---
"His Grace requests your presence immediately."
"Why?"
Marin's voice pitched higher than she intended, alarm widening her eyes.
"Who can say?" Olive's smile remained perfectly pleasant. "His Grace's reasons are his own."
"Just me? Alone again?"
She looked up at him with barely concealed dread.
"Just you. Alone."
His eyes crinkled with the warmth of someone delivering good news rather than a summons to a predator's den.
"Understood."
Her shoulders drooped. She took two steps toward the darkened corridor, then paused and glanced back.
"Mr. Olive... how exactly do you communicate with His Grace? When he's in there and you're out here?"
Olive's smile deepened. He raised one finger to his lips in a gesture of playful secrecy.
"That, Miss Marin, is a secret."
"A secret. Of course it is."
She sighed and turned toward the black passage, each step heavier than the last.
*I don't want to go.*
The thought circled her mind like a trapped bird.
*I just crossed into the shadows on my own—and now that I've been summoned, every ounce of courage has evaporated.*
She stopped before the study door, tension coiling in her chest. Drew a deep breath. Raised her hand to knock—
"Enter."
The low voice came from within before her knuckles could touch wood.
*Of course he heard me coming. Of course.*
Marin lit a candle from the wall sconce and pushed the door open.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
The study was absolute blackness—a sea of shadow where nothing could be seen, nothing could be measured. Somewhere within that void, the Duke existed alone. An island of presence in an ocean of nothing.
"Good evening, Your Grace."
"Do you consider such a greeting appropriate for a blind man?"
"I—no. Forgive me."
*He has a gift for twisting words into weapons. I'll give him that.*
"Approach."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Marin lifted her candle high, using its wavering light to navigate. The Duke lounged in his chair with the boneless grace of a predator at rest—deceptively relaxed, fundamentally dangerous.
"Set the candle aside."
She glanced around, found an empty shelf nearby, and placed the candlestick there with careful precision.
Then she stood awkwardly, books clutched to her chest like armor, uncertain what came next.
"Closer."
"Yes, Your Grace."
She took another step toward him.
Candlelight caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant curve of his lips, the black silk ribbon obscuring his eyes. Even shrouded in darkness, even broken, he remained devastatingly beautiful.
"Your hand."
He extended his palm toward her.
Marin responded without thinking—moving with the automatic obedience of a well-trained puppy, she placed her hand directly onto his.
Silence fell.
The Duke's shoulders seemed to tremble. So slight she might have imagined it.
"This is meant to be a wrist examination."
"Oh—"
Heat flooded her face.
*He said hand, not wrist! How was I supposed to know—*
She tried to pull away, but his fingers closed around her wrist before she could retreat.
"Same as before."
"I've been eating very well lately!"
The words tumbled out defensively. His thumb traced a slow circle against her pulse point.
"And yet your palm is swollen."
*What?*
Marin looked down at her own hand, genuinely surprised. Her palm had indeed puffed up—tender and slightly discolored. The aftermath of yesterday's disciplinary measures against the landlords, apparently.
"I... hadn't noticed."
"Did you strike someone?"
"Me?" She widened her eyes to their most innocent setting. "I'm not that sort of person at all."
"Reports suggest otherwise."
"Who would slander me so terribly—"
"The butler."
"...Ah." She paused, recalibrating. "Well. Sometimes, when circumstances demand it, even the gentlest person must become firm."
"You're quite skilled at changing the subject."
"It would help if Your Grace informed me in advance what you already know."
"Are you lecturing me? *Me*?"
His voice remained lazy, almost amused.
"Would I dare? Never, Your Grace."
"What book is that?"
Marin blinked.
*How did he know I was holding a book? He's supposed to be blind!*
"I selected some reading material—in case it might help Your Grace sleep." She recovered quickly. "Speaking of which, are there any genres Your Grace finds particularly dull?"
"Why?"
"The more boring the book, the faster one falls asleep."
A pause stretched between them. She could almost feel him considering the question.
"...Fairy tales."
"Fairy tales?"
"Is that surprising?"
"No, I just..." She trailed off, mentally adjusting her assumptions.
*Fairy tales are supposed to be dreams and wonder and hope. The sort of thing that inspires joy. And he finds them boring?*
"I especially despise happy endings."
"Yes. That... that certainly fits."
*So dry he could probably ignite spontaneously if someone struck a match nearby.*
She studied his face while he couldn't see her looking. Even in the dim candlelight, exhaustion was etched into his features—shadows beneath his eyes that the silk ribbon couldn't hide, a tension in his jaw that spoke of constant, grinding pain.
*Even without feelings, a person needs to sleep.*
"I don't have any fairy tales with me today," she said softly. "I'll start bringing them tomorrow."
"Fine."
"Um..."
"What?"
"When will Your Grace release my hand?"
His broad shoulders shook.
