---
"It's nothing urgent. Don't turn into another Olive."
"You're *bleeding*! You need a physician immediately!"
The sight of dried blood against his pale skin made Marin's chest constrict. She had to force her gaze away from the rust-colored tracks trailing down his jaw, had to remind herself to breathe.
*That subtle copper scent in the air—it was his. All of it was his.*
How much blood had he lost?
"I said there *was* blood. Not anymore." The Duke's lips curved into something that might have been amusement. "Are you unfamiliar with past tense?"
"Yes, I understand—there *was* blood, but now there *isn't*." Marin gritted her teeth, barely containing the flash of frustration that surged through her. "But that doesn't eliminate the need for treatment! Blood was *flowing*. From your *ear*."
"I heal quickly. It's already fine."
His indifference was maddening.
"Even if you heal quickly, you still need examination! Someone should determine why your ear was suddenly bleeding!"
"Not suddenly."
The Duke turned his head toward her. Despite the black silk obscuring his eyes, she felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch.
"What?"
"I said it wasn't sudden." He tilted his head slightly, as though studying her reaction. "I pierced it."
Ice cascaded through Marin's veins.
"Who...?" The question emerged as barely a whisper. *Please let it be someone else. Please let there be another explanation.*
"Myself."
The word dropped into the silence like a stone into still water.
*He really is mad.*
The thought should have terrified her. Instead, something far more complicated twisted in her chest.
"It's finally quiet."
Satisfaction colored the Duke's low voice—the contentment of someone who had found relief from unbearable torment, even through horrifying means.
Marin pressed her lips together and said nothing.
What could she say? What words existed for this?
When she fell silent, the Duke turned his head forward again, apparently considering the conversation closed. The study remained shrouded in darkness, but the image of blood crusted against his ear had seared itself into her memory. She could see it still, even with her eyes closed.
*He was in such agony that he did this to himself.*
The realization settled over her like a funeral shroud.
She had read about this man's suffering in the pages of a novel. Had observed his tragedy from the comfortable distance of fiction. Had known, intellectually, that he lost his sight and endured great hardship before the heroine arrived to heal him.
But knowing wasn't the same as *understanding*.
For the first time since awakening in this world, the Duke ceased to be a character to her. He became *real*—a flesh-and-blood human being, trapped in darkness and drowning in pain, with no guarantee of rescue.
*In the novel, he meets the heroine eventually. His sight is restored. Everything works out.*
But standing here, watching dried blood flake from his jaw, Marin couldn't take comfort in that future. The happy ending felt impossibly distant. What she saw before her was suffering—raw, present, and devastating.
*What would it be like to suddenly lose your sight?*
She couldn't imagine it. Couldn't fathom the horror of waking each day to absolute darkness, your remaining senses turning against you, every sound and smell and touch becoming a new form of torture.
*And I've been treating his story like... what? Entertainment?*
Tears pricked at her eyes without warning.
She tried to blink them back, but they spilled over anyway—hot and silent, tracking down her cheeks before dripping onto the carpet below. She made no sound. Produced no sob. Simply stood there, weeping for a man who would never know it.
The Duke's head snapped toward her.
Despite the silk covering his eyes, his attention fixed on her with unsettling precision. As though he could *see* her, somehow, through means she couldn't comprehend.
"...What happened?"
Marin swiped at her cheeks, erasing the evidence of her tears.
"What do you mean?"
"...Nothing."
Silence descended over the study—heavy, awkward, charged with something neither of them could name.
Then the door opened, and Olive's voice broke the tension:
"Your Grace? Miss Marin?"
He paused on the threshold, clearly confused by the scene before him: his master and the new assistant standing far closer together than propriety dictated, the air between them thick with unspoken words.
"Here."
The Duke lifted Marin's wrist without warning, forming a circle with his thumb and forefinger around the narrowest point. Even with her hand inside the loop, space remained between his fingers and her skin.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Have it adjusted to fit."
"Understood."
