His lips migrated back to the delicate line of her throat, branding her skin with frantic kisses as his hands began a slow, possessive descent toward her thighs.
Then, with a suddenness that made the air turn cold, he stopped.
He pulled back, his gaze searching hers with a haunting gravity.
"And now?" he asked, his voice low. "Won't you take your medicine? I know you need it."
The words stung like a lash.
Olivia understood his meaning instantly—the bitter accusation veiled in concern.
It had been her ritual, her silent defense: drowning her senses in sedatives to endure the weight of his touch, to numb the reality of his presence.
"No," she whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. "I don't believe I'll be needing it anymore."
Mathias turned to her slowly, scanning her face for the truth buried beneath her calm exterior.
Then, driven by a raw instinct, he rested his head against her shoulder.
Behind her back, his fingers moved with a trembling urgency, unlacing the delicate silk of her nightgown—a tenderness that betrayed the storm raging beneath his skin.
"Olivia," he grunted, his voice ragged and strained, "I can no longer endure this restraint. Take your pills. I won't blame you... if my touch still tastes of disgust to you."
His words pierced her like daggers—brutal in their honesty.
She remembered the days when she welcomed that chemical numbness, using it as a shield against the terror of his proximity, simply because he was her father's sworn enemy.
That cold truth had frozen her heart for so long. But now… her father was nothing more than a fading shadow in the dark.
The silk slipped from her shoulders as the last knot gave way, exposing her pale skin to the dim, flickering light.
He paused—not out of hesitation, but out of a sudden, breathless reverence.
His eyes met hers, burning with a question that scorched the air between them.
"Are you certain?" he rasped. "Because once I begin, I will not be able to stop."
Olivia didn't answer with words.
Instead, she reached up, her fingers steady as she slowly unbuttoned the collar of his shirt.
She pressed her lips into the hollow of his collarbone, leaving a kiss that was soft, deliberate, and undeniably certain.
When she pulled back, her eyes shimmered with a silent defiance.
"I think that kiss proves I have no further use for those pills," she murmured, a cryptic, fleeting smile touching her lips.
It was all the permission he needed.
The last of his self-control shattered. He moved over her with the desperate hunger of a man who had been starving for warmth—for a salvation that only her body could provide.
His hands mapped every curve of her silhouette, memorizing the way her skin sang under his touch, while his lips marked her with a fierce, sacred intensity.
That night was thick with heat and a primal, aching need.
But it was more than a physical release; for the first time, it felt real.
It wasn't a chore of the flesh or a forced obligation. For the first time, Mathias didn't feel as though he were imposing himself on a ghost.
Her naked form was nearly swallowed by the sea of white linen, her breathing rhythmic and slow, lost in a dreamscape he could never hope to enter.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
Then, a thought struck him like a drenching of ice water:
Did I force her? Was I so far gone in the wine that I became a monster?
Panic clawed at his chest.
Mathias bolted upright, stumbling as he disentangled himself from the sheets, guilt coiling in his gut like black smoke.
Was the memory of her eyes, the silk of her voice, and the way she had reached for him real? Or was it merely a fever dream of a desperate man?
He fled to the washroom, seeking the stinging clarity of water to purge his thoughts.
When he emerged, a towel slung low around his hips, he began to dry his hair with jagged, anxious movements.
Then, he saw it.
In the reflection of the mirror, a mark—faint but undeniable—bloomed just above his collarbone.
A fresh, crimson brand. Her lips had left that there.
He reached up, his fingers trembling as they traced the tender spot, as if to confirm its existence.
With that single touch, the fragmented memories crystallized: her soft laughter, the arch of her back, and the resolute "Yes" she had whispered when he asked if she was certain.
His breath hitched. He stared at his reflection, no longer with horror, but with a dazed, profound relief.
A slow, hesitant smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth.
It wasn't a smile of conquest or pride, but a quiet, soul-deep peace.
"Thank God..." he exhaled, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank God I did not impose myself on her."
He leaned both hands against the cold marble, staring into the eyes of a man he barely recognized—haunted by the person he might have become, and strangely comforted by the one he had managed to remain.
For a fleeting second, the shame receded. He hadn't lost the final thread of his dignity.
He was not the kind of man who took what was not freely given. Not from her. Not from his wife.
Mathias stepped out of the bathroom, the mist of the shower still clinging to his skin, only to find Olivia standing by the door—waiting.
She had donned a silk nightgown, but his gaze didn't linger on the fabric.
It was drawn to her neck.
There, scattered like dying embers in a wild pattern, were the bruises of their passion. Crimson proofs of desire... and of his own guilt.
