The ceiling above her was too smooth, too perfect without a single crack. In fact, it wasn't hers. The room atmosphere was drizzly and cold here.
But then it hit her all at once.
Marcella snapped her eyes open, jolting upright as the realization sank in.
Dark wood-paneled walls, velvet drapes drawn halfway over narrow windows. It was dark in here, lit only by a couple of lanterns. She was lying on a narrow velvet chaise, not a bed, and the blanket pulled over her had a sigil stitched in silver thread near the hem.
Her skin was hot and clammy as she struggled to catch her breath. She rubbed her eyes. The events of the night felt like a dream.
But they weren't. It had happened and now she was here.
Not the Valemont estate.
Definitely not the church.
Marcella touched her stomach, just to make sure--
"You are safe here." His deep, gravelly voice rolled over like a velvety caress.
Marcella turned her head too fast that made the room go spinning.
Polished obsidian leather shoes. Then tailored dark trousers followed by a deep royal blue coat. And then the face she knew too well.
Duke Berith Montclair.
She gulped. Her stomach turned in a slow, heavy knot. "You---"
"I rescued you." He interrupted her that made the words die in her throat.
"Why did you bring me here?" Marcella flinched. "I have work to do." she snapped, voice fraying at the edges. "I need to—"
She shoved the covers off in one brisk motion, trying to swing her legs off the bed. Her body protested, but she gritted her teeth and pushed through it. Stubbornness had carried her through worse.
The second her feet touched the cold stone floor, her knees dipped. A wave of dizziness crashed over her.
Before Marcella could collapse, a pair of strong hands caught her by the shoulders. Not rough—but not soft, either.
Her shoulders stiffened under the contact as his palms were warm through her thin fabric. "Stop."
Marcella didn't look at him. Couldn't. Her pride screamed at her to pull away, to deny the weakness in her limbs and the panic clawing at the inside of her chest.
But she didn't move.
"You've been unconscious for two days," he bit out, crouching slightly to be eye-level with her. "Your body's still recovering. If you don't want to end up collapsing again, sit down."
"Two—?" She blinked again, stunned. "I…"
Her heart began to thud in her ears. The image of the arrow, the blood—the man who was killed—it came rushing back. Marcella was already starting to crumble.
"You aren't going anywhere." His fingers softened the hold, his thumbs barely grazing the curve of her shoulders.
There was no mockery in his gaze. No smugness. Still watching her like a man waiting to understand.
The space between them shrank without either of them moving. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Marcella hated this. Hated how her body betrayed her, how exhaustion wrapped around her bones like chains. Hated that she was sitting here grounded by the one man she couldn't trust and couldn't push away.
But she also hated how his touch had calmed her. How, for a flicker of a second, she'd felt… safe.
"T-there was a m-man," Her eyes had a distant sheen, like she was still somewhere else. "He wasn't the coachman. He disguised himself, locked the carriage from the outside, and took me somewhere beyond the city."
A wrinkle formed over his forehead, hinting at confusion.
Marcella swallowed. "He knew things. About… about the marriage. About me. About the demons."
Still, Berith said nothing.
She hesitated. "But before he could finish, he was shot. An a-arrow, right through his chest." Her voice caught. "He died in front of me." She forced herself to meet his eyes. "You must've seen him. He was lying there. There was blood—"
"There was no body." he grumbled.
The words hit like cold water.
Marcella stared. "What?" searching his face for a lie. Something.
"I found you alone," Berith said, tone a matter of fact. "There was no man. No blood. No sign of any struggle. Just a carriage, stopped in the middle of nowhere, and you—unconscious."
Her fingers tightened in her lap. "But I remember him." she shook her head. "He had golden eyes. A scar below his right eye. He spoke like he'd seen things. Like he knew me."
"You were hallucinating," Berith interrupted, waving her away. "Maybe trauma. You were recently attacked, and then you ran off to the church without telling anyone where you were going. It's not unreasonable to assume your mind fabricated a threat in a moment of stress."
Marcella blinked. "You think I made it up?"
"I think your mind did what it needed to do to cope."
Her chest rose, then stilled. She didn't argue. She only stared at him for a long moment.
Berith hadn't even asked what the man said.
Not once.
And when she had mentioned the word demons, he hadn't so much as blinked.
Marcella watched him closely now, her gaze narrowing just enough to let the realization settle. He knew. Or worse—he'd always known.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, "How did you know where I was?"
Berith paused as he was already halfway toward the door. For a second, he didn't respond. He turned to her, wearing that smile—the one she hated. Smooth. Effortless. That infuriating smile that never reached his eyes.
"Obviously," he replied, a knowing gleam entered his eyes. "I always know where you are."
Marcella froze. His words weren't threatening on their own. But the ease with which he said them... that was something else. "That's not an answer."
His smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "It wasn't meant to be."
Berith turned again, hand brushing the door handle like he'd already dismissed the conversation. "You'll rest better if you stop asking questions, you're not ready to hear answers to."
The door shut behind him with the softest of clicks.
Her heart thudded with the kind of clarity she could no longer deny. That man in the woods had been real. The message, the arrow, the blood. It had all happened.
None of this was coincidence.
Marcella sat back on the edge of the bed, her mind spinning. She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing deep.
Berith Montclair was hiding something. And whatever it was, it had to do with her.