“I need your help.”
Now that he thought about it, Curtis Russell was a man who suited the color red. When she first met him, he had been completely soaked in blood. The boy—he couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen—already had the eyes of someone who had clawed his way out of hell. And it was instinct, not reason, that led her to follow him.
A blind faith that only this man would use her as she was meant to be used. That belief proved correct. The vicious boy had since become a man as sharp and deadly as a raptor.
Setting aside his thoughts, Robert gently moved on to the real subject.
“In fact, I moved Roxana to the room next to Lady Frey’s.”
It was something he’d done on his own, unable to watch any longer. But rather than reprimand him, Curtis just blinked in mild surprise.
“Why?”
“You saw it yourself. Lady Frey sleeping peacefully.”
“She was probably just exhausted from all the running around.”
“Still, you never know.”
“…Well. She’ll have a hard time there, at least. That’s good enough.”
Curtis muttered indifferently and suddenly stood up.
“What’s Frey doing now?”
“She’s sleeping… My lord!”
“I’ll go check on her.”
Curtis acted the moment the thought crossed his mind. He knocked, then quietly opened the door. Just as Robert had said, Frey was fast asleep. Curtis sat in a chair by her bedside. He pulled the thick blanket, which had slipped to her waist, up to her shoulders. Her face was scrunched in distress, as if trapped in a nightmare. He gently pressed a finger between her brows, trying to smooth the frown—when Robert spoke from behind.
“She skipped both breakfast and dinner again today. The maid managed to coax her into eating a bit at lunch.”
“No wonder her cheeks look so hollow.”
Curtis mumbled, looking down at his sister with a tender gaze. His only family, his only treasure worth protecting. Frey had always been his weak spot, a thorn under his fingernail. She had been wild, raised like a princess, but once cheerful and innocent. Now she lay in bed, pale and frail, robbed of her sight.
“I’ll leave you now. Have a good night, my lord.”
With a polite bow, Robert left the room. Silence returned. Curtis, having dozed off briefly, awoke to the faint sound of a voice.
“…What’s that?”
He rose and followed the voice. It was coming from the adjacent room—just as Robert had said. Roxana had been moved there.
Curtis approached, his footsteps silent.
Roxana. Roxana Dalton.
Everyone who knew her had spoken well of her. Perhaps fearing she’d be forced into harsh labor, the head nun had pleaded repeatedly:
“Sister Roxana is a faithful and kind soul. Please don’t be too hard on her, Curtis.”
“Mother Superior…”
She was one of the few who had seen him at his lowest. She had helped him without question, without asking anything in return. That made her words heavier than most.
“When you lose your way, look back to where you started. Sometimes the answer isn’t far away—it’s already in your heart.”
On the carriage ride back to the castle, Curtis had found himself lost in thought, watching the woman seated across from him. He couldn’t treat her harshly, but he didn’t want to show her too much kindness either. While he struggled with that, the carriage had stopped. Naturally, he had extended his hand to help her down. The surprise in her expression was vivid in his memory. As if she hadn’t expected even that small gesture.
They were enemies. Her father had taken everything from him, and in return, Curtis had taken everything from her. They had crossed a line that made forgiveness impossible.
But when she had stumbled in a moment of panic, reaching out to catch her had been reflexive. Her slender waist fit easily in one arm, and he had felt her heartbeat racing like a frightened deer caught in a trap.
He had quickly pulled away, blaming the moment on childhood memories—memories he foolishly could not erase. That was why he wanted to see the worst in Roxana. He wanted to catch her snoring, or perhaps cursing the Russell family in anger.
But what he heard was the exact opposite—a prayer.
> “I am a flawed person. Foolish, unfaithful, short-sighted. Let me not worry that my neighbor has less, but rather consider how I might give more from my own cup… And also…”
His hand tightened around the doorknob.
> “I humbly ask—return Lady Frey’s sight. Take mine instead. If that is not possible, take my voice. And if not even that… then let her nights be warm and soft, as though wrapped in silk.”
Click.
The doorknob turned. Roxana, startled by the sound during her prayer, turned around. When she saw who it was, her violet eyes wavered.
“…My lord?”
“Still think you’re a nun?”
Curtis’s moment of surprise passed quickly. He leaned against the doorframe and looked around the room. It was larger than the typical maid’s quarters—being assigned to serve a noble—but still humble. A straw-filled bed, a rickety nightstand. A wooden cross and rosary atop it. Roxana stood up from her knees on the cold stone floor.
“I’m sorry if I was disturbing you.”
“Do you believe praying to God makes things happen?”
“…Pardon?”
The abrupt question made Roxana tilt her head. Curtis stepped closer, sneering slightly.
“You think a few pitiful words will change anything?”
Curtis recalled the time he had fled with his blind sister. Relatives, villagers—everyone had treated them like a curse. Like untamed beasts, they were driven away and ignored.
The world is cruel. When you have plenty, people surround you. But when you starve, no one lends a hand.
While Roxana struggled to answer, Curtis glanced at the worn blanket on her bed and sat down.
“You know, you remind me of the man who tried to strangle you. Harold, was it? Your longtime butler.”
“…”
“I killed him right in front of you. Felt good, didn’t it?”
His tragic past weighed on him like a yoke. His family was wiped out, he left his young sister at a convent, and lived under a false identity in a place where no one knew him. He did anything to survive. For revenge, he stained his hands with blood. Like a butcher, he cut down anyone in his way—including women. Looking back, his past was a path of hatred, rage, and curses soaked in blood.
“Be honest, Roxana. It’s just the two of us here.”
Curtis wanted to drag the noble, righteous Roxana Dalton down into the same mud he lived in. He wanted to see her curse, scream, fall apart—to know she was no different from him. If he saw that, maybe this strange turmoil inside him would vanish.
“You saw Mary earlier, didn’t you? Your former maid.”
Roxana lowered her eyes. Curtis reached out and grabbed her elbow, trying to see her face hidden beneath her red curls.
She stumbled, landing on the bed. As she tried to rise, a firm hand pushed her down.
“How did it feel to see her again?”
His long black hair fell over his brow, gray eyes sharp like a bird of prey. His hand, soft as it stroked her cheek, contradicted the intensity of his stare—as if ready to bite her neck again.
“Didn’t it make you sick? Seeing someone who betrayed you living well? Don’t you regret not slapping her at least once?”
Roxana said nothing. She simply turned her head away. Her hair fell over her face again. Clicking his tongue, Curtis reached out to push it aside—but then she lifted her head.
“No. I don’t.”
“…What?”
The formal politeness in her tone had vanished. Curtis stared, unable to look away.
