CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER FORTY TWO

He took the small jar from her, his fingers brushing hers for a brief, electric moment. His gruff, commanding tone was back, a flimsy shield for the embarrassment still burning on his ears. "Give me the ointment."

He opened the lid. The sharp, clean scent of camphor and healing herbs cut through the soft lavender smell of the room. He scooped a small, pale-green dollop onto his fingertip, his movements surprisingly hesitant for a man who seemed to do everything with such abrasive confidence.

Marissa understood. She sat very still on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap. She obediently lowered her head and tilted her neck, exposing the thin, red graze.

The simple, necessary action brought them impossibly close.

He had to lean in, his face just inches from her skin. The world seemed to shrink to the small, warm space between them. Marissa could feel the heat radiating from his body, a presence far more imposing than she had realized. She could smell the faint, lingering scent of his body, mixed with the clean, sharp smell of his soap. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Derek, too, was frozen. All he could see was the sweep of her dark eyelashes against her cheek. All he could feel was the soft, warm puff of her breath against his hand. He could see the tiny, perfect mole under her right eye, a secret detail that felt far too intimate. His mind went completely, utterly blank. His anger from the hallway, his embarrassment from the doorway—it all evaporated, replaced by a strange, heavy, unfamiliar silence.

Marissa couldn’t breathe. This was too close. It was more unsettling than his anger. She turned her face away sharply, fixing her gaze on the swirling, floral pattern of the wallpaper on the far wall. It was a safe place to look, a solid, unmoving object to focus on.

Her sudden movement broke the spell. Derek realized, with a jolt of self-annoyance, that his hand was trembling. Why am I shaking? he thought furiously. He cleared his throat, forcing his hand to be steady.

He touched his finger to her skin.

Marissa winced, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. The ointment was cold, and the cut stung, but it was more than that. It was his touch. She had expected it to be rough, impatient. Instead, it was shockingly, agonizingly, hesitant.

He stopped immediately, pulling his hand back as if he had burned her. "Does it hurt?" he murmured. His voice was different. The commanding bark was gone, replaced by a low, soft sound she had never heard from him before.

"A little," she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the wallpaper.

"Sorry," he said, his voice still that low, unfamiliar rumble. "Don’t move. Let me just... let me just apply the last coat, and it will be over."

He forced his hand to be steady this time. He carefully, gently, smoothed the ointment over the entire length of the thin wound. His touch was light yet every brush of his fingertip against her skin sent a tiny, confusing shiver through her. He finished, but he didn’t pull away.

He kept his head bent, his face still close to her neck.

Marissa tensed, every muscle in her body going rigid. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice a tight whisper.

"Don’t move," he said, his own voice sounding strained. "I’m... trying to make it feel better."

And then, he did the most bizarre, childish, and unexpected thing she could have ever imagined. He pursed his lips and blew a very soft, very cool, continuous breeze of air across the graze.

She shivered, a full-body tremor this time. The sensation was absurd. It was the sting of the ointment, followed by the cool, gentle air, and the overwhelming, warm proximity of the Grand Duke. It was the most comforting, and most terrifying, thing she had felt in years.

He finally pulled back, as if snapping out of a trance. He sat back on the bed, his entire body rigid with embarrassment. He refused to look at her, staring intently at the floor as he replaced the lid on the ointment jar, the click of the ceramic loud in the silent room.

"Ryan always says when someone is injured, you should blow some air on it to feel better," he said, his voice gruff and directed at the floorboards. He was clearly mortified. "He... he always made me do that for his scraped knees. So I thought... I thought it might work on you."

Marissa looked at his profile, at the hard line of his jaw and the stubborn set of his mouth, and the angry, powerful Duke she had come to know dissolved. In his place was a man who, despite himself, was trying to be kind. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. "That’s so sweet of him," she said softly.

The mention of the boy’s name seemed to settle the strange, vibrating tension in the room, grounding them both. Derek finally looked up, the awkwardness in his eyes replaced by something much more serious. The "skiver" was gone. The flustered husband was gone. This was the head of the house, and he was deeply, profoundly worried.

"I have a favor to ask of you," he said.

His shift in tone put her on guard, but she nodded. "Go ahead."

"After Ryan makes a full recovery... I want to send him out of the estate. For his safety." He saw the question in her eyes and quickly explained. "Lorena gave him the sleeping draught, but she didn’t give him the poison. The person who truly tried to kill him hasn’t been caught. It would be... too dangerous for him to stay here."

He looked down at his hands, his voice losing its ducal command, becoming the voice of a man making a difficult confession. "I want to leave his well-being to you. I have family... distant relations... in a secure estate in the northern mountains. I know they are trustworthy, I know he will be well taken care of and safe, but..." He hesitated, struggling with the words. "I don’t want him to be alone. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to leave him in an unknown place with strangers. With you... I trust you. I was hoping you would at least visit him often, to be a... a family member he knows."

Marissa stared at him, shocked by this sudden, raw vulnerability. "You truly love your son," she said quietly. "I’ve been meaning to ask... what happened to his mother? Why is he so attached to Lorena?"

Derek took a deep, heavy breath. "Actually... Ryan is my nephew." The admission seemed to cost him something. "My elder brother, Theodore, died at the war on the northern border. Ryan is his son. The woman he loved... she... she did not want the child after he was gone." His voice became cold, bitter. "She deserted him. Left him with my grandmother in exchange for a large sum of money and her freedom."

"My God," Marissa whispered.

"I swore to Theodore that I would protect him, that I would be a father figure to him," Derek continued, his gaze distant, lost in a painful memory. "Grandmother employed Lorena to care for him. And she did. She was diligent, she was kind to him, she raised him as her own. With time, she gained Grandmother’s complete trust and favor. She was given the household authority because she truly did manage the household very well, especially with Grandmother getting older. I... I never fully trusted her ambition, but I tolerated her, because she was good to Ryan. I never imagined," his hands clenched into tight fists, "she would ever, ever use him like that."

Marissa finally understood. The entire, complex, poisonous dynamic of the household—Beatrice’s fear, Lorena’s jealousy, Derek’s tolerance—it all centered on this one small, vulnerable boy.

Her heart, which she had guarded so carefully, ached for him. And for the man sitting next to her, who was playing the part of a fool to the world while secretly trying to hold his broken family together.

She reached out, not to him, but to the small ointment jar he had brought. She picked it up, her own small gesture of acceptance.

"Rest assured, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft but firm, a promise. "I will treat Ryan as if he were my own. I will visit him, wherever you send him. I will write to him every week. I will make sure he understands your love for him and knows this decision was made only for his protection." She saw the lingering doubt in his eyes and added, "Don’t worry. He won’t resent you for this. I will make sure of it."

Derek looked at her, truly looked at her, for a long, silent moment. He saw no scheme in her eyes, no ambition, no trace of the sharp-tongued shrew. He saw only sincerity.

He gave a single, sharp nod. "Thank you."

He stood up, the moment of vulnerability over. He was the Duke again. He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the knob, and then left without another word, closing it softly, securely, behind him.