Chapter 74
I’ll Come for You

The lovemaking that began on the sofa ended on the bed, and by the time it was over Layla was so spent she could do nothing but gasp for breath. That was why she didn’t realize what Matthias was doing until it was too late.

“…!”

Her eyes widened in shock when she discovered her wrists were bound. She didn’t even have the strength to scream—so all she could do was glare at him. Matthias only smiled lazily as he tied the other end of his necktie to one of the bedposts.

“…Untie me. T-this instant, untie me!”

Her voice stammered as she thrashed, but Matthias merely stroked her hair gently.

“Be still, Layla.”

He loosened the knot just enough that she could lie down comfortably.

“If you move, it’ll tighten.”

He picked up a pillow from the floor and tucked it beneath her head, even pulled the blanket over her—but her struggling only made it slip back down to the floor.

His brow furrowed briefly, then relaxed again. Covering her was pointless—she’d only kick it off. The warmth of the fire would suffice.

He brushed back the damp strands clinging to her flushed face and neck, then rose and headed for the bathroom. Sharing a bath would have been best, but she would never comply. For now, this was safer. At least she couldn’t escape while he was gone.

When Matthias returned with a warm wet towel, Layla lay crumpled against the rumpled sheets, limp from her struggles. Even the pillow he’d given her had been tossed to the floor again.

With a frown, Matthias undid the tie biting into her wrists. The raw red marks drew a weary sigh from him.

“I told you it would hurt if you struggled.”

“…Madman.”

Her voice was faint as she stared up at him, watching him rub her wrist with infinite gentleness. His touch sickened her, but she hadn’t the strength to lift even a finger.

Feeling as though her body no longer belonged to her, Layla shut her eyes and yielded to his hands. He laid her flat on her back and sat at the bedside, towel in hand.

Slowly, carefully, Matthias wiped her clean, removing the white traces left across her skin. When he reached her stomach, Layla drew a ragged breath and forced her eyes open.

His gaze was calm. Too calm. So detached that it chilled her. Was this really the same man who had just been inside her? His hands, too, were stripped of any passion. No desire, no heat—only clinical precision. That, more than anything, made her burn with shame.

She would never understand him. Sometimes it seemed he lived with some hidden switch in his head—one click and he became an entirely different man.

Layla closed her eyes again. Her breathing steadied, and lying quietly, she almost resembled a pale, beautiful marble statue.

Matthias draped his robe over her bare body and lifted her into his arms. She stirred faintly, startled, but made no further resistance.

Carrying her back to his chair, where he had spent the evening reviewing documents, he settled down with Layla in his lap.

“…I hate you.”

He thought she was asleep, but her faint murmur made him pause, lowering the papers to look at her. Droplets from his still-damp hair fell onto her bloodless cheeks.

“I… I truly hate you.”

Her whisper scraped from deep inside her, as though she was wrenching out her very soul.

She had never hated anyone before. Not the mother who abandoned her, not the relatives who beat and belittled her, not even Mrs. Etman, who had treated her as less than human. Not because there was nothing to hate—only because hate was too heavy a burden.

She had lived by emptying herself, again and again, like the birds who hollow themselves out to soar. With a heart weighed down by hate, she couldn’t have borne life at all.

But this man—Matthias von Herhardt—him, she hated.

Even if that hatred was a stone dragging her down with every step, she wanted to hate him with all her heart.

Hate. I hate you. I hate you.

She whispered it over and over until finally she slipped into unconsciousness. Matthias chuckled quietly.

He watched her a while longer, then returned to his documents. She slept in his arms, against his warmth, breathing softly, like she belonged there.

If you want to live well, you ought to beg me not to discard you, Layla.

The sudden rise of that strange displeasure drew a hollow sigh from him. His arm tightened around her unconsciously.

He could give this beautiful mistress everything: a fine home, a life of comfort. If she wished, he could send her to the university she longed for, let her spend her life studying the birds she loved. He could give her everything that doctor’s son could not.

And yet, she claimed she would live well only by leaving him…

He brushed her lips, those insolent lips, soft and warm despite the arrogance they had spoken.

A languid sense of satisfaction seeped into him as he resumed his work. Her steady breathing was like music. Her warmth, her scent, the tiniest movements—he liked everything about her. Perhaps this desire would last longer than he thought. He did not find that thought unpleasant.

When at last he laid aside the final document and looked up, snow was fluttering outside the window. On the frozen river, flakes drifted down in silence. The sight conjured another memory: the first snowfall of the winter. That night of the disastrous charity play. That lamplit park where he had seen Layla smile.

It’s snowing…

Her delighted voice. That face glowing with joy, lashes trembling as white flakes settled on them. He remembered it as vividly as if it were before him now.

“Layla.”

He spoke her name like a song, quiet as the falling snow. She only stirred faintly, eyes still closed. The robe slipped down to her waist.

If she opened her eyes now, she would smile as she had that night.

For a moment, he considered waking her. Instead, he cupped her cheek. Drawn by his warmth, she nuzzled closer in her sleep, like a child seeking comfort. The tiny motion made his breath catch.

The robe slid lower, and he did not pull it back. She shivered and pressed herself against him. His gaze deepened.

Soft, fragile—like the snow drifting beyond the window—something stirred in his chest. A strange emotion, different from desire. An unfamiliar urge to hold her, look at her, endlessly.

He drew her tighter, bare skin against him, and leaned back in his chair.

Snow swirled beyond the window as he closed his eyes and pressed his lips gently to her lashes.

Layla.

He mouthed her name, lips shaping it in silence. His breath grew slower, warmer.

Layla. Layla. Layla.

The night train from the capital rolled into Karlsbar Station. Dawn had not yet broken, and the platform lay shrouded in cold gray light.

Passengers spilled out, lugging heavy bags, striding briskly despite their sleep-tousled faces. The station soon bustled with life again.

Kyle was among them, disembarking after the rush. His parents, certain he was on his way to the southern continent, had no reason to be here. Even Kyle himself had thought so, right up until the train entered Latz Central.

Layla had never answered his final letter, though he had poured all his courage into it. He told himself it was time to let go. He told himself to accept his father’s advice, to broaden his horizons abroad. He thought he had decided.

So why?

Why had he suddenly changed course? Why was he here instead? He couldn’t explain it. All through the ride to Karlsbar, he had wrestled for an answer, and found none.

It was just… a feeling.

That Layla’s silence wasn’t like her. That something was wrong. A foreboding he couldn’t shake. Perhaps it was only longing and foolishness—but even so, he had to see her with his own eyes. That was all he wanted.

He strode across the emptied platform with his trunk in hand. The frail boy of last summer was gone; in his place was a young man, his gaze steadier, older.

Outside, the square lay blanketed in white. Snow still fell softly, settling on his hair and shoulders.

“Layla…”

Her name left him in a sigh, misting into the cold air. His chest ached, but it throbbed too with wild anticipation.

Gripping his trunk, Kyle crossed the snowy square with long, purposeful strides.

I’ll love you as if you were my whole world. Treasure you. Never hurt you, Layla.

That was the truest confession of his heart. If only she would nod once, he could keep the promises he had written.

I’ll come for you.

Come with me. To a place where we can be happy, the two of us.