Olive responded immediately, without requesting clarification or questioning the cryptic command. Whatever the Duke meant, his assistant apparently understood perfectly.
Marin, however, did not.
"Excuse me, but is the wrist you're discussing actually *mine*?"
"Temporary."
The Duke turned toward her again.
"Yes?"
The response emerged automatically. Her lips pursed with barely suppressed annoyance. She'd disliked being called "temporary" from the start, but apparently this was a promotion from "tree branch."
*Wonderful. I've graduated from vegetation to time-limited employment status.*
"From now on, you will receive regular examinations."
"Examinations of what, exactly?"
Rather than explain, he lifted her wrist higher and released it, letting her arm fall back to her side.
*Oh. He means the wrist. He wants someone to monitor my health.*
She quickly reclaimed her hand, cradling it against her chest.
"Welcome back," she whispered to her own limb.
"The reports."
"Yes, Your Grace. Here, Miss Marin."
Olive materialized at her elbow, pressing a stack of documents into her hands with practiced efficiency.
"Thank you."
*Right. Work. Focus on work.*
Marin accepted the reports and drew a steadying breath. Then she began to read, her voice flowing out clear and calm, filling the darkness with words that didn't hurt.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed the Duke's shoulders gradually relaxing. The tension that had held him rigid began to ease, his posture softening incrementally as her narration continued.
Olive watched the transformation with visible relief, a small smile playing at his lips.
---
The walk back through the castle felt longer than the journey in.
Marin followed Olive down the corridor in silence, her mind churning with thoughts she couldn't quite organize.
*I thought I knew him. The protagonist of the novel. The romantic hero. I thought I understood his story.*
She'd been wrong.
The Duke in her memories—the character on the page—had been a figure of tragedy, yes, but distant tragedy. Safe tragedy. The kind that existed to be overcome, to make the eventual happy ending more satisfying.
The Duke she'd just left was something else entirely. A man in such anguish that he'd punctured his own eardrum for a moment's peace.
*And I know how to help him.*
The thought surfaced unbidden, dragging guilt in its wake.
The heroine would come eventually. Would bring miraculous healing and true love and everything the Duke deserved. That was how the story went. That was how it was *supposed* to go.
Marin's role was to remain invisible. Earn her wages. Disappear before she could disrupt the plot.
"No," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head violently. "No, no, no."
This wasn't her responsibility. The protagonist's fate wasn't hers to alter. If she interfered—if she tried to help before the heroine arrived—who knew what consequences might follow?
The novel's happy ending depended on events unfolding properly. She couldn't risk destroying that for the Duke's future self, no matter how much his present self suffered.
*Even if watching him bleed tears my heart apart.*
"Miss Marin?"
Olive's voice pulled her from her spiraling thoughts.
"Yes?"
"We've arrived."
She blinked, realizing they'd reached the end of the black-curtained hallway. Before them, the corridor opened into brightness—natural light streaming through windows that weren't shrouded, illuminating walls painted in warm cream rather than oppressive shadow.
At the far end stood a door of light brown wood.
"This is the office," Olive announced, gesturing ahead.
Marin glanced back the way they'd come. The Duke's study seemed impossibly far away, separated by what felt like miles of darkened passage.
"Quite a distance from His Grace's quarters."
"His Grace values his peace." Olive's smile carried a hint of wry understanding. "And the rest of us value our ability to speak above a whisper."
He opened the door, and Marin stepped inside.
The contrast with the Duke's study was almost disorienting. Enormous windows dominated one wall, flooding the space with afternoon sunlight. Bookshelves lined another wall, their contents neatly organized—ledgers, folders, bound correspondence. A large mahogany desk faced the entrance, clearly well-used, while a comfortable seating area occupied the room's center: tea table, brown leather sofa, matching armchairs.
And beside all of it, positioned near the windows where the light fell brightest, stood a small white desk.
