At length, Aiden clumsily undid the buttons.

“Is there… somewhere I can change?”

In response, he turned his back, as if to say she could simply change right here.

It flustered her, but having declared herself his mistress, it no longer suited her to play the part of a modest lady.

Casting sidelong glances at his broad back, Sveta slipped out of her wrinkled cotton dress and changed into the white nightgown.

“I’m finished, my lord Duke.”

“Before long, the maids will pass through.”

“…Yes.”

She drew in a sharp breath without thinking. The raw scent of a man seared her lungs, and the spot where his fingers had grazed her back still tingled.

Just as her composure threatened to break, his gaze met hers. Sveta quickly lowered her head in a deep bow.

“Then I will see you again this evening.”

“Leave the dress behind.”

His indifferent gaze skimmed her shoulder for the briefest moment.

Only then did Sveta remember the countless scars etched along her arms. Hastily, she drew her hair forward to cover the exposed skin.

She folded the dress roughly and set it upon the sofa, then staggered toward the door.

As her hand closed around the golden knob to twist it, a larger hand pressed over hers.

Aiden’s hot breath slipped past his lips and fell against her bare shoulder.

“My lord Duke?”

“It would be best to make this clear.”

She stepped out into the corridor, still in a daze.

Three maids, chattering like birds in the morning, stopped abruptly as they passed the Duke’s chambers. Their conversation cut short, an uncomfortable silence pressed down heavily.

Seeing Sveta dressed only in a negligée with the Duke standing firmly behind her, they hastily bowed.

Pushing through the awkward air, Sveta made her way straight to her own quarters.

Halfway down the corridor, she heard the heavy thud of the door closing behind her. The maids’ chatter resumed soon after, sounding sharper and edgier now and tinged with shock.

The sound pricked her ears.

It was cold. There was the morning air, the lingering shadow of his green eyes, the stares that followed her dishevelled figure in nothing but a nightdress, and the silence.

She felt as if she were a lowly courtesan.

It was laughable — she had chosen this herself, and yet now she felt only humiliation.

‘What had I been hoping for…?’

Her ankle throbbed. Her steps grew smaller, slower, until at the next corner she was forced to stop.

“There you are! I wondered where you’d been all night…!”

Her foster mother, Dalia, stood waiting, her face drawn tight with fury.

Her sharp gaze darted over Sveta’s shoulder and down the front of her gown. Shame welled up inside Sveta, spreading like fog into every corner.

Dalia’s thick lashes trembled violently. After glaring at Sveta for a long time, she managed to force the words out between her teeth.

“First, to your room.”

They passed through the grand, white-stone hall, with Dalia fuming all the while.

Crossing the corridor with its thick golden carpet, they reached the west wing where they were staying. Dalia glanced around quickly. Once she was certain that no one else was nearby, she seized Sveta’s arm tightly.

She pushed her into the adjoining sitting room and shouted.

“Speak. Now.”

“…Exactly what you saw, Mother.”

“So it’s true—the maids weren’t lying when they said they saw you entering His Grace’s chambers last night!”

“…….”

The playful cooing of her usual voice had disappeared. Instead, her tone was sharp and accusatory.

“You’re just a beggar from the streets! I saved you when you tried to throw yourself in front of my carriage. Is this how you repay me?”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“A mistress… You’ve become a mistress!”

Her finger scraped harshly at her own thumb in agitation.

“Do you think I adopted you as my daughter for this? You are not to belong to any man. Do you hear me? Never!”

“…….”

“What would the Baron say if he knew…”

“…….”

“Is there nothing you would like to say?”

Crushed by exhaustion after a sleepless night, Sveta’s body screamed for rest. Sleep pressed in belatedly, her foster mother’s words drifting half-formed to her ears.

Her drooping lids must have seemed defiance, for Dalia shoved her shoulder hard.

Sveta staggered, barely keeping her balance. She straightened, lifting her chin.

“If the Baron must know, then I will explain it to him myself—”

“You dare talk back? To me? You wretched thing!”

‘You demand an answer, then scold me for giving one…’

Sveta clamped her lips shut like a shell.

Dalia’s body shook as she glared into those calm, sky-blue eyes.

The ruby dangling from her long earlobe and the emerald square at her throat flashed discordantly, clashing in harsh, violent color.

“Those eyes…! I told you never to look at me like that.”

“…….”

“They’re like a stain—filth! When I see them, those dreadful memories come rushing back. You set my nerves on edge!”

She meant the tiny fleck at the edge of Sveta’s right iris.

Sveta lowered her eyes halfway, her lashes thick enough to cast instant shadow.

“I’m sorry, Mother, but what’s done is done. So I…”

Unwilling to listen, Dalia seized Sveta by both shoulders and shook her violently back and forth.

“I’ll see for myself if your words are true! If you really lay with His Grace, then your body must bear the proof!”

Her manicured nails dug into the negligee as she pulled at it, seemingly trying to tear it off. The delicate muslin stretched taut and nearly ripped.

“No!”

This was her first act of defiance.

