The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 68: Scars

The door creaked open with a reluctant groan.

Marcella stepped inside, or rather, what remained of her room. Her boots crunched over splinters—wood, glass, the remnants of a mirror now scattered across the floor. The curtains had been torn down, the bedding ripped open, feathers from the pillow drifted. Her satchel lay slashed open in a corner.

She stood in the doorway; arms limp at her sides. Where was she supposed to sleep now?

The bed frame was cracked, tilted like a sinking ship. A chair had one leg broken and the other missing entirely.

A flicker of movement in the hallway.

Marcella didn’t have to turn to know it was him.

"I figured your room wouldn’t be spared," came Berith’s voice behind her. Calm. Too calm. That familiar infuriating detachment that always made her want to scream or grab his face and shake some humanity back into it.

Berith stepped closer, "You can take my room," he said simply.

Marcella turned just enough to glance at him. His eyes were fixed not on her but the wreckage before them.

"No need," she muttered, brushing her hair behind her ear, though it did little to tame the tangles. "I’ll make do."

"On what?" he asked, chuckling over her words. "A pile of kindling and feathers?"

Marcella stared at him, not bothering to mask her annoyance. "Why are you being nice?"

Berith tilted his head slightly. "Would you prefer I left you in the hallway?"

"...Maybe."

Something like a smirk ghosted over his lips. He turned and walked away without another word.

Marcella stood frozen for a heartbeat. Then, cursing under her breath, she followed him.

*********

The contrast was jarring.

His room was on the top floor of the inn, tucked away behind a thick oaken door reinforced with iron studs. It wasn’t just safer—it was untouched.

Marcella stepped in and blinked. The walls were clean, a real bed—four-poster, with deep blue sheets and pillows stacked like clouds—sat in the center of the room. A carafe of wine stood on the side table next to crystal glasses, untouched.

This wasn’t just any room. This was the room meant for nobles, officials.

"You bribed the innkeeper?" Marcella asked, eyeing the silken cushions with suspicion.

"I didn’t have to," Berith replied. He had walked to the far end of the room, unfastening the straps of his bracers with one hand. "He knows who I am." 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

She crossed her arms. "Of course he does." She tried to mask her awe, her discomfort.

Her tiredness betrayed her instead—she swayed slightly on her feet, only noticing when she nearly stepped out of her boot.

"Bed’s yours," Berith said, noticing. "I’ll take the rug."

Marcella glanced down at the thick, luxurious carpet. "You’ll freeze," she muttered.

"I’ve survived worse."

Of that, she had no doubt.

Still, something itched at her. Guilt, maybe or pride. Or just the unspoken history between them, thickening the air like humidity before a storm.

Marcella stepped further into the room, half-reluctant, half drawn. It was only when she reached for the pitcher of water by the mirror that she saw it.

The wound.

A jagged, blood-caked gash ran diagonally across Berith’s forearm, just beneath the torn fabric of his sleeve. The blood had long clotted, but the skin around it was inflamed, angry with the threat of infection. Fresh enough to sting, old enough to bruise.

Marcella stared, her breath catching. "That’s from earlier," she said softly, surprised at the tremble in her voice.

Berith didn’t even glance at it. He casually rolled his sleeve back down like he wasn’t bleeding all over the place. "It’s nothing."

Her heart squeezed at his indifference. Damn him.

Marcella took a hesitant step forward then another and before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for his arm.

Berith flinched as if unused to someone touching him. Her fingers hesitated for a second before gently curling around his wrist. Her thumb traced the edge of the cut gently. The wound was deeper than it looked.

"You need to clean this," she muttered. "You’ll get infected."

Without warning, Berith pulled away from her touch and in one swift movement, began untying the knot of his tunic strings. The cloth slid down his shoulders.

Marcella blinked then froze.

"What the..Hey! What are you doing?!"

Berith didn’t answer. His hands were already at work, peeling the tunic off like it was the most casual thing in the world.

She stared, scandalized, flustered. "Why are you opening your clothes?! D-don’t do that! Just wear it back! Right now!"

Berith glanced at her over his shoulder, expression annoyingly calm. "Sushhh," he said, pulling up a smirk. "You’re my wife, yet it bothers you when I take off my clothes?"

Her jaw dropped a little. "Excuse me?!"

Berith turned to face her, his bare chest catching the golden glow of the firelight. "We’ve already seen each other’s bodies, remember? There’s no shying back now."

