Chapter 14
He Desires That Woman

Under his gaze, Layla trembled helplessly.

Still pretending to be bold… but she’s always been so easily frightened.

Recalling the girl she had always been, Matthias took slow, deliberate steps forward. He stopped only a pace away, and her eyes dropped immediately to his hand—no, to the glasses he held there.

“I… I’m sorry.”

Her voice was barely audible. Her eyes burned with anger, yet her words came out politely.

“I didn’t think you would be here, Your Grace. I truly didn’t mean to…”

“And if I weren’t—would that make it all right to sneak in?”

He tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. With every blink, her lashes shadowed her reddened eyes. She looked ready to cry, yet her gaze stayed stubbornly steady.

“Like this… like a thief?”

His voice carried the faintest trace of mockery. Layla’s cheeks flamed, glowing even in the dark.

“I only wanted to take back what was mine.”

“Oh? This?”

He raised the glasses, and her blush deepened. Even the tips of her ears turned pink.

“Yes.”

Her reply rang out with surprising firmness.

“The glasses you hid from me, Your Grace.”

Even as her voice held defiance, her body still shook.

Matthias turned toward the window, the very one where he had tossed her hat into the river.

“No, don’t!”

Pale as death, Layla lunged forward.

“Please! Give them back!”

Her shawl slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor. Realizing too late, she scrambled to raise her arms to cover the deep neckline of her nightdress.

“You’ve already seen me bare. Isn’t it ridiculous to act so modest over a little nightgown?”

Matthias gave a quiet laugh, amused at her blushing all the way to her neck.

“That… that wasn’t my fault!”

Flustered, Layla shook her head vehemently.

“I never wanted it to happen. I couldn’t help it…”

“And did you think I wanted it?”

“What? Oh… forgive me. I didn’t mean it like that.”

She hurried to snatch up the shawl and cover her shoulders and chest again. The half-dazed look on her face made Matthias chuckle low in his throat.

“Why the sudden act of a lady? Weren’t you the one who said you weren’t one?”

“…Whatever I am, Your Grace is a gentleman.”

Her tone was polite yet tinged with challenge. Matthias laughed again.

“Perhaps.”

But when his laughter faded, his voice dropped lower.

“Or perhaps not, Layla.”

“N-no!”

Gripping the shawl tight, she cried out in a rush.

“You are a gentleman! Of course you are!”

“Am I?”

“Yes! Karlsbar’s finest gentleman!”

“That’s quite a generous assessment.”

“Everyone who knows you would say the same.”

“And you? Don’t you think differently?”

“…No.”

Her whole body screamed yes, but she forced herself to shake her head hard.

“Of course not.”

Layla Llewellyn—tonight she sold her soul for a pair of glasses.

“So please, Your Grace… give them back. They mean so much to me. They’re precious.”

Her voice cracked as she bowed her head, swallowing humiliation and grief that burned her eyes with tears.

She knew all too well how weak her position was. If he chose, the Duke of Herhardt could brand her a thief, throw her glasses into the river, erase them from existence. What was effortless cruelty for him would be devastating to her.

So she endured.

When Matthias tossed the glasses lightly in the air and caught them again, then stepped forward, the last sliver of space between them vanished. Close enough now that she could feel his warmth.

Startled, Layla looked up. His eyes—deep, still, fathomless—reminded her of the cold, dark river that had nearly swallowed her whole that sweltering afternoon.

And just like that, her blurred vision sharpened—because Matthias had slipped the glasses onto her face.

His hand, cupping her cheek, was as warm and soft as sunlit sand. He was clear. Everything else, hazy.

Panicked, she tried to look away, but his grip drew her gaze back to his.

Why…

The question rose in her throat, but the unfamiliar fear stealing through her body stole the words away. His hand brushed against her lips.

Slowly, his fingers slid between them, halting against the damp softness inside. His sigh tickled her forehead, his breath as warm and gentle as his touch.

Eyes locked on hers, he traced the tender flesh of her lower lip with the tip of his finger, pressing in deeply enough for his nail to graze her teeth before retreating again. Over and over. Helpless, frozen, Layla could only endure the strange, unbearable sensation.

Just as tears threatened, Matthias finally closed his eyes. His grip on her jaw tightened, then released.

At last his hand fell away. Layla staggered back, choking on the breath she had been denied.

She trembled violently, gasping. Matthias opened his eyes again, calm and unreadable. The cool blue made her feel raw, shamed, afraid.

After studying her for a long moment, the Duke of Herhardt gave a quiet order.

“Go.”

