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Chapter 65
“Who said love exists in only one form?”
“…I have no desire to quarrel with you, Uncle. Please, just leave.”
After watching Retricia rise from the garden, Killian drew the curtain shut.
The heavy fabric blocked out even the midday sun, plunging the room into darkness as if it were night.
Click.
Justin lit a match and touched it to a candle, its flicker throwing faint light across the room. He patted Killian’s arm.
“Killian, think about it. Whenever Retricia is unwell, you drop everything and rush to her side.”
“That’s nothing more than habit.”
“And when she smiles, you’re happy.”
“I just think it’s better than seeing her cry.”
“Then why did you try to hide the wound on your palm when it got worse?”
“Because Retricia would fuss as though it were her own injury, worrying over every little thing. I didn’t want to deal with that nuisance.”
“You mean… you didn’t want her to worry?”
Killian’s mechanical answers faltered. His chest rose deeply, then sank.
Watching his nephew’s evasive silence, Justin patted his back the way he often comforted Retricia.
If wanting someone to smile, if wishing not to cause them worry, was not affection—then what else could one call love?
“Killian, love doesn’t exist in just one shape. Yes, there is that dazzling, tingling kind of love you spoke of. But there is also quiet love, so subtle one hardly notices it. And then there is painful love, like a storm that tears through you. Love has countless forms.”
“…”
“And I think every one of them—each form you just denied—are exactly what you feel.”
“Take some time to look honestly at your heart. Don’t dismiss it so quickly.”
The moment Justin’s blunt hand left his arm, Killian clenched the spot hard enough to bruise.
Love.
Nonsense.
To think that the feelings he held for Retricia—the woman he despised for hiding away from the world, leaving him behind, disappearing without a word—could be love instead of hatred. Impossible.
It couldn’t be. It must not be. What kind of love could a man like him claim to have, when he had abandoned his wife to die alone, in despair? That wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.
“…All you’ve done is fill my head with useless thoughts, Uncle.”
Killian shook his head.
Yet even as he mocked Justin’s words, his throat burned dry at the mere thought of Retricia, who had just stepped out for a moment to fetch a catalog of dresses.
Inside, he was chaos. Yet outside, the ducal household ran more smoothly than ever.
Research on Retricia’s illness had begun yielding results; her medicine had been adjusted recently.
Preparations for their wedding advanced without hindrance, carried forward by retainers brimming with enthusiasm.
Only Killian himself was in turmoil.
Frustrated, he scribbled his signature across a document, then threw the pen aside. He covered his face with both hands, rubbing it hard as though he could wipe away the unrest.
Just then, Retricia entered with the catalog. Seeing him, she hurried over.
“What’s wrong? Are you tired, Killian?”
She brushed his hands away from his face—and flinched at the shadowed hollowness she saw there.
“Oh… did you not sleep?”
Dark circles marred the sharp lines of his eyes. The decadent gloom suited him too well, enhancing his severe beauty. Tentatively, she touched beneath his eye.
Killian caught her hand instantly and pulled her into his arms.
In an instant, she was on his lap, wrapped tightly in his embrace. He pressed his forehead against her slender neck.
“Uh…”
Startled, her fragile body went rigid. But when his nose brushed her collarbone, she awkwardly patted his head.
“Are you just sleepy? Want to nap for a bit? Mia changed the sheets earlier—they smell fresh from the sun. You’ll sleep well.”
As she babbled innocently, Killian only hugged her tighter.
A few months ago, simply holding her like this would have been enough. Now, the hunger inside him roared for more.
He inhaled deeply, then bit lightly at the white curve of her neck.
Her skin bloomed red instantly.
“Killian…!”
“…Ah. I left a mark.”
Watching her slap a hand over the spot with wide, startled eyes, Killian calmly opened the catalog she had brought. Somehow, seeing his mark on her skin eased the burning thirst inside him.
“W-what was that just now?”
“If I borrow my uncle’s words… perhaps a show of affection?”
“A-affection…?”
Her fingers pressed to her neck turned as red as the mark itself. Her body was hopelessly honest.
“Don’t do things like that. That’s… that’s something real couples do.”
Real couples.
The words reignited his thirst.
“And what’s stopping us? We can be real.”
“You’ve started joking more lately, Killian. Have you forgotten our contract already?”
“A contract without notarization holds no real weight.”
“…You’re serious?”
“I’m always serious, Retricia.”
She tilted her head, considering. Her long hair slipped loose, tickling the hand he had wrapped around her waist.
“Why? Is it because I’ve been playing the duchess’s role well?”
She wasn’t wrong.
In this household, she had already become the most trusted figure after Killian himself.
Thanks to her, new trade relations had opened, swelling the North’s prosperity. Even outsiders now looked upon their land more favorably.
All of it traced back to her.
“…Objectively speaking, yes.”
“If that’s the reason, another noble lady would fill the role better than someone untrained like me.”
“Do you think any lady of the Empire would want to be my wife?”
“Why not? I mean—look at me. I did.”
“Would you truly wish me married to someone else?”
“…Well, it’s bound to happen someday, isn’t it?”
His throat burned again. He swallowed hard.
“One marriage is more than enough for me.”
“Then when our contract ends, will you just leave the duchess’s seat empty? Is that allowed?”
“If I say so, who will stop me?”
“The retainers won’t like that.”
“Then stay. Remain with me.”
“…That’s a bit…”
Her small head tilted, as though turning over something carefully. Then she asked, almost timidly:
“Killian… do you like me?”
He looked away. She chuckled softly, as though she had expected that.
“…I knew it.”
“A marriage doesn’t require such feelings to endure.”
“You met my former fiancé, Patrick, didn’t you?”
“…Why bring him up?”
“He once said something similar. That few nobles marry for love. That if everything aligns well enough, you marry—and find love elsewhere, with your mistress.”
“I didn’t mean—!”
“I know. I know you’d never mean it like that. You’re not the kind of man who would.”
Of course not. He would never tolerate such filth—least of all from Retricia herself.
Yet, stripped of that filth, wasn’t his reasoning still disturbingly similar to Patrick’s?
His throat felt parched, tearing at the seams. His pulse throbbed wildly beneath his thumb as he pressed at his neck.
Retricia turned another page of the catalog, unmoved by the jeweled gowns she passed.
Killian’s heart ached at the thought—those sparkling dresses would have looked breathtaking on her.
“If you want… I’ll try to like you.”
“…Don’t, Killian. That wouldn’t be real.”
He hadn’t been joking, yet she laughed like it was.
“I’ve been through a marriage without love. It’s miserable, you know. In the end, such a union only eats away at both sides. You wouldn’t want that either, would you?”
“Retricia, I—”
She flipped past every glittering gown until she reached the very last page, and pointed.
A plain dress, free of pearls, jewels, or lace. The cheapest, simplest one.
She chose it without hesitation.
Because she wanted to leave the beautiful things behind—for Killian’s true bride.
“I’ll take this one.”
