The air was quiet, the chamber lit only by the glow of moonlight seeping through the velvet-draped windows. Outside, the world rested, the stars blinking like secrets no one dared to speak. Inside, time itself seemed to hesitate—waiting, watching, as if to grant them this fragile, sacred moment.
Catherine lay on the bed, eyes fluttering closed, the silk sheets cool beneath her, the warmth of Brooklyn's presence hovering just above her.
He was close—too close.
Her breath caught when she felt his fingers lightly brush against her side, gently tracing the shape of her ribs through the soft fabric of her nightdress. Not in hunger, nor in haste—but in curiosity. As if memorising every breath she took.
"You're trembling," Brooklyn whispered, his amber gaze fixed on her face.
"I'm not scared," she whispered back.
He tilted his head. "If you ever are… if I ever make you feel that way… Tell me."
She shook her head gently. "I trust you. Completely."
Brooklyn's hand paused, resting on her side as if silently thankful. Then he shifted his weight, careful not to press too close, but still keeping her held beneath him—his presence both protective and intimate.
His fingers began again, featherlight, this time tracing along her collarbone, up the delicate curve of her neck, finally reaching her cheek. He brushed her skin as though she were made of porcelain—fragile, sacred.
Then, he bent forward and kissed her forehead.
A kiss that didn't demand.
A kiss that promised.
"You are..." he murmured, letting the words drift across her skin like a prayer, "...the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Catherine's eyes welled—not with sadness, but with that aching kind of warmth that makes the heart press against the ribs, as though it's too full to stay still.
"I never thought I could be," she whispered. "Not after all I've been through."
He leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the space between.
"You don't have to try," he said. "You already are."
The silence between them held more weight than any vow. And yet, it felt as light as the night.
Wrapped in warmth, beneath the hush of stars, they stayed just like that. Neither racing forward nor pulling back—just existing.
Safe. Together.
The candle had long since melted into a soft pool of wax. Outside, the crickets sang faintly, and the wind whispered through the night's hush. The room was still—save for the sound of his breathing.
Brooklyn lay beside her, one arm lazily draped over the sheets, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His face, so often guarded and unreadable, now softened in sleep.
Catherine turned toward him on her side, pulling the blanket slightly closer to her chest. Her emerald eyes gazed at him, wide and quiet.
He's asleep… just like that…
He looks so peaceful.
No burdens. No cruelty. No weight on his shoulders right now. Just… breathing.
I don't know why, but it's strange seeing him like this. Like he's not the terrifying Duke of Faolinshire—but just a man who wants peace.
How many nights has he slept like this—if at all? How many nights has he been haunted by things he doesn't even speak of?
She reached forward with the lightest touch, her fingers brushing the edge of his hand, not enough to wake him—just enough to feel.
You protect me so fiercely… you always stand between me and the world. But who stands for you? Who holds you like this when you're tired?
Her chest ached.
I know I'm not strong. I break. I cry. I run away. But I want to be there for you, too. Even if all I can do is hold your hand while you sleep.
I would do that every night, if it meant you didn't feel so alone.
Her eyes drifted to the faint scar above his brow.
What made that? Who hurt you? Or… was it you yourself, carrying wounds that no one else can see?
She lay down slowly beside him again, her body just close enough to feel his warmth, not close enough to wake him.
I love you, Brooklyn, she thought. Even if I never find the courage to say it aloud. I love you in every moment like this. In the quiet. In the softness of your breath.
She closed her eyes and listened. One heartbeat, then another.
Matching his rhythm.
Let me be your peace…
The sky was a dull shade of navy, clouds pulling across the horizon like ink smears on parchment. The moon had not yet risen, and the stars were hidden — a night of silence, of aching stillness.
Deep in the farthest corner of the garden, past the trimmed hedges and marble statues, beneath the arch of tangled roses that no longer bloomed, Brooklyn knelt in the damp grass. His back leaned against a crumbling stone wall, knees drawn in loosely, head buried in one trembling hand.
His other hand was clenched tightly around the edge of his coat, trying desperately to hold himself together.
The sound of the world had faded. The crickets no longer chirped in his ears. The scent of the earth, usually grounding, felt suffocating.
Tears streamed silently down his cheeks.
Hot. Bitter. Unstoppable.
