Chapter 61
Thud.
Sinclair lowered her back and lunged forward like a deer, taking him down.
Gerald was caught off guard. Completely unprepared for her sudden move, he ended up on her back in shock.
What kind of ridiculous position was this?
Had he ever been this close to her before?
Still dazed, Gerald found himself leaning into her, breathing in the faint scent of her body.
Then, in a flash, she shoved him sideways and climbed right on top of him.
What in the world! This was supposed to be sparring. With Theodore watching, what kind of shameless act was this?
Gerald’s eyes widened as he looked up at her glittering, coral-pink eyes.
It was the first time she had ever straddled his stomach like this, and her loose strands of hair tickled his face.
He wanted to pull her into his arms immediately. His face flushed hot, his lower belly tightening, his body reacting heavily.
But just then, she pressed her leg across his neck, yanked one of his arms back, and shouted:
“Armbar!”
“Urgh!”
Gerald groaned in pain.
Sinclair’s lips curved into a smile. His smug, faint grin from earlier had annoyed her. This was a spar, so why was he smirking like that?
Enough was enough. Time to give His Grace a little taste.
But Gerald’s reflexes were sharp. He twisted his body, trying to slip free.
Wait, he knows the counter to the armbar?
No way, Gerald. I can’t let it end like this.
For a split second, she debated. Guillotine choke? Anaconda choke? D’arce choke?
Fine. You’re stronger than Curtis, after all.
Keeping her grip on Gerald’s arm, Sinclair yanked his head hard against her stomach.
“Whoa!”
Gasps echoed from the knights watching.
Wasn’t this going a little far?
She folded her right leg over like sitting cross-legged, pinning him between her thigh and stomach, then hooked his back with her left leg.
“Urgh!”
Gerald’s breath grew ragged, his face pressed against her stomach, surprised at her unexpected skill.
The knights swallowed hard. This didn’t look like a spar anymore—it looked intimate.
Ariel quickly covered Theodore’s eyes. But Theodore squirmed, prying her fingers apart.
Are they even sparring?
Theodore tilted his head in confusion.
Even Schmidt, unsure whether this was a fight or a lovers’ quarrel, wondered if as aide he should clear the field to let Their Graces continue what looked dangerously close to an R-rated scene.
“Hah, hah.”
Both Gerald and Sinclair’s breaths came heavy.
This chokehold—though it looked indecent—was exhausting.
Today, Your Grace, I’m going to win.
With the last of her strength, Sinclair twisted her body sideways, intent on choking Gerald unconscious.
But Gerald suddenly kicked off the ground, rolling agilely forward.
Now they lay opposite each other, bodies facing away, but their heads still close, able to meet each other’s eyes.
If this were a grassy meadow, they’d be biting flowers and whispering love. But this was a parade ground, where winning mattered.
“What are you doing, Duchess?”
“Sparring, Your Grace.”
Her neon-pink eyes glimmered with mischief.
Gerald had forgotten—his neck was still trapped in her grip.
Though her strength was less than his forearm’s, she locked her hands around the opposite forearm, trapping him in her choke.
She carefully adjusted, wrapping her legs higher over his head, and began applying pressure to his neck.
Like wringing laundry, she squeezed.
His soft hair brushed her ribs.
Good night, Gerald.
He tried to pry her arm loose with one hand while bracing with the other, but soon his movements slowed.
He must have passed out. Even Curtis had fainted for a moment under this hold.
But suddenly, Gerald kicked off the ground, flipped through the air, and landed right on top of her stomach.
Gasp!
What—?
His face hovered close, his nose brushing hers.
“Is this what you were trying to do?”
Her world went black.
* * *
“Sinclair. Sinclair.”
From far away, a deep, velvety voice knocked at the walls of her consciousness. His scent—smoky cherry blossom mixed with chocolate malt—tickled her nose. Gerald had to be right beside her.
His breath brushed her face, his worried hand stroking her forehead gently.
Sinclair wanted to open her eyes but resisted.
This softness beneath her had to be a bed.
Damn. I lost! After all that training, my skills were beaten down like this?
She had no idea how to salvage this humiliating mess.
Then—
A soft peck! landed on her forehead.
“I’ll accept your challenge anytime. Sweet dreams.”
Rustle.
He stepped down from the bed and left the room quietly.
“Ughhhhh!”
She stuffed a corner of the blanket into her mouth and screamed.
