Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 81 - Eighty One

They all scrambled to get out of the room.

In the hallway, the Captain of the Royal Guard, his face pale and sweating, did not dare to look back. He gestured frantically to his men. "Go! Make sure you find him! Don’t let him escape! Move!" He and his soldiers thundered down the hallway, their retreat a clattering, and deeply embarrassed scramble.

Senna was left standing alone in the empty, carpeted hallway. She stared at the broken door, the door to her private, inner sanctuary. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging so deeply into her palms that she almost drew blood.

She had heard it all.

She had heard his voice, the deep, furious, passionate roar of the Grand Duke, a sound of a man interrupted. She had heard her voice, the high, fake, and disgustingly intimate cry of pleasure. And she had seen the shadows on the curtain, the two figures locked together, inseparable.

Today, she thought, her mind a cold, sharp, splintering sheet of ice, it should have been me who saved him. He was wounded. He was hunted. He ran here, to my establishment, to my rooms. He came to me.

She had been given the perfect, golden opportunity to be his savior, to hide him, to tend to his wounds, to finally, truly indebt him to her.

And Marissa, that... that witch... had been here. She had stolen it. She had turned a desperate, life-and-death situation into a sordid, romantic scene. And in doing so, she had not just saved him; she had bound him to her in a way Senna never could.

"Marissa," she whispered to the curtain that’s clutching the splintered door, her voice a low, trembling hiss of pure hatred. "I will not let you take him away from me."

Inside the curtained, four-poster bed, the silence was absolute. The sounds of the retreating guards faded, leaving only the sound of two people, breathing heavily in the dark, their hearts pounding in their chests.

Marissa was still on Derek’s lap, her body pressed against his, her arms still locked around his neck. His one good arm was still clamped around her waist like a steel band. His wounded arm was trapped, awkwardly, between their bodies. And their lips... their lips were still just a fraction of an inch apart.

It was Marissa who moved first.

The adrenaline, the cold, calculating, actress’s focus that had saved them, began to recede, leaving behind a hot, prickling wave of awkwardness. She was, she realized, straddling her husband, a man she cared less about , in a mistress’s bed, her hair down, in her chemise and half-undone dress.

She pulled back, her hands flying from his neck as if she had been burned. She tried to scramble off him, but in the dark, tangled sheets, her legs caught, and she almost fell off the bed.

"Wait," Derek’s voice was a low, rough growl in the darkness. His hand on her waist tightened, not in passion, but simply to steady her.

She froze. "Let go of me," she whispered, her voice sharp.

He released her instantly. She pushed the curtain aside and tumbled out onto the floor, landing on her hands and knees in the now-silent room. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the air of the room feeling blessedly cool on her hot face.

She stood and, with shaking, fumbling fingers, she began to pull her bodice back into place, her back to him, her gaze fixed on the floor. She did not notice that Derek, too, had emerged from the bed, and was watching her. He saw her hands shaking as she tried, and failed, to re-lace the complex ties of her gown.

When she was done, she and Derek stood on opposite sides of the room, two strangers in the wreckage of a shared, bizarre performance. They did not look at each other. The silence, which had been tense, was now just... awkward.

Marissa spoke first, her voice a low, formal, and deeply embarrassed mumble. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

"I am sorry," she said, her eyes fixed on a dark stain on the carpet. "For... for putting my lips on yours. I... I had to make it look believable. But you shouldn’t have..."

"I’m sorry, it’s... it was a mistake," Derek said, his own voice unusually gruff. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze fixed on the broken the door. The curtain on the door clinging to the splintered wood. His gaze returned to her. He saw her dress and her gloves and realized it was when she’d grabbed his arm. They were stained dark, almost black in the dim light.

"I soiled your dress," he said, stating the obvious. "With my blood."

She looked at the dark stains on her fine, silk gloves, and then at him. At his arm. The blood was no longer just seeping. It was dripping, a slow, steady pat-pat-pat onto Senna’s expensive rug.

"You need that bandaged," she said, her voice returning to its normal and cold efficiency.

"Thank you," he said.

She wasn’t sure if he was thanking her for the observation, or for saving his life. She didn’t care. "I will find a cotton strip."

She strode past him, her head high, and disappeared.

Derek was left alone, his heart still pounding an unsteady rhythm. He leaned against the bedpost, the pain in his arm a dull, hot throb. He slowly, unconsciously, raised his fingers and touched his own lips.

A small, involuntary, and utterly confused smile touched his face.

"It’s soft," he whispered to the empty room.

~ ••••• ~

In the deep, midnight-blue heart of the royal palace, the Captain of the Guard was on his knees. He was in the King’s private archery range, a vast, stone hall lit by a single, massive candelabrum.

The air was cold and at the far end of the range stood a life-sized, wooden statue of a man, its body bristling with arrows.

"Report to His Highness," the Captain’s voice trembled, his forehead pressed to the cold floor. "Commander Leon... is dead...But... someone was in contact with him. An accomplice."

THWIP!

An arrow, black as night, flew from the shadows near the candelabrum. It sliced through the air, passing so close to the Captain’s ear he could feel the hiss of its feathers, and slammed into the wooden statue, just inches from its head.

The Captain whimpered, his entire body shaking.

"Has this person been caught?"

The voice from the shadows was young, beautiful, and as cold as a winter tomb.

Prince Liam, the King’s only son, stepped into the light. He was dressed in a simple, dark tunic, a large bow in his hand. He was already nocking a new arrow.

"I... I failed, Your Highness," the Captain stammered, his body pressed to the floor. "He... he escaped."

"He escaped." Liam’s voice was flat, a simple statement of fact.

"We chased him to the Golden Swan," the Captain rushed, desperate to explain. "But... but he... he just... disappeared inside."

Liam paused, his hand, which had been drawing the bowstring, freezing. He turned his head, his cold, beautiful eyes fixing on the Captain. "The Golden Swan?" he repeated, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper.

He raised the bow, drawing the arrow back until the string was tight against his cheek, aiming not at the statue, but at the Captain’s head.

"Derek’s dance establishment?" he purred. "Was Derek inside?"

"Yes, Your Highness!" the Captain shrieked, his terror absolute. "He was! We... we searched the building! We found him! He was in a private room... indulging! In... in sexual activities. With a woman. It seemed a coincidence... a terrible, unfortunate coincidence..."

Liam squinted, his aim perfect, his voice a low, thoughtful growl. "Coincidence?" he murmured, as if to himself. "I do not believe in such things."

THWIP!

He released the arrow. The Captain, in a last, desperate act of self-preservation, ducked, throwing his head to the side. The arrow, which had been aimed directly at his eye, hissed through the space where his head had just been and slammed, with a thud, into the wooden statue.

The Captain was lying on the floor, panting, his life saved by a single, desperate flinch.

Liam lowered his bow, a look of mild, cold annoyance on his face. "Keep a close eye on my cousin, Derek," he commanded.

The Captain, still trembling on the floor, did not dare to move. "Yes, Your Highness! I will! I swear it!"