It wasn't about anything in particular.
And it was about everything.
All the years of coldness.
Of playing the monster.
Of carrying the burdens alone.
He had broken bones and spilled blood to protect, to rule, to exist — and still, deep inside, there was a dark emptiness that gnawed at him relentlessly.
"I'm tired…" he whispered, choking. "I'm so tired…"
His voice cracked. "Would it have been better… if I had never been born at all?"
He let his head drop back against the stone, tears blurring the sky.
That's when he felt it—
Soft footsteps.
A shift in the air.
A familiar scent of lavender and warm cotton.
Then arms.
Delicate arms wrapping around him from behind.
Catherine's head resting gently on his shoulder.
She didn't speak. Not at first. She didn't ask him to stop crying, or explain himself, or act strong. She simply held him—just like he had done for her on the worst nights.
He clenched his jaw and tried to compose himself, but his breath hitched again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered bitterly. "You shouldn't see me like this."
Her voice was soft, steady—warmer than the spring air. "And you think I shouldn't be here when you break?"
He looked down. "I'm not the man you think I am. I'm not… whole. I'm filled with too much rage, too many scars. Catherine, I—sometimes I think the only reason I keep going is because I'm too afraid of what's on the other side."
She moved in front of him, lowering herself to her knees so they were face to face. Her hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing the remnants of his tears.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said. "You don't have to be anyone else but who you are right now. With me."
He looked away.
She leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
"Brooklyn, you've carried everyone. Let me carry you. Even just a little."
His throat tightened. His hands slowly rose to take hers, gripping them like they were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
"I don't deserve you."
"You're right," she said, a small smile curling. "You deserve so much more. But you have me. And I'm not going anywhere."
The wind moved through the roses. And even though they didn't bloom, something in that corner of the garden began to breathe again.
He pulled her close, burying his face in her shoulder.
And for the first time in a long time, the Duke of Faolinshire allowed himself to be held—
not as a ruler,
not as a protector,
not as a weapon—
but simply as a broken man who needed love.
Her arms wrapped tighter around his shoulders, her fingers tangling into the back of his coat. Brooklyn sat still for a moment longer in the embrace, his breath slowly steadying, the weight of years of loneliness lifting—if only just a little.
The darkness of the night still loomed, but with Catherine by his side, it no longer felt unbearable.
"I'll always be there for you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. "No matter what happens, no matter how much it hurts, no matter who turns away—I won't. Ever."
He didn't reply immediately. He simply pressed his forehead against her collarbone, closing his eyes. The silence between them was full—not empty. It spoke louder than any declaration. And when he finally moved, his voice was lower, steadier.
"…Thank you."
Then, before she could even react, he slipped his arms beneath her legs and back and lifted her gently into the air.
"W–Wait—Brooklyn!" she gasped, clutching onto him with startled eyes. "What are you doing?"
He didn't look at her. Just started walking, his long stride effortless even on the uneven garden path.
"You'll catch a cold," he said simply. "It's past midnight, and you're barefoot again."
"I'm fine—!" she tried to argue, cheeks burning, but she didn't push away. She was too warm in his arms, too safe, too overwhelmed.
"You say that even when you're crying alone under the trees," he said, glancing down at her, his amber eyes calm but sharp. "So forgive me if I don't take your word for it tonight."
Catherine looked away, burying her face slightly into his chest. "…I was worried about you."
"I know." His voice softened, low and honest. "And that's exactly why you shouldn't have to stand out here in the cold, comforting a fool who doesn't know how to live."
"You're not a fool," she said quietly.
He gave a short breath of amusement, then murmured, "No? Then what am I?"
She looked up at him. "You're Brooklyn. And that's all I need."
That made him stop mid-step. Just for a second.
He didn't speak, but his arms tightened slightly around her. He resumed walking, eyes fixed ahead as the palace lights began to peek through the hedges.
Her head rested against his shoulder again, the sound of his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. Her legs dangled slightly as he carried her like the most precious porcelain in the world. She could feel the strain in his muscles, not from her weight, but from the restraint in his heart.
They passed the silent fountains, the guards who respectfully turned away, and entered the corridor bathed in golden lamplight.
He finally reached her chamber door.