This time, she was certain of it. A reaction—surprise? amusement?—that he couldn't quite suppress.
Her wrist had been imprisoned in his grip this entire time. She'd been acutely, uncomfortably aware of every passing second. But he seemed to have forgotten he was holding her entirely.
He released her.
Marin immediately pressed the book back against her chest, using it as a barrier between them.
"Um..."
"What?"
"May I ask why Your Grace summoned me?"
The question hung in the darkness.
She saw his jaw tighten. A muscle flickered beneath his skin.
*Is this dangerous territory?*
Marin held her breath, watching for signs that she'd overstepped.
"...For the examination."
"What?"
"Did you forget? I ordered daily wrist inspections."
"Ah... yes."
She hadn't forgotten. But she also hadn't expected him to personally conduct each check.
*Is he telling the truth? Or is there another reason he wanted me here?*
She studied his impassive face with undisguised skepticism.
"Um..."
"No more 'um's." Irritation sharpened his voice. "If you have something to say, say it directly."
"Then—may I be excused?"
"Won't you read?"
The question caught her off guard.
"Your Grace was said to be... unwell today. Should I really—"
"Try."
---
Her footsteps retreated across the carpet.
Gerald tracked her movement by sound alone—the whisper of fabric, the soft pad of her feet, the slight creak of floorboards beneath her weight. She was moving toward the candle. Positioning herself where the light would illuminate her pages.
*In such darkness, she needs the light to read. Of course.*
He heard the rustle of her skirts as she settled. The gentle rasp of the first page turning. A deep breath drawn and held. The faint sound of a strand of hair being pushed back from her face. A swallow—nervousness, anticipation, or both.
And beneath it all, the uneven rhythm of her heart.
The space that had been his alone filled with her presence. Her sounds. Her *existence*.
"I'll begin."
Her voice emerged low and clear, each word shaped with careful precision.
"*People repeat their routines every day. But I didn't want to live like that anymore. Starting today, I decided, things would be different. I shouted into the void: I want to do something special.*"
*A novel.*
Like when she read reports, she kept her volume deliberately soft—mindful of his sensitivity, considerate in ways she probably didn't realize. But there was something different about this. Something theatrical. When dialogue appeared, her voice shifted to match the speaker, taking on character without becoming intrusive.
The pain had been particularly vicious today.
He hadn't wanted to see anyone. Had been fighting the agony alone, drowning in sensation he couldn't escape—and then he'd heard it.
Her voice. Muffled by walls and distance, but unmistakable.
*"It's like a warning: 'Don't go here.'"*
She'd recognized the dark corridor for what it was. A boundary. A threshold that shouldn't be crossed.
And she'd crossed it anyway.
Her voice had grown slightly clearer.
*"I'm sorry..."*
He still didn't know what she was apologizing for.
Curiosity had seized him—an unfamiliar sensation, sharp and demanding. What had she done? What guilt drove those whispered words?
He'd summoned Kay with a thought. The shadow materialized instantly, prostrate before him.
"Tell Olive: bring the temporary worker here."
Kay bowed in silent acknowledgment and vanished.
---
*What is she apologizing for?*
The question had circled his mind ever since.
*What could she possibly have done that warranted an apology to me?*
But he couldn't ask. Not without revealing that he'd heard her—revealing the extent of his heightened senses. And that secret was not for sharing.
Her swollen palm had reminded him again of what he already knew: she was thin. Fragile. Small-boned and delicate in ways that made her seem breakable.
Yet she'd struck hard enough to injure herself.
*Strange girl.*
"*I climbed the mountains,*" she read, her voice taking on a wistful quality. "*The mountain greeted me: it had been so long since we'd last met. I told the mountain: I'm searching for something special.*"
When she voiced the characters, her tone shifted—subtle but distinct. The narrator became contemplative. The mountain became ancient and welcoming. The protagonist became yearning.
Surprisingly, it wasn't annoying.
He should have been irritated. Every other voice grated against his nerves like steel wool against raw skin. Even Olive's careful murmurs sometimes scraped too hard.
But hers...
*Why do I want to keep listening?*
Without realizing it, Gerald found his attention narrowing. Everything else faded—the pain, the pressure, the endless battle against his own senses. Only her voice remained.
The knots he'd tied his emotions into began to loosen.
*That's impossible.*
His body grew lighter. Floating. Drifting.
He felt himself sliding toward something he'd almost forgotten existed.
*Sleep.*
Real sleep. Not unconsciousness forced by exhaustion, but genuine rest approaching of its own accord.
His awareness clouded. The edges of consciousness began to blur—
"*Enough!*"
The word tore from his throat before thought could intervene.
Gerald snapped back to alertness as though doused in ice water. Every sense roared to life simultaneously, maddened by the near-surrender, raging at his loss of control.
"...Temporary."
His voice emerged rough. Dangerous.
"What have you done to me?"
---