Chapter 23
Torn, Crushed, and Cast Aside

Whenever Layla struggled, Matthias subdued her. And the more his restraint tightened, the more desperately Layla resisted.

Each time she dared open her eyes, the scene before her had changed—

Shaking leaves and the sky.

Matthias.

The dirt ground, shadows flickering across it.

Matthias again.

Dust swirled and settled around them as their bodies rolled together. Their ferocious kiss looked more like combat than intimacy.

At some point, Layla no longer understood what she was doing. There was only the terror of suffocating and the desperate need to breathe. But Matthias’s mouth and tongue pressed harder, consuming her like a predator devouring prey alive.

Her consciousness jolted back when his lips slid to her neck. Buttons popped, her blouse falling open to bare the line of her collarbone.

While his lips teased at her pounding pulse, his hand moved up, groping over her thighs, her waist, then seizing her heaving chest.

“Ah…!”

Layla jerked wildly, clutching at his shirt until buttons flew and scattered across the dirt. Her nails raked red lines down his nape. At the same time, his mouth left its own burning mark against her collarbone.

When his lips moved lower, Layla broke down, sobbing aloud. She couldn’t comprehend it—his heat, his hands, the shameful, alien sensations that tore through her.

And yet, he went no further. Bracing on one arm, Matthias tilted his head and looked down at her. Layla opened her eyes again.

His breathing was still uneven, but his gaze was not that of a man swept away by lust. No—it was calm, detached. The same eyes that had once crushed her coin beneath his heel. The same eyes that had shot birds without a flicker of hesitation.

Humiliation flared in her cheeks. Even now, even like this, he looked at her in silence. Slowly, his eyes closed, then opened again—calmer. His throat stilled.

The breeze stirred Layla’s tangled golden hair. Matthias let the fistful of dirt he had been holding slip through his fingers. Then he slid off her, sitting heavily on the ground.

And he looked. At Layla curled beneath the tree, sobbing. At the fluttering laundry strung across the yard. At the weathered little cottage. At himself, disheveled, sitting amidst this absurd scene.

A bitter laugh escaped him as he brushed his hair back from his damp forehead.

All this—for you?

With a long sigh, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. A faint smear of blood stained his skin.

For nothing. For nothing but you…

When he glanced back, Layla was crawling away, clutching a broken branch with trembling hands, glaring at him through streaming tears.

Matthias’s expression did not change. He rose slowly, staring at the hand that had wanted—so keenly—to wrap around her slender throat.

He picked up his jacket, then turned, unhurried, untroubled.

Summer in Berck was short. Soon the cool winds would come, and as if it had all been a lie, the season would change.

He knew that well.

Only after Matthias’s figure had vanished did Layla manage to stand.

She stumbled to the cottage, knees buckling again and again. She should have fallen. Better if she had.

Tears broke loose, streaming as she scrubbed her lips with the back of her hand, with her apron hem—anything—to erase the vile memory of his mouth. But the feeling clung stubbornly, unshakable.

She pumped water at the well, splashing herself as it overflowed, uncaring as her clothes soaked.

“…No.”

She muttered it without knowing what she was denying.

No. No. No.

Over and over, until her breath grew ragged again and the bucket filled.

She washed her face, rubbed at her neck where his mouth had marked her, scrubbed her ears. Still, his touch lingered.

At last she hefted the bucket and upended it over herself. Cold water drenched her from head to toe, sending violent shivers through her.

Still, the memory clung.

She hauled another bucketful, rinsed her mouth again and again, spitting onto the ground.

Ptoo.

If she spat it out, maybe the memory would leave with it. But it didn’t.

Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.

And then she swallowed it by mistake, choking, coughing, crying—before she fetched more water yet again.

Matthias strolled the garden leisurely, pausing where the rosebeds met the marble steps of the mansion.

Dust could be brushed away. That did not matter. What mattered were the memories. With each step, they grew sharper.

Holding Layla in his arms had obliterated reason. There had been only hunger, a beast’s craving. If not for her frightened sobs, he might have let it consume him.

He bit his lip, raking his hair back.

Perhaps he should have seen it through to the end. Desire was meaningless, hollow, base. If only he could have accepted himself as a man degraded, raving for a woman like her. Perhaps then…

He looked up. The mansion gleamed golden in the late sun. He turned back—the forest stretched behind, empty, desolate. Nothing. Always nothing.

The scent of roses clung to his hand as he wiped his mouth. He seized a blossom from the bed and crushed it in his fist.

Torn, crushed, cast aside.

Petals shredded, fell around his feet. With them came memories of the girl who had walked this garden for years, always with roses in bloom. Snow had fallen, seasons had turned, and the child had grown into a woman.

But in the end, it was nothing.

He stepped over the ruined petals. Evening’s cool wind rose—the harbinger of summer’s end. Without once looking back, Matthias climbed the steps and entered the mansion’s light.

The western sky deepened to violet.

Darkness crept into the room, but Kyle did not light a lamp. He sat by the window, eyes fixed on the changing sky.

Since returning from the cottage, he had remained there, silent.

They had shared lunch as if nothing were wrong. Layla had forced herself to act as usual, and so had he. But he knew better. If he failed to find an answer, he would lose her.

Kyle dragged a hand down his face.

Layla had said she wanted to remain friends forever. That to do so, they needed distance. He understood what she meant now. But his thoughts were different. He wanted to stay by her side forever—but not as just a friend.

He could not delay any longer.

Resolute, he rose.

Taking a deep breath, he left his room and walked down the hall. Light spilled faintly from his father’s study. He straightened his clothes, steadied himself.

At the party, his mother had paraded noble daughters before him. She already thought of marriage. He had not understood her impatience, but tonight, he was grateful for it.

‘I won’t lose you, Layla. I won’t let us drift apart. How could we?’

With that vow, Kyle knocked firmly.

“Father, it’s me.”

“Come in, Kyle.”

The warm voice gave him courage. He opened the door slowly.

Dr. Etman smiled from behind his desk, welcoming his son.

Kyle did not slump into the chair as usual. He stood tall.

“I have something to tell you, Father.”

“From the look on your face, I’d say it’s serious.”

“Yes.”

Kyle clenched his fists, summoning his courage.

“I want to marry, Father.”

“Marry? You?”

Dr. Etman’s eyes creased with surprise.

“Yes.”

Kyle’s voice was steady now, clear.

“I want to marry Layla. And I want us to go to university together.”