CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER FORTY ONE

The great house was finally, mercifully, quiet.

In Marissa’s bedchamber, the air was warm and smelled of lavender and soap. Lily, her eyes still puffy from a night of terror and relief, had just finished putting the last of Marissa’s belongings back in their drawers. The trunks, packed for an exile that had never truly begun, were now empty, pushed back into their storage closets.

A hot bath had been drawn, and Lily had helped Marissa wash away the grime of the long, terrible night. The small cut on her neck, no longer bleeding, was a thin, red, angry line.

After helping her into a simple, unadorned silk nightgown, Lily had fussed over her, trying to get her to eat, to drink, to let her call the physician. Marissa had refused it all, her body exhausted but her mind still racing.

"That is enough for tonight, Lily," Marissa had said, her voice gentle but firm. "You have been brave. Go to bed. I will complete the rest."

Lily, seeing the unshakeable resolve in her mistress’s eyes, curtsied and left the room, leaving Marissa truly alone for the first time since the ordeal had begun.

She walked to her vanity, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her skin. She sat, picking up a heavy silver-backed brush, and began to pull it slowly through her long, damp, unbound hair. The repetitive motion was calming, a simple, normal act in a world that had become anything but. She was safe. Ryan was safe. The poison had been purged, and the boy was sleeping soundly, a team of guards now posted at his door. Lorena was gone, her reign of terror over.

She had won. But it felt less like a victory and more like a cease-fire.

She winced as a strand of hair caught on the small, stinging wound on her neck. She set the brush down, her shoulders slumping with a weariness that went bone-deep. She stood, walking to her bed, the soft silk of her nightgown feeling thin and cold in the large, empty room. As she reached the bed, the thin silk strap on her left shoulder slipped, sliding down her arm. She sighed, too tired to even be annoyed, and reached up to pull it back into place.

At that exact moment, a knock, followed immediately by the creak of the door opening, broke the silence.

"You should always check if the door is properly..."

Derek’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cut off abruptly. He stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. He had come to her room, his mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts, carrying a small, white porcelain jar of the estate’s best healing ointment. He had meant to knock, to wait. But he had seen the door was slightly ajar, and a sudden, illogical fear that something else had happened, that she was in trouble again, had made him push it open without thinking.

He had expected to find her in a robe, perhaps reading. He did not expect this.

He saw her standing by the bed, bathed in the soft, golden light of the lamps. She was in a simple white nightgown, her dark, unbound hair tumbling over her shoulders. He saw the line of her back, the curve of her arm, and the exact moment her hand, small and pale, reached up to pull the fallen strap back onto her shoulder.

His brain, usually so sharp and quick, simply stopped working. He felt a sudden, unfamiliar, and deeply uncomfortable wave of heat climb up his neck.

Marissa spun around, a sharp gasp catching in her throat. Her hand flew up to clutch the front of her nightgown, her eyes wide with shock and a sudden, cold flash of anger.

Derek’s reaction was immediate and clumsy. He turned his back to her so fast he nearly stumbled, his gaze now fixed intently on the floral painting on her wall as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. "I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice sounding strangled.

Behind him, Marissa, her fear instantly replaced by pure annoyance, snatched her heavy cashmere robe from the foot of the bed. She thrust her arms into it, her movements sharp and angry, and yanked the belt tight with a furious tug.

"Why aren’t you wearing an outer robe?" he asked, his voice still directed at the wall.

Marissa stared at his rigid, unmoving back in disbelief. "You sneak into my bedchamber in the middle of the night without knocking," she said, her voice dripping with ice, "and now you have the nerve to question why I am not fully clothed?"

"Well, I..." he stammered, his mind grasping for any defense. "Y-you are my lawful wife! Is it wrong for me to... to care for you?" He cringed at his own words. He sounded like a buffoon.

"Yet you still came in," she said flatly. "You can turn around now."

He turned, slowly, his movements stiff. He kept his eyes carefully, deliberately, fixed on her face. He saw the anger in her expression, the high color in her cheeks, and the angry, red line on her neck that was the entire reason he came. He strode to her bedside table and dropped the small porcelain jar onto it, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room.

Marissa’s gaze followed the movement. She saw the white jar. Her angry expression faltered, the hard line of her mouth softening in surprise. She looked from the jar back to his face. "You are here to deliver medicine?" she asked, her voice calmer.

"What were you thinking?" Derek asked, his own voice a bit too sharp, defensive. "That I came to..." He stopped, not wanting to finish the embarrassing thought.

"Thank you," Marissa said, cutting him off.

His planned retort died in his throat. He just stared at her.

"For saving me earlier, from Lorena," she clarified, her voice quiet. "And for this." She gestured to the small jar. She picked it up from the side table, her fingers tracing the cool ceramic, and then sat on the edge of her bed. The anger had drained out of her, leaving only the deep, bone-weary exhaustion. "You seem cynical, Your Grace," she said, looking down at the jar. "But your conduct... it is not bad."

It was the closest to a compliment she had ever given him. Derek felt a strange, unfamiliar, and entirely ridiculous wave of pride swell in his chest. He felt his posture straighten. He, too, sat on the edge of the bed, though he kept a careful, respectable distance between them.

"That’s right," he said, his voice full of a sudden, pompous confidence. "I have always upheld justice. I do not tolerate wrongdoings in my household, from anyone."

Marissa looked up at him, her face perfectly serious. And then she gave a small, mocking laugh, a soft, airy sound that was more deflating than any insult.

"Then you are truly remarkable, Your Grace," she said, her voice laced with a light, teasing taunt.

Derek’s proud expression faltered. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A short, confused chuckle was all he could manage.

Marissa, seeing she had flustered him, leaned in slightly. Her eyes, sharp and observational, noticed what his flustered turn to the wall had hidden. "What’s wrong with your ear?" she asked, her tone one of simple curiosity.

He instinctively reached up, his fingers brushing the shell of his ear. "What’s wrong with it?" he asked, confused.

"Why is it so red?" she asked, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She had seen it when he first turned around—the deep, crimson blush that had stained his neck and the tips of his ears. "Are you blushing? From my praise?"

The accusation, so direct, so... playful... shattered his composure completely. The heat he had been trying to suppress rushed back to his face with a vengeance. "You are talking nonsense!" he snapped, his voice too loud. He stood up, needing to do something, to break the strange, awkward intimacy of the moment.

He pointed at the jar in her hand. "Give me the ointment," he commanded, his voice rough. "Your neck... you can’t possibly reach the wound properly yourself. Let me apply it."