her message. But the words died on her tongue the moment her eyes met the sight before her. It wasn't another servant, nor the lady of the house. It was the Duke himself—Mathias—standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his trousers. His bare chest, still damp from the shower, glistened faintly in the soft morning light. His hair clung in tousled waves to his forehead, and a trace of impatience lingered in the set of his jaw.
"Uh... G-Good morning, my lord," she stammered, her eyes darting downward in respectful panic.
Mathias groaned softly and ran a hand through his wet hair in visible annoyance. "Morning... yeah. What is it now? It's barely nine."
"S-sire, I—I apologize, but... His Highness, the Crown Prince, wishes to speak with you."
He sighed, clearly unbothered by either her fluster or the news. "Tell him I'm not here. Neither is Olivia."
His tone was flat, casual—dismissive, even. He was already turning to retreat into the room when he added without much thought, "And while you're at it, go inside and assist the Duchess with her bath."
But before Kira could utter another word, a voice—low and sharp with disbelief—cut through the corridor like a blade.
"Not here, huh?"
The door, still ajar, swung open farther, revealing Kyle, the Crown Prince, standing behind the maid, his expression a volatile mix of shock and fury. Beside him, Leon's eyes widened slightly, though a smirk was beginning to tug at one corner of his lips.
Kyle's gaze dropped—once, sharply—taking in Mathias' state: bare-chested, towel still slung over one shoulder, his hair wet, and a faint red kiss mark blooming against the hollow of his collarbone. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive. It wrapped around them like fog, heavy with implication.
Mathias didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, unfazed.
"Kyle," he drawled, "it's nine in the morning. Whatever righteous crusade you've come for can wait. I'm a little... occupied."
"Occupied? Occupied?!" Kyle's voice rose with incredulous disdain. "Is this what you call being occupied?"
"I don't remember inviting you to my bedroom," Mathias replied coolly. "And as for your sister—she's busy too. She's bathing. Unless you'd like to join her?"
That final line came with a smirk, careless and cutting. It landed like a slap. Kyle opened his mouth—perhaps to yell, perhaps to insult—but words failed him. For all his fury, he wasn't ready for this. For this version of Mathias.
Leon, ever the peacekeeper—or perhaps simply enjoying the drama—stepped in smoothly.
"Tell the Duchess," he said to Kira with a knowing look, "that His Highness is waiting for her in the drawing room. We'll be going now."
Then he turned, placing a firm hand on Kyle's arm, guiding him back down the hallway. But just as they passed Mathias, Leon tilted his head slightly and shot him a sly grin—one that said far more than words ever could.
Mathias caught it. Understood it. And despite the morning's chaos, a smirk curled onto his lips.
They both knew what that look meant.
Well played.