He paused there, gaze meeting hers. "Sleep. And don't go running off into the forest again. I'll chain your ankles if I have to."
She smiled faintly, eyes a little damp. "Then I'll just drag the chain with me."
He rolled his eyes, and yet… he smiled too. A small, rare, real smile.
Brooklyn pushed the door open with his shoulder and gently laid her on the bed like she was a snowflake about to shatter.
He tucked the blanket over her and brushed back her hair from her forehead, his hand lingering there a moment too long.
Just before turning to leave, she caught his wrist.
"Will you stay?" she asked, her voice small.
He didn't hesitate this time. "I was going to ask the same."
And so, the night ended with them lying side by side, not as Duke and noblewoman, not as broken and healer—but as two wounded souls slowly learning to rest in the warmth of each other.
The curtains fluttered gently in the night breeze, and the amber warmth of the hearth cast long shadows across the chamber walls. Brooklyn sat quietly at the edge of the bed, the weight of the day leaving only the stillness between heartbeats.
He'd laid her down with care, like one would rest a petal on glass, and now her head rested on his lap. His fingers moved with rare tenderness through her scarlet-blonde strands, occasionally brushing across her forehead as if to soothe thoughts he could not hear.
Catherine's eyelids fluttered, her lashes damp from the remains of earlier emotion. She wasn't crying anymore—just watching him. Watching the way his brows softened when he looked at her. Watching how his hand never faltered from its quiet rhythm on her brow.
"Cathie," he said softly, "have you ever thought about becoming a Duchess?"
The question landed in the air like a leaf falling on still water.
She blinked. "A Duchess?"
He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Not through marriage. Not yet."
She shifted slightly, her cheek warming against his thigh. "I don't know…" she admitted. "I never thought about… anything like that."
"You don't have to marry me for it," he murmured. "Not now. Not until you're ready. Or… even if you decide never."
Her eyes widened. "But… then why?"
"Because you deserve more than shadows and broken halls. Because if I leave the title to anyone else, I'll never sleep again." His hand paused. "Be Duchess of Faolinshire, Catherine. For yourself. For this place. And if someday… you feel ready, then be mine too. But until then—I won't force your hand."
She stared up at him, stunned by the gentleness wrapped in such a powerful offer. Her throat tightened.
"You'd… let me lead as Duchess?" she whispered.
He nodded, without hesitation. "Not 'let.' I'd trust you to."
Her fingers clutched lightly at the blanket. Her body trembled with the weight of a lifetime where no one had ever believed in her, not like this—not unconditionally.
"…Okay," she said quietly. "I'll do it."
His hand brushed her cheek, tucking a stray lock behind her ear.
"You're trembling."
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"You should be." His lips curved, but not unkindly. "It's not easy. You'll have enemies. Eyes watching everything you do. Some who will question you for being a woman. Others, for being… you."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
He leaned down slightly, his forehead brushing against hers.
"But if they dare speak," he said, voice low, "they'll have to face me."
That made her laugh quietly. Just a fragile, broken sound—but it was real.
"I'll try my best," she said.
"You always do." His voice was barely more than a breath.
Then he bent slightly, placing a kiss on her forehead. A promise. A vow. Not of love demanded—but of patience offered.
As her eyes finally closed, her head still cradled in his lap, she felt like maybe… just maybe, the world could make space for her too.
And for the first time in years, Brooklyn Harperwood—Duke of Faolinshire, the cold storm behind the title—smiled not from victory, not from cruelty… but from the quiet beginning of peace.
The early afternoon sun filtered through the grand windows of Faolinshire Manor, gilding the halls in gold and quiet serenity. Catherine sat on the lounge chair beside the hearth, the fabric of her simple linen gown fanned neatly around her ankles. She was reading—half-focused, half-daydreaming—until a knock at the door stirred her.
"Come in," she said, gently folding the book shut.
A maid entered, carrying a pale blue envelope sealed with a crimson and gold wax crest. "For you, my lady. Delivered just now from Count Sebastian's estate."
Catherine blinked. "Sebastian?"
She took the envelope delicately, recognizing the elaborate seal—Luciane's family crest, intertwined with Sebastian's. Her breath caught.
Brooklyn entered just as she broke the wax.
"What is it?" he asked, drying his hands with a cloth, having come from training.
