Chapter 57
The Price of a Life

Layla ran frantically down the forest path, eyes darting from tree to tree where Phoebe often perched. The clatter of the belongings in her bag mixed with her ragged breathing in a chaotic rhythm.

Autumn had passed its peak, and winter was already closing in. The cold, damp air stabbed at her lungs, but she couldn’t stop. Each gunshot drove deeper into her mind the image of Phoebe’s bloodied body.

What if they shot Phoebe…

The metallic stench of iron seemed to fill her every breath, and her fear swelled. The Duke’s promise not to shoot her bird suddenly felt meaningless. All she could remember was Matthias von Herhardt slaughtering birds to lure her out, and killing them before her eyes without a flicker of hesitation.

Why had I trusted his promise?

She had known perfectly well what kind of man he was. Yet she had let herself relax over a single word from him. What was that promise to a man like him? It meant nothing. He might have already forgotten it altogether.

Layla’s eyes burned red as she pounded along the path toward the Schulte River. If she couldn’t find Phoebe, then at least she wanted to find the Duke—to beg him once more. It was probably useless, but she had to try. And as if heaven heard her plea, she soon spotted him and his party up ahead on the path.

No voice came. She just ran—toward them, toward the cluster of nobles on horseback. One of them was raising his gun at a branch where a white bird sat. Layla recognized him instantly. The butcher of beautiful birds—the Duke.

Phoebe!

She wanted to scream, but what escaped her lips was nothing more than a strangled whimper, as if her throat had closed. In that same moment, the Duke pulled the trigger.

Bang—

The cold crack of the gunshot echoed through the forest.

The hunters fell silent, stunned. Time itself seemed frozen, except for Matthias, who calmly lowered his rifle. The barrel gleamed in a shaft of light breaking through the branches.

“What’s this, Matthias?”

At last, Riette spoke.

“Even the Duke of Herhardt can miss a shot? Well, that’s a sight worth remembering!”

His hollow laughter spread through the party, and others joined in. Matthias’s bullet had struck only the tip of the branch. Phoebe fluttered into the air, unharmed, while the broken twig fell uselessly to the ground.

Matthias smirked faintly as he watched the pigeon fly eastward, toward the far edge of the estate.

“Huh. And why is she here?”

Riette, still chuckling, suddenly glanced further down the path. There stood a woman, frozen, staring. Matthias followed his gaze—and saw her. Layla.

“Le… Layla!”

The attendants, startled by the intruder, rushed toward her. Yet even as they moved, Layla kept her eyes on Matthias. There was no hesitation, no guarded suspicion in her gaze this time. She looked at him as if he were the only man alive in the world.

“It’s dangerous, Miss Layla! Didn’t Mr. Remmer warn you? The Duke was hunting today…”

“I… I’m sorry.”

Only when one of them caught her by the arm did Layla come to her senses.

“I must have… I must have mistaken the date. Truly, I’m so sorry.”

She pressed a hand to her pounding chest and bowed again in apology, eyes cast firmly down to the ground.

The attendants left her with stern words of warning and returned to their places. Matthias, as if indifferent to such a minor disturbance, tugged on his reins.

Layla lingered, unable to leave. He urged his horse westward—deliberately away from the direction Phoebe had flown.

Her eyes brimmed with tears that did not fall, making them shine even brighter. She had seen it clearly. He hadn’t missed. He had aimed for the branch on purpose. He had scared Phoebe into fleeing far, away from the hunters’ guns.

It was no accident.

She knew exactly how well the Duke could shoot. He never missed.

Before the bend in the path took him out of sight, Matthias turned his head back. They were far apart—so far he looked no bigger than her fingertip—but Layla felt it with absolute certainty. Their eyes met.

When he finally disappeared from view, she turned as well. Step by step, she retraced her frantic path, now drained, her body heavy and hollow like a ghost drifting without weight.

I’ve felt this way before…

A faint memory flickered in her fogged mind, but she pushed it away. She couldn’t dwell on it now. She clutched her bag strap tight and kept walking.

By the time her vision cleared again, the cottage had come into view. She sank onto the chair on the porch with a long, exhausted sigh.

The Duke had kept his promise. That truth was as sharp and clear as the flawless blue of the autumn sky.

Tap, tap.

The sound at the window startled her. Layla, who had been sitting at her desk under the lamplight, sprang to her feet.

“Phoebe!”

She rushed to the window, but instead of her pigeon, Matthias von Herhardt stood there. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the scream that nearly burst out. In the yard, Bill Remmer was chopping wood. If she cried out, he would come running at once.

She locked the door tight before hurrying back to the open window. The Duke was still in his hunting clothes, the faint coppery scent of blood clinging to him. His scarlet hunting jacket was flecked with dark stains along the sleeve and chest.

