Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 65 - Sixty Five

The moment the carriage stopped, Eric didn’t wait for Mr. Rye to open the door. He threw it open himself and raced out towards the inn, his heart pounding with a singular, desperate purpose: find Delia.

Just as he left the shelter of the carriage, the heavens opened up. The rain started, not as a gentle drizzle, but as a sudden, violent downpour that instantly soaked his coat and plastered his hair to his head. He was just a few feet from the warm, dry light of the inn’s entrance, but he couldn’t move. He froze, his feet suddenly as heavy as lead.

The world around him seemed to sharpen, to transform. He could smell the damp earth turning to mud beneath his feet. He could smell the thick, familiar scent of hay from the nearby stables. He could hear the nervous stomping and whinnying of horses unsettled by the storm. Each sensation was a key, unlocking a dark room in his memory he had kept sealed for years.

Eric swallowed hard, his throat tight. He tried to force his legs to move forward, to take that last step into the inn, but he couldn’t. The muscles in his body refused to obey.

A flashback, sharp and vivid, rung in his mind, drowning out the present.

Rain, just like this, hammering on the roof of a dark, cavernous horse stall. The smell of wet hay and fear. A small boy, no older than ten, is crying, his small body covered in dust and hay. He’s huddled in a corner, cuddling himself as he stares at a still shadow of a broken figure lying on the ground just outside the stall door.

"Philip! Philip, wake up!" the small boy cries, his voice thin and reedy. "Someone help us! Please, help my brother!"

The events of that terrible day started playing in Eric’s head, a relentless, torturous film. His breathing grew shallow, then quickened into ragged gasps. His whole body began to shake, an uncontrollable tremor that started in his hands and spread through his entire frame.

Then, a figure appeared before him in the rain, an ghost formed from his own guilt. It was himself, his younger self, his face pale as he gave Eric an accusatory glare.

"You almost killed our brother," the young Eric whispered, his voice full of a child’s simple, devastating judgment. "How wicked could you be? Now Philip has to walk with a cane for the rest of his life, all because of you." The ghost pointed a small, trembling finger at him. "You did this!"

Eric was having a full-blown panic attack. The rain drenched him, chilling him to the bone, but the cold he felt was deeper, coming from the inside out. He dragged his feet, turning to leave, to escape the memory, to escape his younger self’s condemning gaze. He had to get away.

But then he heard a voice, a sweet, clear sound that cut through the roaring in his ears. A voice that soothed his soul.

"Your Grace?"

It was Delia.

Eric slowly turned to see her standing there, just outside the inn’s entrance, the pouring rain already plastering her perfectly styled hair to her face. Her simple dress was soaked through.

"Delia," he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips. He was still shaking, but not from the cold. It was the raw, violent tremor of his panic attack. He tried to curb it, to hide it, to not let her see him this weak, this broken.

He tried to walk towards her again, to close the distance between them, to hold her and assure himself she was real and safe. But when he got to that same invisible spot, just a few feet from the inn, he froze again, his body betraying him.

Delia looked at him, at this powerful, commanding Duke, now shaking like a scared child lost in a storm. Through the violent shudders of his attack, he managed to ask, his voice strained, "Where’s Philip?"

"He told me he would be here, but I didn’t see him inside," Delia replied, her own voice full of a confusion that quickly turned to concern. "Is anything wrong?"

Eric didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just stood there, shaking, his heart racing so fast he felt it might burst from his chest. At first, Delia thought it was the cold, that he was simply drenched and freezing. But then she noticed the unfocused, terrified look in his eyes, the shallow, rapid pace of his breathing. Something else was wrong.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, rushing out into the rain to his side. "Are you cold? Are you sick?"

"N-no," he stammered, his teeth chattering. "I just... I just feel a little... little dizzy."

His legs gave out from under him, and he fell to his knees in the muddy courtyard.

Delia didn’t hesitate. She ran and knelt beside him in the mud and the rain. "Your Grace, are you alright?" she asked, her voice frantic. She pushed his soaking wet hair away from his pale face. She rubbed his back in slow, firm circles, then took his shaking hands in her own, trying to warm them, to steady them.

"It’s not fair," Eric said, his voice a low, broken sound.

Delia, confused, asked, "What is?"

"You told me... not to cross the line," he managed to get out, his gaze fixed on her face as if she were the only thing holding him together. "But you... you just crossed the... the line."

And then he fainted, his body going limp, his head falling forward to rest heavily against her chest.

"Your Grace!" she cried, her voice filled with panic. "Your Grace, wake up!" She shook him gently, but there was no response. She began to panic, her own heart now racing with fear. "Your Grace! Your Grace, please!"

She cradled him like a child, there in the pouring rain, his heavy, unconscious form a dead weight in her arms. She looked around the empty, dark courtyard and screamed for help, her voice a desperate, terrified cry lost in the sound of the storm.

"Somebody, please help me! Your Grace, please wake up! Please!"

High above, in a private room on the second floor of the inn, Philip stood in front of the window, a glass of wine in his hand. He had been standing there for some time, watching the entire scene unfold below.

"What is this, Eric?" he said to himself, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his face. "You were acting like you were so strong, so in control. I almost panicked, thinking you were finally fine." He took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze fixed on the pathetic scene below. "It seems the past still hunts you, little brother."

He smiled, seeing the way Delia was desperately calling for help, seeing his powerful brother unconscious and helpless in her arms. He sighed, a sound of pure, satisfied contentment.

"My brother is still the same," he murmured, taking another drink. "So very, very fragile."

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