*New.*
The wood still gleamed with fresh polish. The chair cushion showed no signs of wear. Even the drawer handles looked as though they'd never been touched.
"Your desk, Miss Marin." Olive gestured toward it with evident pride. "You'll work here from now on—except when you're needed in His Grace's study for reports."
"Thank you."
The words emerged slightly choked.
When was the last time she'd had something *new*? Not inherited, not secondhand, not salvaged from better days. Something purchased fresh, specifically for her use?
Since arriving at the ducal castle, only good things had happened. An impossibly generous salary. A brand-new desk. A superior who treated her with kindness and respect.
*If we ignore the terrifying, self-mutilating Duke in the basement.*
Marin pushed that thought aside and turned to Olive.
"May I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"His Grace's ear..." She chose her words carefully, watching his expression. "The blood I saw—"
"You noticed." Olive's smile faded, replaced by something heavier. "I'd hoped he would accept treatment before anyone else witnessed the aftermath."
"Doesn't he need medical attention?"
"His Grace has an... intense aversion to being touched." A shadow passed across Olive's usually warm features. "Even when the touching is necessary for his health. Convincing him to accept treatment is a battle I've fought and lost many times."
"But he needs—"
"I know." The words emerged soft, tired, weighted with accumulated frustration. "I know he does. But he's stronger than ordinary men. His wounds heal faster than they should. Within a day, there will be no trace of what you saw."
Marin wanted to argue. Wanted to demand that *someone* force the Duke to accept proper care. But she recognized the resignation in Olive's voice—the sound of someone who had exhausted every option and found them all wanting.
*He doesn't know the Duke does this to himself. Or maybe he does, and simply can't stop it.*
Either possibility was heartbreaking.
"Actually," Olive continued, "what concerns me more than the injuries is the insomnia."
"He has trouble sleeping?"
"He cannot sleep at all." Olive's expression grew grimmer. "The nights are... difficult for him."
*Worse than bleeding? Worse than deafening himself with a letter opener?*
Marin didn't understand, but she nodded anyway.
"My mother used to drink warm wine when she couldn't sleep," she offered hesitantly. "Mulled, with spices. It seemed to help her."
"Did it?" Something sharpened in Olive's gaze—a sudden attentiveness that felt almost predatory.
But Marin, lost in memories of her mother's evening rituals, didn't notice.
"Yes. She said it settled her mind. Helped her let go of whatever was troubling her."
"Thank you for the suggestion." Olive's smile returned, warmer than before. "I'll keep it in mind."
"I hope it helps." Marin paused, another question surfacing. "May I ask something else?"
"Certainly."
"Why do you speak to me so formally? I'm a commoner—you don't need to use honorifics or polite address."
She'd noticed it from their first meeting: the way he treated her as an equal rather than a subordinate, the respect he showed despite their vast difference in station.
"You're my assistant, aren't you?" Olive tilted his head, as though the answer were obvious.
"Yes..."
"Then I'll speak to you as I would any colleague." His smile widened. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"
"No! No, please—speak however feels natural to you."
"In that case, might I suggest we use given names?" He extended his hand as though sealing a business agreement. "I'm Olive."
"...Marin."
She shook his hand, still slightly bewildered by his easy warmth.
"Excellent!" He released her grip and turned toward the bookshelves. "Then let's begin, shall we?"
He began pulling documents from the shelves, carrying them to her pristine white desk. One stack. Two. Three. The pile grew with alarming speed.
Marin stared at the mounting tower of paperwork, her eyes widening.
"All of this?"
"To start with." Olive's smile remained perfectly pleasant. "We've fallen somewhat behind while His Grace was... indisposed."
*Somewhat behind? This looks like months of accumulated work!*
She thought of his kind demeanor, his gentle voice, his unfailing politeness.
*Perhaps I should reconsider calling him a "good boss."*
But there was nothing to be done about it now. She'd signed the contract. She'd accepted the position. The work awaited.
Marin arranged her features into something resembling enthusiasm, picked up the first document, and began.
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