Her cheeks heated so fast she thought her face might catch fire.

"That was..that was different!" Marcella hissed, quickly looking anywhere but at his chest. "That was situational!"

He cocked an eyebrow. "This is also situational. My wound needs cleaning."

She grumbled something under her breath as he sat down near the edge of the bed, utterly unfazed.

Her eyes—traitorous things—drifted back toward him.

Scars.

Not just the fresh gash on his arm, but older, deeper marks across his chest, along his ribcage, one cutting through his left shoulder. Another one on the curve of his abdomen. Some pale and faded, others jagged and angry.

Marcella stepped closer without realizing it. Her gaze flicked to his back—a long, cruel mark ran diagonally across his upper back.

She remembered the fight with the dacoits. He hadn’t been touched, not once.

So these scars...? They weren’t from tonight.

Reaching for him, Marcella touched a scar on his chest, right above his heart.

Berith stiffened, grabbing her wrist instinctively. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

She looked up at him. "What’s wrong?" she asked. "How are you injured here? Who did this to you?"

Berith didn’t answer. Instead, he released her wrist and stood up.

Marcella blinked in disbelief. "Wait. You’re not going to answer that?"

He turned away, walking toward the basin like she hadn’t asked anything important at all.

"Berith..."

"It’s not important," he said curtly.

Marcella stared at his back. "Not important?" She narrowed her eyes, the slow, burning frustration unfurled inside her like smoke from a dying flame.

"Oh, I see," Marcella said sweetly, a little too sweetly. "Preaching about how we’re husband and wife just five minutes ago, and now when your so-called wife demands an answer, suddenly it’s not important?"

That stopped him.

She crossed her arms. "How very convenient."

Berith turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. "If you’re going to use the ’wife’ card," he said slowly, "you’d better mean it."

"Maybe I do."

Her response made him turn fully now. A storm lurking behind his grey whiskey eyes.

Marcella met his gaze, even as her pulse skipped in ways it shouldn’t. "You’re hiding things from me," she continued. "Bleeding in corners, scarred like a man who has fought wars, but pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn’t."

Berith didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped aside, crossed to the low chest of drawers, and opened one. From within, he pulled out a small leather pouch. Inside there were herbs, rolls of bandages, crushed bark and steel-scented medicine.

Of course he had his own medicine stash. Of course he came prepared.

Without a word, Berith handed it to her. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, staring at her in that maddening way of his.

Marcella stared at him for a moment. Then, she crouched herself to her knees before him until she was settled in the space between his legs.

Her eyes lifted to his.

Berith didn’t look away. The heat between them said everything.

Their breaths were shared now, close enough to feel it.

Marcella dipped a cloth into the liquid and wrung it out. She reached for his arm first, fingers brushing his skin as she steadied it. The wound pulsed, raw and inflamed, yet he hadn’t so much as flinched since she’d first noticed it.

"This will sting," she muttered.

"I can handle it."

Marcella rolled her eyes but said nothing. She cleaned his wounds gently, dabbing the dried blood and wiping the wound clean. The scent of herbs clung to the air.

Marcella could feel him watching her, her fingers, her focus, her care. And she, in turn, could feel his heat, his breath, his warm skin.

When she finished the arm, she reached for the bandage roll. Without asking, Marcella moved behind him, unrolling a fresh strip of bandage.

"You don’t have to.." Berith turned his head, just enough to stop her with a look. That same silent wall he always put up when the past came knocking.

"I know I don’t have to," she replied. "But I want to."

Berith said nothing more.

Marcella cleaned those scars too, her fingers brushing against his back, but the contact made his shoulders tighten.

He felt her. Just as she felt him.

When it came time to wrap the bandage, Marcella reached around him to pull the strip across his chest. He caught her wrist as it passed close to his heart.

Their eyes met. A breathless second.

She didn’t look away this time neither did he.

Marcella slowly rolled the bandage around his torso, her arms circling him, the distance between them shrinking until there was none.

Soon, she rolled the final loop of the bandage with careful hands and fastened the edge. "Done."

Berith didn’t thank her. But his hand found her wrist again as she walked to pull away. His thumb traced a slow, absent-minded line along her pulse. "You’re not afraid of the past, are you?" he asked.

"When you’re ready to let me see all of it... I’ll still be here."