The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 70: The things left unsaid

Berith stood alone in the conservatory.

Sunlight spilled across the breakfast table, the scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with the fading aroma of the tea he had poured for her.

But Marcella was gone now. Her footsteps had long since disappeared down the inn, leaving behind only the echo of her disappointment.

And yet, he still stood there as if by standing long enough, he could undo the damage of his words.

Berith let out a breath, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. He had watched her walk away, watched the hurt in her purple gaze.

Marcella would know that last night, when she dozed off, Berith had laid her carefully onto the bed, afraid even to touch her skin too long as it would stir something in him, he could no longer suppress. At that moment, he had felt the most dangerous emotion of all: longing.

And this morning? The dress?

Berith had walked through the southern plaza just after dawn, slipping through streets before the markets became too crowded, before the nobles and merchants awakened to their ceaseless chatter.

He had searched the rows of fabric until he saw it: a simple violet gown. Her favorite color.

And breakfast? Gods, Berith had never prepared breakfast for anyone in his life. Not even once.

But he woke up early, brushed the flour from the pantry shelves himself, read the innkeeper’s cookbooks. He burned the first toast, dropped the butter knife and cursed under his breath more times than he cared to admit.

Still, he made it and served her.

With every slice of bread, every stir of her tea, Berith had tried to show her something his lips would never dare say: You matter. I see you. I remember.

But Marcella had looked at him with suspicion, confusion and hope.

And that hope terrified him because hope led to feeling. Feeling led to attachment and for a man like him, attachment could only end in ruin.

So Berith did what he always did best. He lied with honesty. "We’re even now. I don’t owe you any favors."

The words tasted bitter even as he spoke them, like ashes in his mouth. But he had to say them. He had to because the alternative was worse.

Berith couldn’t afford for her to grow closer not when the burden of his bloodlines clawed at his ankles. He could feel her guards slipping away. She cared maybe too much.

And Berith Montclair did not deserve to be cared for, not by her. So, he hurt her. He hurt her now, before the world had a chance to hurt her worse because of him.

It was better this way.

Wasn’t it?

Berith turned away from the breakfast table. But something lingered behind—a ghost of the girl who had dared to touch his wound, dared to see him as more than the monster he claimed to be.

He entered the room; his footsteps muted over the rich wooden floors.

There she was—Marcella—kneeling by the low table near the window, piecing together a shattered porcelain sculpture, a brush in her hand and a bowl of golden adhesive beside her.

The morning sun filtering through the half-drawn drapes caught in her silver hair, still slightly damp from her earlier bath.

Berith should have known Marcella wouldn’t sit idly. Of course, she would find something broken and try to mend it. That was what she did, always.

He cleared his throat. "You’re still here."

Marcella didn’t look up. "So, it seems."

Berith took a breath. He hated the words about to leave his mouth. "You should leave the South and head for Cardania before dusk. Your coachman is waiting."

Her brush paused, suspended above the cracked porcelain. "That’s it? No reason why?"

"I don’t care about your reasons for coming here," he said tightly. "And I don’t want to hear them either. It’s broad daylight. The roads are safest now. Go while you still can."

Finally, Marcella looked up. Her purple eyes met his, "Is that an order?"

Berith folded his arms across his chest. "You came here in a carriage. You can leave in one."

Her lips parted with a soft, humorless laugh. "And if I say no?"

"You don’t get to say no."

"I’m not your servant, Berith," Marcella retorted, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. "I’m not a pawn you move across the board at your convenience."

He narrowed his eyes. "Don’t start, Marcella."

"Start what? A conversation? An argument? Something real for once?" Her voice rose, frustration crackling beneath every syllable. "You left Cardania without a word. Not a letter, not even a goddamn message. And when I finally found you, you act like I’m the burden!"

Berith opened his mouth then closed it. Gods, she knew how to disarm him with a single look. He hated that, hated how effortlessly she cracked him open. No blade could slice through his armor the way her gaze did.

He tried again, gentler this time. "Go back to our estate, Marcella. The people there need you."

"Liar," she spat.

Berith stepped back toward the door. His heart ached. Damn her. Damn that voice that always wormed its way through his walls. "I don’t want to fight with you."

"Too late for that."

Berith turned. He couldn’t let her stay. But he also couldn’t watch her walk into danger because of him. She had to leave. That was the only way.

And yet—

He looked at her again.

Marcella, with her defiance, stubbornness and cracked porcelain hearts. She was still piecing together that sculpture, trying to fix what everyone else would throw away.

"You’re infuriating." Berith sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

Marcella glanced up and offered a bright, smug smile. "Takes one to know one."

That smile made his chest ache for reasons he wasn’t ready to name.

Berith turned away again. He grabbed his long cloak hung on the hook by the door, draping it over his shoulders. He slid his hat on and walked over to the small wooden table by the fireplace and began packing his stuffs.

Marcella said nothing. She didn’t ask where he was going, though he knew she was watching. She watched him from the corner of her eyes while her hands still pretended to paint the broken sculpture.

He fastened the last buckle on his boot.

She dipped her brush again.

Only when he crossed the threshold of the room did she move. Marcella rose from her cushion, slipped on her cloak, and pulled her boots on.

Berith paused when he heard her steps behind him. He turned slowly, his face unreadable beneath the wide brim of his hat. "You shouldn’t come."

"You shouldn’t go alone." Marcella arched a brow.

He looked at her then, really looked.

She wasn’t just defiant. She was radiant. With that violet cloak wrapped around her and silver hair still slightly damp from her morning bath, she looked like moonlight had taken human form just to spite him.

And he hated how much he wanted to kiss her. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

Berith exhaled sharply, half in frustration, half in surrender. He turned and pushed the door open fully. The warm southern sunlight flooded in, catching the dust motes in golden halos.

Outside the inn, the plaza buzzed with early shoppers and merchants setting up their wares. Somewhere in that crowd, fate waited.

Marcella followed him, not bothering to look back.

If Berith confessed that her being here terrified him more than whatever danger awaited, Marcella might never leave and if she never left, he feared he would break all over again.