Headrin watched his cigar burn down into the firewood, the ember dying before he could even draw a single puff. He turned toward the water pitcher on the table, his throat parched, a dry rasping in his chest.
Through the glass in his hand, he caught sight of Blair, fast asleep. As he watched her, the world suddenly tilted.
A wave of vertigo crashed over him, and a hazy vision bloomed in his mind’s eye.
The bed before him was stained a vivid, dark red. Blair lay collapsed upon the linens, blood gushing from a wound in her back.
Headrin’s heart plummeted. The sensation was visceral, as if the blood were being drained directly from his own veins. The glass slipped, his fingers losing all strength.
*What on earth…*
In a flicker, the vision vanished.
Blair remained exactly as she had been, a quiet, sleeping silhouette.
Headrin lunged, catching the glass before it hit the floor.
What was that?
Even as the vision faded, the terror it left behind pulsed in his chest, refusing to settle. He strode to the bed and pressed his index finger between her lips and nose, desperate to catch the rhythm of her breath.
Warmth. When he touched her cheek, her skin was soft and radiant. Sensing the intrusion, Blair furrowed her brows.
“Mm…”
Only then did Headrin release the breath he’d been holding.
*My nerves are fraying.*
First the New Year’s Festival, and now this. Hallucinations. Though the vision was gone, the phantom ache it had left behind clung to him, a cold shadow.
As he moved to pull his hand away, Blair’s eyelids fluttered. She opened them, her violet irises catching the stray shafts of sunlight filtering into the room. She blinked, her gaze slowly sharpening until it locked onto his.
“…Headrin?”
The soft exhale of her voice tickled his skin.
He stared at her, mesmerized, and traced the line of her lips with his finger before leaning down to swallow them whole.
The tremble of her lips, the small, pained moan that slipped from her throat, the heat of their tangled breath—all of it shattered the lingering, ghastly image of the vision.
She was alive. She was here, in his arms.
* * *
“His Grace is still in the bedroom.”
As Ruth arrived at the Del Marc Ducal Residence, he was met with those words from Mason instead of a formal greeting.
Ruth’s brow creased, his mind immediately grasping the implication.
It had been ten days. Ten days since Headrin began spending his nights in Blair’s bed, refusing to leave until morning. It had been exactly that long since the afternoon Headrin had unceremoniously kicked him out of the office.
*I thought I’d be relieved to have some downtime,* Ruth mused.
As Ruth headed for the reception room, Mason followed. “Shall I bring some tea?”
“That would be good. The same as yesterday.”
Inside the reception room, Ruth spread his notebook, preparing to review Headrin’s schedule and the urgent matters requiring a decision. Mason returned shortly with the tea.
“Why don’t you adjust your office hours for the time being? They are newlyweds, after all.”
“It’s fine. My schedule is fixed. He’ll get over this eventually.”
Ruth spoke with practiced indifference, but inwardly, he was troubled. His master, a man who had never spared a thought for romantic dalliances, was suddenly obsessed with a woman.
Under normal circumstances, the continuation of the family line would be a cause for celebration. But the woman was the problem. The daughter of Katrina.
While Ruth was lost in thought, Headrin emerged, walking with a leisurely, predatory grace. He wore a robe, looking as though he had just finished bathing, and sat opposite him.
*You startled me.*
Headrin usually summoned him to the office; he had never come to the reception room himself. Having spent his life on the battlefield, the Duke was an expert at masking his presence—a talent that left Ruth perpetually on edge, especially since he’d been thinking about him only a second ago.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Headrin nodded, crossing his long legs. A servant entered, lit his cigar, and retreated. Headrin inhaled, the smoke swirling around him as he picked up one of the documents.
“Is this the mana crystal mine project?”
“Yes. I need your review and approval by today. I’ve also culled a few related agenda items that would be best reviewed in tandem.”
Ruth watched him. The hard, toned body visible through the loose silk of his robe, the face that could unseat one’s reason just by existing—even to another man, Headrin carried an air of devastating, erotic intensity.