Her eyes widened, scanning the parchment inside. A stunned smile formed slowly on her lips.
"It's a wedding invitation," she murmured, eyes darting over the carefully penned script. "Sebastian and… Luciane."
Brooklyn's brow rose. "They're getting married?"
She nodded, turning the invitation toward him.
A rich blush spread across her cheeks. "Two weeks ago, they were just… just leaving the estate."
"Mm," Brooklyn hummed, gaze sharpening as he took in the date. "It must've happened shortly after they arrived. Knowing Sebastian, he was probably waiting for the right moment."
Catherine clutched the invitation, her expression soft and glowing. "I never imagined they'd… but now that I think of it, the way they looked at each other…"
Brooklyn leaned on the back of the chair. "He's always loved her. I was just waiting for Luciane to admit it to herself."
She chuckled, the sound quiet and sincere. "This is… wonderful."
There was a silence that settled then, filled only by the warmth of the fire.
"I never thought any of us would reach something like this," Catherine said softly, almost to herself. "A wedding… a future. After everything."
Brooklyn tilted his head, watching her. "You still don't see it, do you?"
She looked up.
"You're a part of that future too, Cathie," he said. "More than anyone."
Her eyes trembled. But this time, there were no tears—just the weight of happiness slowly blossoming inside her ribs.
"Do you think they'll be happy?" she asked.
He leaned down, placing a gentle kiss atop her head. "They already are."
Catherine held the invitation close, her heart thudding in quiet delight. For once, not from fear.
A wedding. A promise. A beginning.
And perhaps… someday, their turn would come too.
The towering gates of the Verdant Hollow estate opened with a regal creak as Brooklyn's carriage passed through. Vine-wrapped stone walls and rows of bright white azaleas greeted them, their petals dancing in the wind like blessings from the heavens.
Catherine leaned slightly out the window, marveling at the estate. "It's so beautiful…"
Brooklyn glanced toward her, a rare softness in his eyes. "Sebastian's family estate. He rarely visited it back then. Looks like Luciane's already turned it into a home."
They stepped out onto the gravel pathway where the staff waited in tidy rows, but the formal greetings were drowned by a loud, familiar voice.
"My favorite pair of storm clouds!"
Sebastian practically exploded out of the front door, his coat half on, hair wind-blown and completely unbothered.
Catherine giggled as Sebastian jogged over, arms outstretched. "You came! Finally!"
Brooklyn raised a brow as Sebastian nearly lifted Catherine off the ground in a bear hug. "I'm going to bruise her ribs, you fool."
Sebastian laughed harder. "Ah, she's tougher than she looks! Aren't you, duchess-to-be?"
Catherine flushed, adjusting her hair with a bashful nod. "I—I think so…"
Brooklyn stepped between them, lightly pushing Sebastian back. "Enough. Where's your bride?"
As if summoned by the question, Luciane stepped out from the doorway, her usual calm presence now tinged with a shy glow. Dressed in soft peach and ivory, her cheeks went pink the moment her eyes met Catherine's.
"She's been fussing about centerpieces and ribbons," Sebastian said dramatically, waving his hand. "Told her, 'Lucie, let's just throw petals in the air and call it a day,' but nooo."
Luciane approached, nudging Sebastian in the ribs. "You forgot the colors again, didn't you?"
Sebastian grinned at her. "I remember yours. That's enough."
The four of them stood there, sunlight wrapping around their forms like a memory waiting to be sealed.
Catherine whispered, "You look… radiant, Luciane."
Luciane touched her fingers together. "I'm still terrified. But… happy."
Sebastian threw an arm around her shoulder. "Two more days, and then you're forever mine. Think you'll survive?"
Luciane leaned into him with a warm smile. "I might."
Brooklyn smirked faintly. "If she doesn't, I'll take the estate."
Sebastian barked a laugh. "Over my dead body, Faolinshire!"
They all laughed, the kind of laughter that rose effortlessly, without the weight of shadows or knives in the dark. For once, it was just joy—unsullied and whole.
Catherine found herself watching the two of them, her heart strangely calm.
Maybe, she thought, maybe happiness isn't a fleeting thing. Maybe it just… arrives quietly, when you're too tired to expect it.
She felt Brooklyn's hand gently slide into hers.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.