Layla barely remembered leaving the pavilion. A blur of bowed farewell, of turning away, of walking and walking with no sense of direction. Only when she felt the cool wind, heard the insects’ cries, and saw her shadow stretch beneath the moonlight did she realize she had reached the edge of the forest.

Still dazed, she made her way toward the cottage. She neither kicked at stones nor fled in a hurry, but drifted like a ghost, her steps light and slow.

At the pump in the yard, she splashed water onto her face again and again until her lips, rubbed raw, swelled and stung. The strange touch would not wash away.

She returned to her room soaked—her face, her shawl, the front of her nightdress dripping with cold water. Without drying off, she sat numbly at the edge of her bed.

She couldn’t understand any of it. But one thing she knew with absolute certainty:

She never wanted to face him again.

With a snap of his fingers, Matthias summoned the canary from its perch.

Leaning against the window frame, he extended his hand. The bird landed easily on his finger. Its clipped wings had grown just enough to fly farther now—though he would have to trim them again soon. Not as short as before, perhaps.

Listening to its song, Matthias gazed down at the garden below, where Bill Remmer worked alone. Layla Llewellyn had not been seen in days—not since that night she reclaimed her glasses. She was avoiding him with all her strength.

Returning the bird to its cage, Matthias donned his red hunting coat.

He desired that woman.

Matthias finally admitted it.

He desired Layla.

No reason to deny it anymore. She had grown into a woman beautiful enough to stir any man’s hunger.

But he also knew—desire like this was fleeting. Passing. Not worth marring his life for.

That night, staring at her, he had thought it through again and again. And reached his conclusion.

No.

Layla Llewellyn was not worth it. And his desire—manageable, controllable.

So he let her go.

Or perhaps not too far.

“All is ready for the hunt, my lord,” Hessen reported quietly. Matthias nodded, accepted the gun, and left the chamber.

“Something wrong?”

Kyle watched her closely, worry in his voice. Layla, carefully pressing dried wildflowers into her notebook, lifted her eyes calmly.

“No.”

Her answer was clear, steady, as always.

“Do I look it?”

Her lips curved faintly as she whispered back, lashes lowering. Kyle’s cheeks warmed. Whenever she spoke like that—soft, with that look—it flustered him.

“You’ve been shut in for days. I was worried.”

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

Layla blinked slowly, then returned to her usual expression. Her lips, gentle and serene, always seemed touched with the hint of a smile. Her eyes gleamed bright with intelligence.

“I should be outside more now that I’ve found my glasses, but instead I’ve done the opposite.”

Kyle propped his chin on his hand, watching her. She smiled lightly, then bent over her notes, writing the details of where she’d found the flowers.

Soon, she’d take that notebook to the library, search the botany guides, and discover the name of her flower. Kyle decided he’d go too—just to see her smile when she found it. Layla wanted to know the name of every bird and every flower. Her oddness was part of what he loved.

Carefully pressing the page so the ink wouldn’t smudge, Layla closed the notebook. The glasses sparkled faintly on her small face.

“Want to take a walk? Down to the riverbank, to your favorite tree?”

“No.”

She answered at once.

“You used to go there every day. Why stop so suddenly? Did something in the woods frighten you?”

“No. But today, we shouldn’t go anyway.”

“Why? Oh—the duke’s hunt?”

Layla nodded, pushing the notebook aside. Not long after, the clamor of hooves filled the air.

“Wow. Incredible.”

Kyle rushed to the window, eyes wide. The Duke of Herhardt’s hunting party rode past the cottage and into the forest, hounds and beaters leading, five young men on horseback behind.

Layla stole a glance. As always, Matthias rode a glossy dark bay. The scarlet hunting jacket and gleaming shotgun cut sharply against the green.

“Of course, Layla, I’d never hunt. Not in my life,” Kyle said, face suddenly serious.

At that moment, Matthias turned his head toward the cottage. Even hidden behind the curtain, Layla startled and pulled back.

For ten days she had done everything to avoid him. She hadn’t gone near the river, hadn’t stepped foot in the woods. She had even helped less in the garden, slipping away whenever he returned.

She would endure until summer ended. In autumn, he would be engaged, move to the capital, and Arvis would be peaceful again.

“Are you all right? Do you want to come stay at my place for a while?” Kyle asked, concern etched on his face.

“I’m fine, Kyle,” Layla murmured, shaking her head and returning to the table.

“It’ll be over by tonight anyway.”

She opened a book, feigning nonchalance—just as gunshots cracked through the air. Hounds barked, horses thundered.

Layla’s pale hand, clenched tight, turned the page she hadn’t read.

By evening, she knew she would have to go into the forest.

There would be too many pitiful birds to bury.