There were countless women who would offer anything for a moment of his time. That fact had always been a point of pride for Ruth. He had expected the relationship with Blair to be the same: the woman pursuing, the Duke remaining indifferent.
But this was different. He couldn’t pin down the nuances, but he felt it in his bones.
Perhaps it was the fallout from when he’d suggested Headrin marry a suitable candidate before the imperial decree could be forced upon him.
He feared Headrin’s inaction was tangled up in her.
“Your Grace.”
Headrin looked up from the documents, his eyes locking onto Ruth’s.
“I’m sure you know how to handle your affairs, but… I must say this just in case. Be careful during the consummation.”
At the mention of Blair, Headrin’s gaze turned icy. It was the look of a beast watching an intruder touch its kill.
“Are you suggesting I stay on guard in case she hides a dagger to stab me?”
“I doubt anyone could catch you with such a clumsy maneuver, Your Grace. That isn’t what I meant…” Ruth cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “Contraception. The Imperial Family may be waiting for the Duchess to bear an heir to the Del Marc line.”
Ruth’s worry was clear: if an heir were produced, the Imperial Family—her kin—might kill Headrin and seize the power of the Del Marc Duchy. That was why Ruth had once suggested an illegitimate child instead.
He held no malice toward Blair; she seemed quite different from her mother. But blood is thicker than water. To someone like Ruth, who lived for the sake of the Duke, her lineage made her an inevitable threat.
He knew that fostering an illegitimate child was immoral and would stain the family’s prestige, but to Ruth, Headrin’s safety was the only morality that mattered. It was what the late Duchess would have wanted.
Headrin thought of Blair. He thought of the contraceptive pills kept perpetually on her nightstand.
She was a woman hell-bent on ending this marriage and abandoning him. If a child were conceived, she would be the one trapped.
But Ruth didn’t know the nature of their contract. It was natural for him to worry.
Headrin swept his damp hair back, crushed out the cigar, and said firmly,
“That will not happen.”
He would end it cleanly with Blair. Even for the sake of the lover she so desperately pined for.
He didn’t know why that thought left such a bitter taste in his mouth.
* * *
Blair barely managed to open her eyes around lunchtime.
Ten days had passed since that day in the office. Over the last week and a half, she had been a prisoner of her own bedroom.
The clause she’d insisted on—*maximum twice a month*—had been rendered entirely moot.
He interpreted the contract however he saw fit.
*“The consummation is what’s binding, so kissing shouldn’t matter, right?”*
He had made her crave him, breaking down her defenses with his mouth against her skin.
*“If both parties desire it, there is no limit to the number of times in the contract for mutual consent.”*
He had turned her own body into a traitor, making it impossible for her to refuse him, and then he’d taken her as if he’d been starving for years.
Blair, who had fought him at first, had eventually surrendered to the tide.
Night after night, from the moment he finished his work, she was consumed by him. Even when she fell asleep, hovering between exhaustion and unconsciousness, she would wake up to find herself still in his arms.
And then, he would start again.
He tormented her with such persistent intensity that now, even the silence of the day felt empty without his warmth.
She felt as though he had drained the very marrow from her bones.
*How can human stamina be this boundless?*
In her past life, it had been the same. Before their relationship soured in late spring, they had coupled like wild beasts every single night.
*I thought that was an act, too…*
But this time, it was a contract marriage. She had assumed he wouldn’t waste such passion on a wife he despised. It seemed his hunger for her was, against all logic, real.
She knew this interest would eventually cool. There was no need to confront him; she actually liked this current, cooperative relationship.
She had been feeling uneasy lately, as there were no leads regarding the fire incident, but knowing she could at least satisfy his demands made her feel strangely at peace.
*Now that I’ve decided not to doubt him, I can move more freely.*
Blair forced her aching body to rise and pulled the service bell.
She couldn’t stay in bed all day. There was too much to do.
She had to plan for the divorce, and she had to track down the ruffian who had killed her.