"Look how much it's bleeding," Ronin muttered, his brows drawn together in worry.
Elvira looked down at her foot, blood trickling from the jagged cut. Then back up at him—with a sly smirk curling her lip.
"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice low and teasing.
For a moment, their eyes locked. Not just a glance—no, this was the kind of look that peeled back layers. A gaze deep enough to stir something ancient in the chest. It was like they were staring into each other's souls, too afraid to speak what they were actually thinking.
Before either could say more, a voice cut through the tension.
"Ronin! There you are—oh Lords. Elvira!"Lord Victor came running, his steps heavy with panic. "What happened?"
"It's just a piece of glass, Father. No need to worry," Elvira replied, smiling like her foot wasn't on fire. The smile didn't reach her eyes.
Victor didn't buy the act. "Ronin, hurry—help me pick her up."
With one arm slung around her father's neck and the other gripping Ronin's shoulder, Elvira let herself be lifted. The two men carried her back toward the castle like she was something precious—and breakable.
She hated that feeling.
Once inside, they gently laid her down on a velvet banquette beneath the tall stained-glass windows. The light caught the blood drying on her foot like it was part of a painting.
Her father rushed off to summon the maid.
Ronin stayed.
He sat beside her, quietly. His eyes drifted—not to her face, but to the faint red lines on her arm, her collarbone… the leftover wounds from last night.
Neither of them spoke.
"What happened here?" Ronin asked, his fingers gently hovering over the older wounds lining Elvira's arms and collarbone. His voice was soft, but his eyes were stormy—like he was already piecing the puzzle together.
Elvira looked away, her jaw tightening. Then she told him. Everything.
About the figure by the balcony. The crash. The glass. The pain. How no one believed her.
"They all think I'm making it up to get out of the engagement," she said bitterly. Her voice cracked, frustration bubbling up. "Can you believe that?"
Ronin didn't hesitate.
"I believe you," he said quietly.
Elvira blinked, caught off guard.
He reached for her hand, and for a second, she let him. Their fingers brushed, and something unspoken passed between them—calm, grounding, real.
They sat like that, gazing out the window in silence. The kind of silence that says I'm here. You're not alone.
Then the moment shattered like glass all over again.
"Lord Victor!" a voice called.
Elvira flinched as her father entered, followed closely by the head maid carrying rags and a bundle of healing herbs.
Ronin quickly stood and stepped aside as the maid knelt and began tending to Elvira's bleeding foot. The sting made her wince, but she didn't make a sound.
As the maid dabbed and wrapped, another royal servant peeked into the room.
"My Lord, Lord Adron has arrived."
Victor nodded. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute."
Elvira tilted her head. "Who's Lord Adron?"
Her father turned toward her, his tone grave. "Anson's father.""And a man of… importance."
He didn't say more. He didn't have to.
Elvira already felt the chill crawl up her spine.
After dressing Elvira's wounds, the head maid gave a slight curtsy and slipped out of the room, leaving behind a faint smell of herbs and something medicinal.
Lord Victor had already gone to greet Lord Adron, which meant—for the first time in hours—Elvira and Ronin were alone.
She turned her head toward him.
He was sitting quietly beside her, lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the stained-glass window like it was going to give him answers to a question he hadn't even asked out loud.
"Ronin, will you…" she began softly, but before she could finish, he stood up, leaned forward—and without saying a word—picked her up.
Again.
Elvira gasped, surprised by his sudden gesture. But she didn't resist. Not this time.
His arms were warm, steady, careful—not like a man showing off, but like someone who simply didn't want her to hurt more than she already had.
As he walked, she tilted her head ever so slightly to look at him. Really look at him. Not just the sharp cheekbones or the always-messy black curls, but the little things. The things most people wouldn't notice.
And that's when she saw it.
A faint scar just below his jawline—small, but distinct. A mark that looked almost like the edge of a dagger.
Her gaze lingered.
Ronin caught it.
"Don't stare too long," he said without looking at her, his voice low and teasing. "You might fall in love."
Elvira raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
"Please. I think you're a bit too confident… for an average-looking man."
He laughed—really laughed, and it was the kind that started in the chest and rolled out smooth like velvet.
"Sweetheart," he said with a wink, "I am far from average."
Elvira opened her mouth to say something—anything—but then she noticed the direction Ronin was headed.
Her room.
"Why are you taking me to my room?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Ronin didn't miss a beat. "Because you're unwell. And you need rest."
He stepped inside and gently laid her down on the bed like she was made of glass—fragile, breakable, precious.
Elvira's brows furrowed. "Stop making decisions for me!" she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration.
Ronin paused, then tilted his head, his lips curling into a smirk.
"You look even more adorable when you're angry."
Before she could throw another witty jab his way, he leaned down and—pecked her cheek.
Just like that.
Like it was no big deal.
Elvira froze. Her breath caught. Her heart didn't get the memo.
Her face flushed pink as she quickly turned her head away, pretending to be annoyed—but failing miserably.
Ronin chuckled, clearly amused by her reaction. He stood up straight, gave her a wink, and strolled out the door with the arrogance of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.