How could she face anyone tomorrow?!
* * *
From then on, Sinclair joined the training on the parade ground. If it meant protecting herself, there was no reason to refuse.
Fortunately, the Duke seemed fascinated by her martial skills.
And she had to challenge him again.
There was no way she’d let Theodore be thrown onto a killing field like that.
But again, she failed.
Had she gotten rusty from lack of training?
Or was this man actually enjoying it?
She forced herself to push harder, no longer hiding her sparring practice.
But there was a side effect.
Now Gerald wanted to stick by her 24/7.
Sizzle.
Clang!
Someone startled entering the kitchen.
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—
Clatter, chop, chop, slash!
The meat was being butchered furiously.
Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—
Crash! A shriek.
Sinclair sighed. This had not been part of her plan.
She had only wanted Theodore to sleep peacefully in his soft bed while she quietly prepared broccoli-beef-onion soup to bring back his angelic appetite.
Caramelizing onions over high heat, browning beef to chase off the gaminess, chopping broccoli stems, simmering it all with creamy milk, a spoonful of devotion, and a cup of love.
She could have cooked in the annex, but Theodore’s quarters were in the main castle, so she had no choice but to use the central kitchen.
And with so many eyes around, she couldn’t risk magic.
The last time Gerald saw her cut her hand, he insisted he couldn’t leave her alone in such a dangerous place. So now he sat there reading a book while she cooked.
Which only made things more uncomfortable—for the staff.
Even if she had shown up alone, it would have been awkward enough.
Now Gerald was at her right, having cleared a counter to pile up grim tomes on curses. On her left, Theodore had even strung up a hammock and was napping.
Seriously, kid—how can you sleep through this chaos?
Crash.
At every kitchen commotion, Theodore would wake and cry out for his “Stepmother.”
Ugh, was this really supposed to be a tragic survival novel?
Why were both of these men so obsessed with her?
Head chef Lucio hacked at meat so furiously it turned to mince.
Yes, I get it, Chef. You’re angry.
Sinclair clenched the ladle so tightly it bent as she stirred, afraid her own frustration would erupt like lava.
Fine, Theodore’s five years old. But Gerald is twenty-seven—how can he be this clueless?
“Here!”
When she shouted, a young maid plucking chicken feathers started to rush over. But a senior maid stopped her, gliding gracefully forward and bowing.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Stir slowly, so it doesn’t stick.”
“As you command.”
The older maid took the ladle, checked the fire, and stirred gently.
Exhaling, Sinclair forced herself calm, stepping one meter in front of Gerald. He always had a habit of grabbing her waist.
Knock, knock.
She tapped the counter. Gerald kept reading.
Knock, knock, knock.
She tapped harder, faster.
The staff’s gazes burned into them, but Gerald didn’t budge.
“Your Grace!”
She called, keeping her voice polite, hiding her irritation.
Still no answer.
Was he really ignoring her?
Finally, she snapped, striding up and yanking the book from his hands.
“Gerald.”
She scowled, teeth clenched. Gerald simply beamed, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“You called?”
The kitchen fell silent. Everyone held their breath, straining to hear.
This was bad. She couldn’t embarrass the Duke, but she also couldn’t let this continue.
Forcing a graceful smile, she said, “There are many eyes on us, Your Grace. Please, lower your arms.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He obediently released her, looking up like a docile puppy.
Don’t wag your tail. I’m not indulging you.
“Your Grace, with you here, none of them can focus on their work.”
“Is that so?”
The kitchen stirred uncomfortably. Gerald glanced around, then asked casually, “Chef, are you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all, Your Grace!”
Gerald shrugged as if to say See?
You clueless man. Can’t you imagine life outside of being the master—what it’s like to be a servant, or worse?
“You may only want to watch your wife cook, but for the staff, this is their workplace.”
She forced her anger down, trying to keep her words formal.
“It’s disrespectful to them.”
Finally, Gerald seemed to understand.
“Ah! A space both personal and professional—that’s exactly what we need!”
Sinclair’s stomach dropped at his sudden epiphany. He looked thrilled, and without waiting for her response, bolted out of the kitchen.
“Wait, Gerald—”
She tried to call him back, but Theodore had woken and was crying out for her.
“Stepmother! Stepmother!”
Ahhh, not one but two unpredictable men in this world—how was she supposed to survive?!
