“…It would be wise to speak only words you can be held accountable for.”

“You may be honest with me, Your Grace. In truth, you brought forward a false mistress only to avoid Her Majesty’s proposal, did you not?”

Despite his cutting warning, Alyona stubbornly pressed on.

“If Strilland, holding the East and South, were to unite with Matwood in the West, would not Her Majesty find herself encircled? In such a position, she would have yielded easily.”

“….”

“I find it such a pity, Your Grace.”

She wasn’t wrong. Aiden had once considered marrying Alyona Matwood.

Had their families joined forces, not even the queen could have interfered. The alliance would also have enabled him to expand his trade into the southwest, providing significant economic benefits.

But he did not propose to Alyona.

A sharp, instinctive unease cut through his mind, stopping him in his tracks.

For no other reason than his own reluctance, Aiden allowed the deal to fall through.

No one dared to dispute his decision. Not even the Marquess of Matwood himself.

However, unlike the marquess, his daughter continued to whine, lamenting what she called a loss.

“Perhaps. But I do not consider it a pity.”

“Is it not nothing more than a clever trick?”

Alyona’s clouded gaze drifted to the places where her hand had touched him, one by one.

The meaning was plain: How could you recoil from the briefest contact with me, yet keep a mistress?

Reading the malice beneath her words, Aiden murmured darkly—

“Did you just call it a mere trick…?”

Aiden exhaled sharply and rolled his head slowly from side to side, as though loosening his muscles. When he stood up straight, Alyona’s gaze swung like a pendulum and fixed on his red lips.

He was fed up with her desire-clouded eyes.

“For a mere trick, my mistress is far too beautiful.”

“And… what of it?”

“I am a man.”

“….”

Biting her lip, Alyona gnawed with irritation at words she clearly disliked.

Watching her for a moment, Aiden spoke, his voice firm.

“A perfectly natural one.”

With that, he turned his back on her. But he could still feel her gaze clinging to him like sticky glue, scorching the places where she had touched him. His hand and side seemed to burn.

Grinding his teeth, Aiden strode swiftly from the garden, his long legs carrying him away.

As he walked, he tore off his black gloves and vest one by one. The maids trailing quietly behind him gathered the discarded garments without a word.

His white shirt clung damply to his skin, heavy with sweat. He wrenched open the collar, baring the sheen of muscle down his chest.

“Haa…”

Just before he reached the manor, Aiden stopped abruptly and sighed heavily.

Without warning, he spun around and started running, picking up speed until the scenery blurred past him.

He covered the expanse of yellow blossom and the artificial lake in one bound.

It was only when he reached the stables that he slowed to his usual unhurried pace.

As expected, the striking woman approached, head lowered, kicking at stones along the path.

A small pebble rolled and struck the tip of his polished shoe. She froze at that moment, too.

“My lord?”

He took a few steps closer and found himself face to face with her flushed features. Her sky-blue eyes widened, revealing a startling shade of worry.

“Did something happen? You’re sweating…”

“….”

“Are you all right?”

Yes. Alyona Matwood was right about one thing: this woman truly did not know her place.

Who was she to worry about him? Over something so trivial?

Aiden’s lip twisted, one corner lifting in sardonic amusement.

“Have you been rolling about in the stables?”

“…Pardon?”

“Your hair.”

Her sunset-colored locks were littered with strands of dry hay, as though she had been feeding the horses herself.

“Ah, I wasn’t rolling on the ground.”

“….”

Sveta raked her fingers through her hair like claws, sweeping the hay aside. She quickly hid the few strands that had caught behind her back, lowering her gaze in embarrassment.

“But… why are you here? I thought you were angry with me.”

He could not answer—and did not wish to.

That crawling, simmering discomfort still pooled and shifted inside him, restless.

Masking it perfectly, he replied,

“There is no place in my domain I cannot go.”

“You’re right. It was a foolish question.”

Her ready agreement grated on him, but in a way entirely different from Alyona Matwood’s insolence.

Words slipped out, sharp and careless.

“Do you have no pride?”

Her cheeks, which had briefly regained their natural hue, flared crimson once more.