“Your pigeon’s right there.”

He tilted his chin toward the far corner of the windowsill. Sure enough, Phoebe sat perched there, calm as though nothing had happened.

Suppressing the urge to yell, Layla looked back at him. Behind him, his dark-brown horse stood quietly, and the sky above had deepened into the blue of twilight—the same clear, piercing color as his eyes.

“Have you thought about it?”

The Duke’s sudden question snapped her out of her daze.

“How you’ll repay me for this favor.”

She blinked at him, bewildered, as he gestured toward Phoebe with his chin.

“That… I…”

Her throat went dry.

“You kept your promise, Your Grace. But does that really count as a favor?”

Her halting words drew a smirk from him.

“O-of course, I’m grateful…”

“Just grateful?”

“I… I think it proves you’re a man of honor, who keeps his word.”

“Weren’t you the one who insisted I wasn’t a gentleman at all?”

He leaned his arm casually against the windowsill.

“I… I may have spoken too rashly, then.”

The more she spoke, the deeper into a pit she felt she sank. Still, she struggled to piece together something that wouldn’t provoke him.

“So I’m a gentleman, then I’m not, then I am again?”

“Something like that.”

“And that would make you… a queen?”

“W-what? Oh…”

Her nose wrinkled in mortification at the memory he’d invoked—her shouting at the stream that if he was a gentleman, then she was a queen.

She wanted to feign ignorance, but her cheeks were already burning red. Every time she tried to snap back, she ended up humiliated. Why was it that she could smile politely at anyone else she despised, but in front of him she couldn’t control her temper?

“I… I apologize for that day. And thank you, truly, for keeping your promise.”

Her whispered words were drowned for a moment by Bill’s loud grunt and the thud of his axe splitting wood outside. Layla was wound tight with nerves, but the Duke looked perfectly at ease.

“What a pity, Layla.”

His hand shot forward, seizing her chin through the window.

“I didn’t go to all this trouble just to hear polite words.”

Dread swept over her. She stumbled back, but as always, he was quicker, stronger. Her glasses were knocked off, and his face filled her blurred vision.

Her lips jolted in shock as his pressed against them. When she tried to twist away, his fingers dug into her hair, clutching hard. Pain pricked a gasp from her, and in that instant, his tongue forced its way inside.

Bill’s axe struck again outside. The sound of splitting wood mixed with her muffled whimpers.

Layla’s hands pushed against his shoulders, but the harder she struggled, the deeper the kiss grew. Unlike last summer’s violent assault, this time he kissed with unbearable slowness, sucking at her lips and tongue as if savoring her.

She fought for breath, gasping, her chest heaving. The faint smell of mint and blood clung to him. She clenched her lips shut, but he didn’t relent.

“Is this all Phoebe’s life is worth?”

His voice was slick, lips still wet, the tone almost teasing.

Layla couldn’t process the meaning. Her blood had gone cold; all she could do was stare at him, trembling. Her lips parted again, betrayed by the ragged sob of her breathing.

“Ah!”

In a rush, he seized her jaw tighter and devoured her mouth again. Their tongues twisted, dragging desperate, wet sounds from her throat. Her hands, once pushing, slid weakly down his shoulders, lifeless.

Only when faint sobs broke through her breathless moans did he finally release her. Even in the thickening dark, the shine of saliva on his lips glistened. Layla imagined hers must look no different—and wanted nothing more than to collapse into the floor.

“Layla!”

Bill’s voice snapped her back.

“Layla! Could you bring me a glass of water?”

She had to answer. She had to.

While she floundered, Matthias calmly pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his lips, then tugged her face closer to wipe hers as well. Finally, he slipped her glasses back onto her trembling face.

“Layla?”

Bill’s footsteps thudded closer, and the sound of chopping stopped.

“Wash this and return it to me.”

The Duke pressed the damp handkerchief into her shaking hand and gave the order softly, as if nothing had happened. Then he turned, mounted his horse with ease, and was gone.

“Layla, child? Is something the matter?”

Bill’s voice called from just outside, his boots pounding toward the door.

Layla slammed the window shut, pulled the curtain tight, and rushed to open the door before he came in. He stood there, concerned.

“I’m sorry, Uncle. I… I must’ve dozed off for a moment.”

She hastily smoothed down her hair, still tousled from the Duke’s grip.

“I thought something had happened.”

“I’ll start supper right away.”

“There’s no rush. Take your time.”

Bill chuckled, reassured, and went back out to finish stacking the wood.

When the front door shut again, Layla’s strength gave out. She collapsed onto the floor where she stood. The handkerchief the Duke had forced into her hand fluttered from her fingers and settled on the wooden boards.