INWY~14

Chapter 14

Didn’t I die? Where… am I?

Riena hurriedly darted her gaze around.

A strange scene unfolded before her eyes—walls with peeling wallpaper, old furniture, a faint chill hanging in the air.

Blinking blankly, she soon realized where she was. 

An inn.

But why on earth was she in an inn?

A cold fear rose in her chest at the incomprehensible situation. 

She tried to push herself up in haste.

Yet the moment she left the bed, her effort was in vain—she toppled straight to the floor.

Thud!

“Ugh.”

Pain shot up her spine, twisting her face in agony.

It wasn’t just the fall. 

Her entire body hurt, as though she’d been in some kind of accident.

…Accident?

The sudden memory froze her in place. 

She lowered her head, checking her body instinctively. 

Arms, legs, fingers, toes—all intact.

Thankfully, she was alive and unbroken. 

But why was she waking up here? 

Not on the street, not in a hospital, not even in Behern—but in some nameless inn?

The more she thought, the less sense it made. 

Fear began to seep in.

Where was this? Who had brought her here, and for what? What had happened after the accident? She knew nothing.

She remembered reading once in the papers about young women being kidnapped. 

Sold off to brothels, organ ships, foreign lands—cruel, merciless rings at work.

Could I have been taken?

If so, nothing could be worse.

Grinding her teeth, Riena forced strength into her legs. 

But who knew how long she had been unconscious? 

Her limbs refused to obey, trembling uselessly.

Damn this body… she cursed inwardly.

Then—

Footsteps.

From beyond the door, steady strides drew closer. 

Terrified, Riena dragged herself across the floor in a desperate attempt to flee. 

But it was useless—the room’s corner was all she had.

Clack.

The door swung open.

A broad-shouldered man entered.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

He spoke calmly, not the least surprised to see her collapsed on the floor.

“…Who are you?”

Her voice trembled, tension plain.

She studied him quickly. 

Sun-darkened skin, a small scar near his cheek… and—an apron tied at his waist.

…An apron?

The sight jarred her. 

A kidnapper in an apron? Impossible.

The man, watching her wary eyes, let out a soft sigh.

“I was making some porridge for when you came to.”

He smiled gently, as though to reassure her, and slowly approached.

As the large figure drew near, Riena instinctively pressed herself back. 

He stopped, knelt before her, and extended a hand.

“Take it.”

It was a big, rough hand, callused from labor. 

She stared at it, hesitant, unable to bring herself to touch it.

His voice came again, low and soft, resonating at her ear.

“I’m a soldier. You don’t need to be so wary.”

A soldier?

Blinking, Riena suddenly recalled the army boots she had glimpsed before fainting.

Ah. It was him.

Only then did her guard loosen. 

Lips pressed tight, she cautiously laid her hand atop his.

Warmth met her skin, strong yet careful, lifting her gently from the ground—as though she were fragile glass.

With his help, she sat once more on the bed. 

He left the room briefly, then returned with a small tray in hand.

“Porridge. It’s simple, but anything heavier might upset your stomach.”

“…Thank you.”

On the tray sat a single bowl with a spoon.

Hesitant at first, Riena soon dipped the spoon and sipped the steaming porridge.

The taste was plain, but the warmth spread through her, easing her unsettled body.

Her eating quickened. 

She finished in no time.

“I’ve eaten well. Thank you.”

“I’m glad it suits your taste.”

He smiled, seeing the empty bowl, and Riena felt a flicker of embarrassment. 

She cleared her throat softly and asked:

“You said you’re a soldier?”

“Yes. Lieutenant Henry Bailey, Bermark Navy.”

“Oh.” She nodded, a small sigh escaping. A naval officer.

“Thank you for saving me, Lieutenant.”

“There’s no need for thanks. It was only right. It seemed like a serious accident, but you don’t appear too badly hurt—that’s a relief.”

His smile was warm, honest—enough to ease the heart of anyone who saw it.

His clear, sea-blue eyes gleamed like the ocean she’d once heard described, his sharp features softened with kindness when he smiled.

Riena’s lips curved faintly in answer—then she frowned. 

But… why here? Why an inn instead of a hospital? Normally, an unconscious victim would be taken straight to medical care.

Just as she was about to speak—

“Because you were unconscious for quite some time after the accident, a number of days have passed.”

“…Days? How many?”

“Four.”

“…Four?!”

Her cry burst out before she could stop it. 

Shock slammed into her like a blow to the head.

Four days unconscious? 

Then… what about the Duke?

Her blood ran cold. 

Even if she’d left quietly, news of an accident would have reached Behern Palace by now.

Seeing her stricken face, Henry hesitated, words faltering.

Then noise erupted outside the window—shouts, the clatter of equipment.

Henry rose and peered out. 

A search party was passing by, hauling gear.

Since the rains had stopped yesterday, the whole of Behern had been in an uproar, scouring for an unknown missing person.

He shut the window, leaving silence once more.

Looking down at her troubled face, Henry spoke again, voice calm but firm.

“…There is something I must tell you, Lady Duchess Venachert.”

Her deep brown eyes wavered, meeting the steady blue of his own.

***

Knock, knock.

“It’s Hudson, Your Grace.”

“Come in.”

The quiet voice drifted through the chamber.

The door creaked open, and Hudson stepped inside, his face somber.

Moonlight alone lit the room, where Dante, robed, sat swirling a glass of whiskey.

His gaze lifted languidly toward his butler. 

He looked different from his tense, sharp self of the day—his face softened, heavy with drink.

Hudson’s eyes flicked briefly to the table. A half-empty bottle. A waiter’s screw was left carelessly aside.

Duke Dante Venachert never drank. 

He had despised losing control, scorned showing weakness before others. 

From the day he came of age, he had sworn off liquor altogether.

And yet, for eight nights now, he had downed a bottle every evening.

Hudson, who had served him long, needed no explanation why.

“Word just came from the Constabulary, Your Grace,” Hudson said quietly.

“At this hour?”

Dante’s brow twitched. Are they mad?

“Yes, they insisted it was urgent. I had thought to wait until morning, but… you should know now.”

“Did they find her corpse?”

The words were flat, devoid of feeling.

“…No, Your Grace. Forgive me. But they did uncover something strange about the carriage and coachman.”

“Strange?”

“Everything else was intact… except the left rear wheel. The bolts had been nearly loosened.”

The hand swirling the glass went still.

“…You’d better be certain of that.”

The voice was low, dangerous, like a predator’s growl. 

Moonlight caught the gold of his eyes, now glinting with icy menace.

Hudson’s breath caught. 

The words he bore could not be recalled once spoken. 

They were heavy enough to shake everything.