CHAPTER 151: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND FIFTY ONE

The carriage wheels rumbled over the cobblestones, the sound changing from the smooth, rhythmic hum of the open road to the clattering, chaotic noise of the city.

They had arrived at the central marketplace of Denver.

It was the second day of the festival, and the city was alive. The air was thick and sweet with the scent of roasted chestnuts, caramelized sugar, and spiced wine. Banners of red and gold snapped in the breeze, hanging from every balcony and lamppost. The sound of lutes, fiddles, and the roar of a happy crowd penetrated the thick walls of the carriage.

Inside the carriage, the air was quiet, but charged with a nervous energy.

Derek sat by the door. He shifted in his seat, adjusting his collar. He wasn’t wearing the stiff, high-collared military uniform of the Grand Duke today. He wasn’t wearing the heavy velvet coats of the court.

He was dressed casually, almost like a common merchant or a wealthy traveler. He wore a crisp white shirt made of fine linen, the top buttons undone to reveal his throat. A simple dark vest hugged his chest, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. He looked relaxed, younger, and far more approachable.

The carriage came to a complete halt.

"We are here, Your Grace," the driver called out.

Derek took a deep breath. He reached behind him, checking the item he had hidden behind the velvet cushion. It was still there.

He opened the carriage door and stepped out. His boots hit the pavement with a solid thud. The noise of the market washed over him instantly—shouts of vendors, laughter of children, the barking of dogs. It was loud, vibrant, and real.

He turned back to the open door. He stretched out his hand, his palm open and waiting.

"Marissa," he said softly.

A hand, small and pale, placed itself in his.

Marissa stepped down from the carriage.

As she emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight, Derek felt his breath catch in his throat. He had seen her in court gowns. He had seen her in nightgowns. He had seen her in travel cloaks. He had even seen her that morning before they entered the carriage but it still felt like he had never seen her like this.

She was wearing a dress of cream-colored silk, so light and airy it seemed to float around her body like a cloud. The fabric caught the sunlight, glowing softly. The bodice was embroidered with intricate red roses, their stems intertwining in silver thread that glittered when she moved. It was simple, yet incredibly elegant.

But it was her hair that stunned him.

Usually, Marissa wore her hair in tight, severe buns, pinned back with sharp ornaments, every strand controlled and disciplined. It was the hairstyle of a woman who was always on guard, always ready for battle.

Today, her hair was let down.

It cascaded over her shoulders in a riot of dark, glossy curls that reached all the way to her waist. It was wild and soft. A gentle breeze blew through the market square, catching the long strands and making them sway around her face.

She looked unguarded. She looked soft. She looked like a woman who had decided, just for one day, to put down her armor.

Derek stared at her. He forgot where he was. He forgot the crowd. He just looked at the way the sun hit her face, making her skin look luminous.

Marissa looked at him, noticing his stare. She touched her cheek self-consciously.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

Derek blinked, snapping out of his trance.

"No," he said quickly, his voice a little hoarse. "No. You look... different."

"Different bad?"

"Different beautiful," he corrected honestl.

He turned to the driver, needing a moment to compose himself.

"We will be back after the festival," Derek instructed the driver. "Take the horses to the inn stables and rest. We will walk."

The driver nodded, tipping his hat. "Yes, Your Grace."

The carriage pulled away, disappearing into the traffic of carts and wagons. They were left alone on the edge of the square, two nobles disguised in the crowd.

Marissa turned toward the market stalls, her eyes bright with curiosity. She took a step forward, eager to explore.

"Wait," Derek said.

Marissa stopped and turned back to him. "What is it?"

Derek reached behind his back. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt ridiculous. He was a man who commanded armies. He had faced assassins. And yet, holding a bunch of flowers behind his back, he felt like a nervous young lad.

He slowly brought his hands forward.

In his large, calloused hands lay a wreath of flowers.

It wasn’t a professional creation. It wasn’t the perfect, symmetrical work of the royal florists. It was wild. It was a thick, braided circle of vines, woven tightly together. Woven into the green base were vibrant red roses, pure white lilies, and sprays of delicate baby’s breath.

Some of the stems stuck out a little. One of the roses was slightly tilted. It was imperfect. It was clearly handmade.

Marissa stared at it. Her mouth opened slightly in a small ’o’ of surprise.

"A wreath?" she whispered.

Derek stepped closer. He felt his face heating up.

