Reckless confrontation

Berith hummed, as if considering something, with a nonchalant shrug. "Perhaps I just enjoy collecting unsettling art. It was an interesting piece," he spoke. "I have an eye for rare things. You, of all people, should understand that."

Marcella's lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't make frivolous purchases."

She took a step closer, the space between them shrank, and for the first time since their conversation began, Berith felt it—a shift in the air.

Marcella moved fast. Before Berith could fully react, her fingers curled around the lapels of his coat, and with surprising strength, she shoved him back—hard—until his shoulders hit the wall.

His breath left him in an exhale, not from pain, but from sheer surprise.

Marcella stood close, far too close. He could feel the heat of her body, smell her feminine scent-- the dark florals of night-blooming jasmine.

She was pressing him.

"Ah. So, you've been watching me?" He smiled expectantly.

Instead, Marcella lifted her chin, meeting him head-on like a force of nature that refused to yield. "Don't play games with me." Her glare sharpened, her fingers flexing slightly against his coat.

Leaning forward, Berith closed what little space was left between them. Not touching her—just near enough to make her notice.

"You're persistent," he murmured, his mouth brushed against her ear. "Almost obsessive. What is it about that painting that has you storming into my home, uninvited, at the first light of day?" 

His warm breath fanned against her earlobes at this very instant. It tickled.

Her breath hitched.

The moment she became aware of it—of him— it was already too late.

His scent infiltrated her senses—dark cedarwood, spiced musk, and something deeper, something inherently masculine that made her pulse stutter.

Her fingers were still curled into his coat, her body still too close. The heat of him- everything sent a sharp realization crashing down on her.

What in the gods' names was she doing?

Her eyes popped in horror before she jerked away, putting a reasonable distance between them.

Too close. Too reckless.

Her hands, still tingling from where they had gripped him, curled into fists at her sides. She could feel the warmth creeping up her neck, traitorous and shameless, settling on her cheeks.

Damn it.

Berith, of course, noticed.

His gaze dipped, catching the red flush that colored her face, and the infuriating tilt of his lips told her exactly how much he was enjoying this.

Marcella straightened, clearing her throat, schooling her expression into something cold, unaffected—as if she hadn't just pinned him to the wall like some thoughtless fool.

"Let me guess. You contacted the gallery first thing after your morning lessons. Perhaps even before you finished your tea." Berith drawled, managing his collar. 

"That was unnecessary of you to point out," she said stiffly, voice betraying none of the humiliation burning beneath her skin.

Berith tipped his head, flashing a sinister smile as if he hadn't been the one just pressed against the wall by her hands. "Was it?" 

He chuckled, shaking his head as he strode to the sideboard. Pouring himself a glass of water, he took his time.

She was impatient. Suspicious. And, if he wasn't mistaken, just a little frustrated.

She feared what the painting meant.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Marcella refused to meet his gaze. She turned toward the door, picking up her gloves from the desk. "Forget it."

Berith didn't stop her.

Only when the door shut behind her did he sigh, rubbing his fingers together absently.

Marcella was too sharp, too persistent. If she kept digging, she would uncover things she was not meant to see.

And yet—a small, traitorous part of him almost wanted her to.

Perhaps that was why he had bought the painting in the first place.

Because no matter how much he denied it, he had known she would come for answers.

******

The moment Marcella settled into the carriage, she exhaled sharply, pressing her gloved fingers to her temples.

What had she just done?

The wooden wheels rolled forward with a jolt, and the manor slowly disappeared behind her, but her mind was still there—still trapped in that room with him.

Marcella clenched her jaw, glaring at her own reflection in the small window beside her. She had come here for answers, not to let her emotions rule her. Instead, she had cornered him, pushed him against the wall like some reckless fool.

She shut her eyes briefly, inhaling through her nose.

Why?

Why had she let her frustration boil over like that? Why had she acted as if she could shake the truth out of him with force? Had she learned nothing from her past life?

Life had given her a second chance. A chance to undo her mistakes, to act carefully, to survive.

And yet.

Today, Marcella had been anything but careful.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped her lips. If her old self could see her now, she would have scoffed. She was supposed to be collected, aware and cunning. Instead, she had been rash, impulsive, vulnerable.

Her hand curled into a fist over her lap.

No more of that.

She would not let herself be careless with the duke.

He was too perceptive. Too calculating.

Today's confrontation must have planted a seed of doubt in his mind. She could feel it—the way he had studied her, the way his expressions masked something deeper.

But the real question still remained.

Why did he buy that painting?

Did he understand its meaning?

Did he know her truth?

A chill ran down her spine at the thought.

No—he couldn't. It wasn't possible.

And yet… Marcella could no longer be certain.

This was not a mistake she could afford to repeat.