"Why... are you crying now?"

Penelope’s reaction, once they had left the throne room and stepped into the courtyard, caught Vincent utterly off guard. He stared at her in genuine confusion as the sudden tears spilling down her face left him momentarily stunned.

Penelope met his gaze, her vision blurring as though she could hardly believe the audacity of his question. Her hands curled into trembling fists at her side, and she slapped him across the face.

It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to turn Vincent’s head.

"Why am I crying?" she repeated bitterly. "I was thinking of the ruin you nearly made of yourself. I am thinking of what would have happened had I remained back in the estate. Does your life hold no value to you? Why do you hold it so cheaply? Do you really not care about how I’d feel?"

Penelope was furious.

All the terror and anguish she had suppressed came rushing back at once. The moment she entered the palace and saw him forced to his knees before the court, her heart had twisted so violently she could scarcely breathe. Yet she had not been permitted the luxury of faltering. In that throne room, she had buried her grief beneath a shroud of cold authority and placed William precisely where he belonged.

But now that the doors had closed behind them, the debt of her restraint had come due.

The instant she saw the stunned look upon Vincent’s face, only then did the full weight of what she had done crashed over her.

Her anger evaporated.

In its place came a cold, suffocating dread that drenched her from head to toe. She stared down at her own trembling hand in horror, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

She has struck the Marquis.

A noble of the Empire. Her husband.

Oh no.

"...I did not..." her voice faltered. "Vincent, I am so—"

The apology died in her throat as the world shifted. Vincent did not recoil, nor did he rise in anger to demand recompense for the insult she had dealt him. Instead, to Penelope’s utter shock, he slowly dropped to his knees before her. Like a man surrendering everything.

A startled gasp escaped her lips as she instinctively reached for him, fearing his wound had finally given way. But he was not collapsing from weakness.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist instead.

Burying his face against the violet silk of her skirts, Vincent clung to her with a desperation so raw it made her chest ache. His fingers twisted into the expensive fabric as though terrified she might vanish into mist should he loosen his grip even for a single heartbeat.

He wasn’t merely holding his wife; he was an anchorless man finally finding the shore. The cold Marquis she knew was not present, replaced by a man grappling with the impossible, miraculous reality that Penelope had come for him.

That she had not abandoned him.

"It was my fault," she heard him say, his voice muffled against her skirt but carrying a weight that made the air feel heavy. "I wanted to trust you...yet I could not bring myself to do so. I chained you because I am a coward, Penny."

A hollow laugh escaped him, brittle with self-loathing.

"You may strike me as many times as you wish until your anger is spent. But even then..." His hold on her trembled slightly. "I will never let you go."

"W–What are you doing?" Penelope whispered, shaken by the sight before her, her voice cracking with a mixture of shock and burgeoning tenderness. "Stand up."

She slipped her hands beneath his arms and carefully guided him to his feet. Vincent rose without resistance, towering over her once more, though there was nothing imposing about him now. When Penelope finally looked into those storm-gray eyes, the sting of her earlier fury dissolved completely, leaving behind a shimmering pool of guilt.

She reached toward his face, slowly, hesitantly.

Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the cheek they had struck. She did not strike him this time, and only caressed the skin with a feather-light touch, as though she could somehow soothe the pain she had caused.

"Does it hurt?" She asked quietly.

Vincent did not pull away.

Instead, he reached up and gently enclosed her wrist within his larger one. Then, with an almost frightening openness, he leaned into her palm and closed his eyes, savoring the contact. He shook his head slowly, the warmth of her touch eclipsing everything else.

In that moment, even the wounds buried deep within his body became distant things.Vincent had always believed himself fundamentally unworthy of her gentleness. He viewed her concern as a treasure he had no right to claim, and her touch as a grace he could never earn

And perhaps he still believed it now.

But Vincent was a man possessed by a singular, dark greed.

He was starved for her that he would feast on whatever scraps of affection Penelope deigned to offer. He would take her anger, her pity, or her touch, and he would hoard it like a thief in the night.

If enduring a thousand wounds meant she would continue touching him like this, then he would bear them gladly.

The soft crunch of hurried footsteps against the gravel shattered the fragile stillness between them.

Elias emerged from beside the carriage, his usually composed face drawn tight with restrained panic and profound relief. The moment he realized how intimately close the couple stood, he immediately lowered his gaze, granting them what dignity he could.