"Liam said he would give you a wreath," Derek mumbled, looking at the flowers rather than her eyes. "I thought... I thought mine should come first."

He lifted the wreath. With gentle, careful hands, he placed it on her head.

He adjusted it, making sure it sat comfortably on her curls. The red roses contrasted beautifully with her dark hair and the cream dress. She looked like a queen of the forest.

Marissa reached up, her fingertips brushing the soft petals. She looked at him with wide, wondering eyes.

"Derek," she said softly. "Where did you get this?"

Derek rubbed the back of his neck, looking guilty.

"I took the flowers from your garden," he confessed. "To make them."

He braced himself. He squeezed his eyes shut tight.

He knew how much Marissa prized her garden. He knew she counted every bloom. He knew she had threatened him before about touching her things.

"She is going to hit me," he thought. "She is going to yell at me for ruining her rose bushes. She is going to call me a vandal."

He stood there, eyes closed, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the sharp tongue of the Grand Duchess.

The seconds ticked by. He heard the noise of the crowd, the music, the laughter. But from Marissa, there was silence.

Then, he felt a movement.

Marissa stepped closer. She stood on her tiptoes to reach him.

Flick.

She flicked his forehead with her finger.

It was a sharp, playful sting right between his eyebrows.

Derek’s eyes flew open. He stumbled back a step, rubbing his forehead with his hand.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed.

He looked at her in shock. She hadn’t slapped him. She hadn’t yelled.

Marissa was smiling. It was a bright, teasing smile that reached her eyes.

"Don’t touch my things without permission," she scolded him.

But her voice lacked any real heat. It was warm. It was affectionate. It was the tone one used with a mischievous child.

She turned around, her dress swirling, and began to walk toward the market stalls.

Derek stood there for a second, rubbing his head. He felt a surge of indignation mixed with relief.

"Not even a thank you?" Derek called out after her.

He jogged a few steps to catch up to her.

"I worked all night on it!" Derek protested, walking beside her. "I sat at my desk until the sun came up! I had to weave the vines three times because they kept breaking!"

Marissa kept walking, but her smile widened. She didn’t look at him, but she was listening.

"And," Derek added, playing for sympathy now. "I even got hurt."

He held up his left index finger. There, right on the tip, was a small, red, swollen mark where a rose thorn had pierced his skin during his clumsy weaving.

"Look," he said, shoving his finger into her field of vision. "It hurts a—"

Marissa stopped walking abruptly.

Derek almost bumped into her. He stopped, looking down at her.

She turned to face him fully. The crowd flowed around them, but in that small space, they were alone.

She didn’t look at his finger. She looked at his face. She looked at his eyes, which were full of a boyish need for approval.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t make a sarcastic remark.

She leaned forward.

She stood on her tiptoes again. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders to steady herself.

She pressed her lips to his cheek.

It was a soft, warm, and sweet. It was grateful. It was tender.

Derek froze. His entire body went rigid with shock.

He felt the softness of her lips against his skin. He smelled the scent of her hair, the lavender mixing with the scent of the roses he had woven.

Marissa pulled back slowly. She didn’t look away. She looked right into his eyes. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink.

"Thank you," Marissa whispered.

She reached up and touched the wreath on her head again.

"It’s beautiful," she said honestly. "I am sure it made me more beautiful."

Derek was stunned. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He touched his cheek where she had kissed him. His skin tingled.

He had expected a battle. He had expected a transaction. He hadn’t expected this.

"She kissed me," he thought, his mind reeling. "She actually kissed me. Voluntarily."

He felt a goofy, uncontrollable grin spreading across his face. He felt lightheaded.

Marissa laughed. It was a happy, bell-like sound.

She saw the stunned look on his face. She saw the way he was touching his cheek.

She reached down and grabbed his hand—the one with the thorn prick. Her fingers were cool and soft against his palm. She interlaced her fingers with his, squeezing gently.

"Come on," she said, pulling him forward. "Let’s go and enjoy the festival. I want to see the acrobats."

Derek stumbled forward, letting her lead him. He felt like he was floating.

He looked at the back of her head. He looked at the flowers woven into her dark curls. He looked at their joined hands.

"Yes," he whispered to himself, his voice filled with wonder. "Let’s go."

He squeezed her hand back, tight, walking through a market, wearing a smile that he couldn’t wipe off his face even if he wanted to.