“…None. Not before you, my lord.”

As he stepped closer, she lowered her eyes meekly. A faint scent of orange clung to her, sharp on his tongue.

Saliva gathered beneath it.

“Good.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulling out the small hand she had tried to hide behind her back.

Sveta shivered, and every tremor and flicker of unease in her body transformed into his sense of reassurance.

He gripped her delicate wrist tightly and strode forward without pause, half-dragging her quick, stumbling steps behind him.

“Where are we going?”

“Where else would one go with a mistress?”

As they retraced the path, countless eyes swept over them.

The duke led his disheveled mistress by the wrist, hastily instructing the servants to bow.

Without hesitation, he passed Alyona Matwood, who stood like an ornament among the blossoming hydrangeas.

‘She looked as though her face had twisted…’

The fleeting thought brushed his mind, but it was not something worth his concern.

By the time they entered the bedchamber, Sveta’s hushed voice rose.

“…Have you put me on display again?”

“Yes.”

“But this is—this is broad daylight, my lord.”

“And?”

“Do you not think it improper?”

Her tone was half-reproachful, yet she did not pull free from his grasp.

“This makes me feel as though I…”

“….”

“As though I were no better than a harlot.”

Her last words were faint as the wind, her shoulders trembling beneath her fiery hair. Stubborn bits of hay still clung to her, jutting out where she had missed them.

The untidy sight irked him. He frowned.

“I see no difference.”

“There is a difference.”

“Not to me.”

Her wounded eyes rose to meet his.

For a moment, the vexation on Alyona’s face seemed to fade.

Then, suddenly, Aiden picked up Sveta and threw her onto the bed.

“Ah…!”

Her light body sank into the bedding like a stalk of straw.

Aiden climbed onto the mattress after her, driving his hand beneath her skirts as though to prove something.

A heat flared beneath her skin, swift and unbearable.

Breathing harshly, he pressed and kneaded her impossibly soft body.

Sveta twisted her head and clawed at the sheets, her slender neck quivering.

Acting on impulse, he bent down and kissed her there. Her silken skin yielded to his mouth’s pressure and she jerked, writhing beneath him.

“My lord… it’s daytime. It’s… too bright.”

“And?”

“This—this should be at night…”

Her faltering protest went unanswered.

In an instant, he undid the ribbon at her waist and pulled her skirts up.

The fabric bunched up to her chest, exposing her pale skin.

With each breath she took, her slight frame heaved.

Aiden’s gaze traced the great scar carved into her abdomen and the countless knife marks clustered along her side.

Shame welled in Sveta’s moist eyes.

“Don’t look… please.”

Her face burned crimson as she tugged her skirts down.

Aiden’s fingers wandered lower again: from the smooth curve of her navel, to the sharp edge of her hip; down her soft thigh; and finally to the jut of her thin knee.

“Don’t ask… don’t ask how I came to be like this, either.”

“….”

She sat up and shrank back.

At the edge of his vision, he caught sight of her injured ankle.

Brushing back the golden locks that had fallen across his brow, Aiden stood up straight.

He took off his damp shirt, his gaze fixed on the red mark on his pale nape — a brand-like stain she had left on him.

“I am not curious.”

“….”

“So you need not worry that I will ever ask.”

Was it Alyona’s sneer—her taunt that he could never endure another’s touch? Or was it this woman’s gaze, anxious yet stripped of all pride, that had driven him to the brink?

Aiden could not tell what impulse had broken his reason.

Slowly, he stepped down from the bed. A sick churn stirred in his gut, as if he were seasick.

It struck him as strange.

‘How could a woman raised to be cherished, groomed to be treasured, bear a body so scarred…’

But the fleeting question disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

When Sveta curled up, the mattress dipped softly. A slender calf came into view: straight and delicate, yet somehow indecent.

Heat rushed through his veins. Even that small movement stoked his desire, and with it came bitter self-contempt.

He forced his expression to remain blank and tugged the bell cord.

Once fresh clothes had been brought, he changed swiftly and left the room without looking back.

His steps carried him to one place only.