Her voice sliced through the silence, sharp and defensive. "Why are you staring like that?"
He blinked, caught in his own gaze. "Ah... nothing. Just... your neck."
"What of it?" Her tone remained ice-cold, unreadable.
"Nothing," he muttered, quickly averting his eyes. "I'll call the maid. She can assist you with your bath."
She offered no reply. That familiar silence fell between them like a heavy velvet curtain.
Without another look, Olivia turned and slipped into the bathroom, leaving only the faint, ghostly scent of lavender in her wake.
Mathias ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed.
Whatever warmth they had shared in the dark, the frost was already beginning to reclaim the morning.
But before he could gather his thoughts, a series of urgent, rhythmic knocks shattered the fragile quiet.
Mathias stiffened, the weight of the morning's guilt still heavy on his shoulders.
He tightened the towel around his waist and stroده toward the door.
Elsewhere, another man had been awake long before the first hint of light.
Prince Kyle had not slept a wink. His mind was a chaotic battlefield.
The previous night, Mathias had stunned everyone by offering a dowry for Leila—an unexpected move, yet logical in its own way.
But Olivia?
She had surrendered that necklace. The heirloom she once displayed like a royal banner; the only thing from her grandmother that she claimed held any meaning.
That gesture had planted a seed of suspicion in his gut.
It wasn't jealousy that gnawed at him, but something colder: a mix of confusion, guilt, and perhaps even shame.
It was no surprise, then, that he stood at the gates of the Duchy as the first grey light of dawn broke.
The servants greeted him with cautious bows. Leon and Isabella were the first to meet him, their surprise masked by a polished, polite veneer.
"What brings you here so early?" Leon asked.
"If you're looking for the Duke, he isn't available this morning... or at least, not to our knowledge."
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "You mean he left last night without a word? Where did he go?"
Leon shook his head. "To be honest, I haven't the slightest idea."
Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Strange. But that's not why I'm here."
"Oh?" Leon tilted his head curiously.
"I came to see Olivia."
Leon paused, a shadow of concern crossing his face. "Is she in her study?"
Kyle shrugged with forced indifference. "I thought I'd check her room first. We need to talk."
Leon stepped closer, placing a firm, steady hand on Kyle's shoulder.
His voice was quiet but laced with warning.
"Kyle... I know Olivia isn't the perfect sister. But she is Mathias's wife. And he does not take kindly to anyone treating her harshly. Not even if she is a 'witch'."
Kyle offered a weary, bitter smile. "Leon, she is my sister too. I'm not here to hurt her."
Leon's gaze didn't waver. "I have brothers, Kyle. I know how 'not hurting' can still end in bloodshed. Just... don't start anything. Please."
Despite himself, Kyle let out a dry laugh.
"You're right. You're not wrong. It seems disasters follow whenever Olivia and I are in the same room."
"Then let's hope today is the exception," Leon muttered.
Kyle nodded. "I'll go. Alone."
Leon raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "No, you won't. I don't trust you that much."
"Fine, fine," Kyle conceded, a flicker of genuine amusement breaking through his tension.
Kyle spotted Keira moving through the hallway and intercepted her.
"Is your mistress in her study, or her chambers?"
Keira offered a respectful dip of her head. "She is in her chambers, Your Highness. This way, please."
After a series of urgent, persistent knocks, the heavy oak door finally groaned open.
Keira straightened her posture instinctively, her message ready on the tip of her tongue.
But the words died in her throat the moment the scene unfolded before her.
It wasn't a maid who greeted them, nor was it the Lady of the house.
It was the Duke himself—Mathias—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but his trousers.
His bare chest, still glistening with the damp afterglow of a shower, caught the soft morning light.
His hair fell in chaotic, dark waves over his brow, and a shadow of raw impatience flickered across his sharp features.
Keira stumbled over her words, her gaze darting to the floor in a fit of respectful panic.
"Oh... G-good morning, my Lord."
Mathias let out a low, weary groan, running a hand through his wet hair with visible irritation.
"Morning... yes. What is it now? It isn't even nine yet."
"My Lord, I—I apologize, but... His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince, wishes to speak with you."
Mathias sighed, utterly indifferent to the breach of protocol or the status of his guest.
"Tell him I'm not here. And Olivia isn't here either. Tell him to return at a more reasonable hour."
His tone was flat, casual—dripping with a cold nonchalance that bordered on disdain.
He began to pivot back into the room, adding over his shoulder without a second thought:
"And while you're here, go in and assist the Duchess with her bath."
But before Keira could utter a single syllable, a low voice—sharp with stunned disbelief—sliced through the corridor like a blade.
"Not here, hmmm?"