Dalia froze, her expression first one of shock, then hardening into something cruel. The bewilderment on her face twisted into rage in an instant.

Her jewelled hand, rings jangling, sliced through the air as she swung it mercilessly towards Sveta’s face.

Sveta squeezed her eyes shut, too frightened to flinch.

Instead of pain, however, silence followed.

Had there been a crack just as her eyes closed?

Carefully, she opened her eyes.

A man with brown hair had caught Dalia’s wrist. His massive frame conjured up the image of a hunting hound.

“Who… are you?”

Still gripping Dalia’s wrist, he inclined his head toward Sveta.

“Failin.”

At once, Sveta recognized him—the very man who had slain the bandit in the forest.

‘So this is what the Duke meant by assigning someone to watch me… I never thought it would be this soon.’

As the man stepped closer to Dalia, the sword at his hip clinked in its sheath.

Her eyes fell on the Strilland crest engraved into the scabbard.

Unable to hide her unease, Dalia’s crimson-painted lips opened and closed soundlessly before she stammered,

“Sir, what brings you here?”

His reply was stiff, unyielding.

“She is my lord’s woman.”

“Oh my, and so?”

“It is my duty to protect her.”

Dalia let out a sharp breath. Her tone softened, the old nasal lilt slipping back into her voice.

“You mean to suggest I would harm my own daughter?”

“So it would seem.”

“…….”

Dalia raised a hand to her brow, deliberately displaying her elegant, diamond-adorned fingers.

She did this whenever she wanted to appear graceful.

“In a single night you’ve gained so much. You must be overjoyed!”

“…….”

Ignoring the mockery, Sveta gathered her front, straightening her gown.

Even that seemed to gall Dalia, who glanced between her and Failin before speaking as though resigned.

“Fine then, Sir Failin. I will speak quietly, but step back.”

“I do not obey you, my lady.”

“Then will you simply stand there? With a woman in nothing but her nightclothes beside you?”

“…….”

“Well? Girl, say something to him!”

Sveta slipped silently into her chamber and returned draped in a long ivory shawl.

Then, in a voice as calm as still water, she said,

“Sir Failin, please remain by my side while I speak with my mother.”

Dalia fumed, while Failin inclined his head.

Sveta carefully lowered herself onto the sofa. She tried to look calm, but her shoulders ached from being gripped, and her fingertips were still trembling.

Unable to calm down, Dalia paced around like a mad hen before finally sitting down and forcing a smile.

“You have no idea what you’ve done. Do you think this will not reach Her Majesty’s ears?”

“I know it will, Mother.”

“Good heavens! By the look on your insolent face, you clearly have no idea what kind of woman Her Majesty truly is.”

Her face flushed crimson with fear, Dalia flinched, her shoulders trembling.

“You are going to die now.”

She leaned close, whispering,

“You don’t know how the Queen killed my brother. I saw his wretched corpse strung up on the city wall…”

“…….”

“And who will protect you now?”

Even as she shuddered and pressed her hand to her forehead, Dalia was acutely aware of Failin in each of her gestures. This affected Sveta’s skin.

“I took in a wretched brat and molded you into a noble, and this is how you repay me?”

“…….”

“They say no parent can defeat their child. This time I will step aside—but remember this. You are still my beloved daughter!”

A parent. How she had longed for that!

She had endured Dalia’s tantrums and cruelty simply because she yearned to be a mother.

Despite her family being empty, she wanted to be loved.

So she had pretended to be happy, offering false kindness and counterfeit smiles. She had wilfully ignored the hatred and contempt in those watery eyes.

She could do the same now — select only the lies that suited her.

Sveta curved her lips into a gentle smile, as she always did.

“If you would only be a good mother to me, I would gladly accept it.”

As though her words were an insult, Dalia only heaved ragged breaths for a long while before storming out.

Feeling as though her body and mind had been torn to rags, Sveta let out a small sigh.

“Thank you, Sir Failin.”

She bowed briefly in gratitude, then went to her room and lay down.

The memory of her foster mother’s angry outburst gradually faded, replaced in her mind by the quiet, soothing voice of the duke.

“Do not expect kindness from me.”

The memory of him washing his hands so coldly and sending her wandering the halls in just her nightgown was painfully vivid.

And yet, Sveta chose to remember only a few warm moments.

The searing heat of his fingers entwining with hers.

The clumsy touch as he undid her buttons.

The gentle breath that fell upon her brow.

The shuddering thrill it left behind.

Sleep fell upon her like a heavy wave, weighing down her eyelids. Her consciousness drifted away.

Ultimately, she envisioned the face she longed to see most: her secret sister, Beth.

Despite not having spoken since they parted ways, she believed with all her heart that Beth was still alive. That strong, resilient girl would have survived.

As though murmuring in a dream, Sveta whispered,

“Beth…”

‘I will live as myself for just one year, and then I will die in your place. Once the world believes I am dead, you will finally be free. Free to live without fear of being hunted down.’

‘Until then, though, let me experience the semblance of love, even if only briefly. Let me experience a warm gaze, even if only once. Is that truly too much to ask?’