A home that felt foreign

"Is anyone hurt?" The deep, smooth timbre of his voice sent a warm shiver down her spine. 

Marcella recognized that voice. When she turned her head, there he was. 

Chiseled cheekbones and cold eyes, sin and darkness all wrapped within him.

The way Berith's eyes held hers, he stared down at her: his face relaxed but his eyes hot like molten amber.

Unease burned through her and Marcella was quick to severe the connection with a blink.

The courtyard was still thick with panic when the royal guards arrived. Berith himself had led the royal guards, looking after the investigation. The creature's lifeless body lay twisted in the street, a grotesque husk of something that should not exist.

"No. I handled it." Marcella swallowed the breathless note in her voice.

Her reply was met with dry amusement. His cold smile told her how little he cared. 

Berith crouched beside the body, nudging the creature's lifeless hand with his gloved fingers. A faint trace of burnt flesh lingered in the air—a telltale sign of poison. His expression darkened. "Smart."

Marcella didn't answer. She knew what he meant. The thing had killed itself rather than be captured.

He stood, brushing off his gloves. "This was no ordinary attack."

Anthony, standing close to Marcella, crossed his arms. "You don't say. It looked like a nightmare clawed its way out of hell and decided to take a stroll through the courtyard."

Berith ignored him. His attention fixated on Marcella. "You should go home."

Marcella shook her head. She held his gaze, unwilling to back down. Whatever this was, whatever had just tried to kill her, she had no intention of letting it be swept under the rug.

"I am sure you have better things to do than handle this situation." The words spilled out in a rush. Marcella didn't mean to ramble, but yes, she did. 

Instead of dissolving, the tension thickened and slipped into her veins. 

Anthony exhaled beside her. "For once, I agree with him. Let's go."

Berith glanced at him, then back at Marcella. "Take her home." His voice left no room for protest.

Marcella hated how effortlessly he commanded a situation. And much to her irritation, she let Anthony guide her away.

By the time they arrived at the estate, the household was already in an uproar. Servants lingered near doorways, pretending to polish silver or adjust drapes, but their eyes flicked toward the entrance with undisguised tension. The news had reached them.

The grand doors of the estate burst open—and her mother was there.

"Marcella!"

The usually moody and distant Lady Agnes pulled her daughter into a crushing embrace. The scent of lavender and ink clung to her robes. For the first time in as long as Marcella could remember, there was no sign of exasperation, no tired complaints. Just… relief.

"You're safe," Agnes whispered, voice breaking. "You're safe."

For a moment, Marcella didn't know what to do with her arms. Then they lifted, slowly, and wrapped around her mother's back. The warmth startled her more than the embrace itself.

She's never held me like this. Not even when I was dying.

Behind them, Father Alistair descended the stairs, still robed in ceremonial white and gold. He looked like a man who had been waiting at a deathbed.

"Thank the divine," he muttered more to himself than to anyone else.

Rachel and Verona rushed from the hall. Rachel reached her first, her usual calm fractured by worry. "We heard something happened in the courtyard. That you were attacked—Marcella, are you—?"

"I'm fine." The words left her faster than she meant them to. "Really."

But she wasn't fine. Her hands still trembled, and wariness flickered in her chest.

"The threat has been dealt with. The duke is managing the investigation personally." Anthony informed. 

Marcella felt the shift in her father's expression—the slight tightening of his jaw. His nod was slow. "That's… reassuring."

"Mm," was all Lady Agnes said. She hadn't let go of Marcella's hand.

Marcella looked at them all—her mother, her father, her sister and Verona. Deep concern etched on their faces. 

It was real.

Her chest tightened.

In her past life, Marcella had died alone. Even her own family hadn't stood at her bedside. And now, here they were— hands reaching for her like they might lose her all over again.

A single tear escaped before she could blink it away.

Alistair stepped closer and cupped her cheek with a reverence that startled her. "Oh, my sweet girl."

She shook her head, brushing her sleeve over her face with quick, embarrassed movements. "It's nothing. I'm alright."

"You frightened us," Lady Agnes's hand was still warm on her arm.

I didn't expect them to care this much. Not again. Not now.

"I should rest," Marcella muttered, trying to re-center herself.

Anthony gave her a knowing nod.

She ascended the stairs slowly, not because she was tired—but because her legs didn't feel entirely hers. Her footsteps were muffled by the soft carpet, the warmth of her family's concern still clung to her skin.

Marcella entered her room and shut the door with a quiet click. Only then did she let her shoulders collapse.

Her eyes flicked toward the mirror. She barely recognized the reflection. Stray strands of hair clung to her face; her eyes red-rimmed. She didn't look noble or powerful anymore. 

Marcella leaned against the doorframe, exhaling.

I should've seen it coming.

She thought her second life had given her an advantage—foresight, memory, wisdom. But today's incident had proven otherwise.

Someone had wanted her dead—or at least injured beyond recovery.

And if history had played out the way it had before, she would have been.

But she had changed things. She survived.

And now, the wheels of fate were spinning in directions even she could no longer predict.