"Your Lordship," Elias said quietly, though urgency pressed beneath every syllable, "His Majesty has sent word. He insists that you remain within the palace guest wing for the rest of today since you are unfit for journey. A royal physician has already been summoned to attend to your injuries."

Relief swept through Penelope so sharply her knees nearly weakened.

Thank heavens.

The mere thought of Vincent enduring the violent jolting of wheels over uneven stone roads made her chest tighten painfully.

"No."

His sudden refusal fell coldly into the afternoon air, catching both Penelope and Elias by surprise. His expression had hardened once more, his stubborn pride settling across his features.

"But, Your Lordship–"

"I said no." Vincent’s tone sharpened, brooking no further argument. He added, "I can manage on my own. Tell His Majesty that we shall seek treatment from our own phy–"

"What are you saying?"

Penelope cut through his refusal sharply, her voice ringing with an authority that startled even Elias. There was something almost maternal in her anger now, not from outrage, but from fear.

"You cannot possibly intend to travel in this condition," she continued, glaring up at him. "You need treatment, Vincent. Your strength is failing, yet you continue to behave like you’re some immortal creature incapable of collapse. You will not refuse the Crown’s hospitality, nor will you gamble your life any further."

"But Penny–"

"I will not hear another word."

The soft command in her tone silenced him instantly.

Her brown eyes flashed with a fire that permitted no argument, and for perhaps the first time in years, the feared Marquis of the Empire found himself unable to oppose anyone.

Penelope turned toward Elias, her expression softening with remarkable swiftness. "Please inform His Majesty that we shall remain within the guest wing tonight," she said with calm dignity. "And that we are grateful for his generosity."

Elias stared at her in stunned silence for a brief moment before quickly lowering his head.

"As you wish, My Lady."

He turned to leave, yet inwardly, he was reeling.

He had served the Marquis for years through bloodshed, political warfare, and the icy tempers that had driven even seasoned nobles into terrified silence. Not once had Elias witnessed anyone speak to Vincent with such fearless audacity.

Ordinarily, even the king himself chose his words carefully around the Marquis.

But now, Vincent stood there quietly, relishing every scolding without any resistance simply because it came from his wife.

The Marquis’s devotion was not a sudden flame sparked by their recent nuptials, a fact Elias knew too well. It was a slow-burning fire that had been stoked since the Marquis was young.

What Lord Vincent felt for Lady Penelope had begun long ago, smoldering quietly since boyhood until it became something vast enough to consume every corner of him.

Even during the years he had departed to the Imperial military Academy, still scarcely more than a child himself, his mind had remained anchored to Penelope.

Elias remembered those days with uncomfortable clarity.

At that time, he had dismissed the young lord’s fixation as nothing more than youthful infatuation. It seemed natural enough for a noble boy to become enchanted with a beautiful young lady he could not have. Elias had assumed that the distance, harsh training, and the glittering distractions of the capital would eventually dull those feelings into something harmless.

He had expected the letters to stop, for the endless inquiries regarding Lady Penelope’s well-being and happiness to grow fewer with time.

Expected Vincent to forget.

But Elias had been catastrophically wrong.

Because what the Marquis carried in his heart had never been ordinary affection. It was years of unfailed protection sharpened into something dangerous.

Perhaps it made sense. Back then, the young Marquis had possessed neither the emotional wisdom nor the gentleness required to express love properly. Everything within Vincent had always existed beyond extremes. Loyalty became fanaticism. Anger because violence, and affection became possession.

Elias still remembered the first time the young Marquis had truly drawn blood. It hadn’t been on the battlefield or during an honorable duel between nobles.

It had occurred behind the Academy dormitories, hidden within the shadows of a narrow stone corridor where another student had made the fatal mistake of speaking ill against Lady Penelope. The insult itself had been careless, little more than cruel gossip exchanged among arrogant sons of nobility.

But Vincent had heard it.

And something inside the young Lord had snapped.

Elias could still recall the horrifying calm upon Vincent’s face afterwards, the blood staining his knuckles. The other boy he had dealt with was crumpled against the wall, barely conscious and choking on broken teeth while Vincent stood above him with the eerie composure of someone who felt no remorse whatsoever.

At that time, Vincent had only been a boy.

And that had frightened Elias most of all. Because even then, it had been painfully obvious: if the Marquis loved someone, he would destroy the world before allowing harm to reach them.

Thankfully, age and experience had tempered some of that violent edge. The Marquis had learned restraint over the years, mastering the monstrous instincts lurking beneath his polished exterior.

But Elias knew better than anyone. Those instincts had never truly disappeared.