His hand, poised above Danuta’s arm, trembled with an intensity that pulled her gaze from the blood-red rose. Ziven’s eyes, dark pools in the dim light, searched hers, raw and unfettered. He looked genuinely afraid, not of her, but for her. Or perhaps, of what she might have seen. A chill wind swept through the clearing, rustling the bare branches above them. The scent of pine and wet earth mingled with a faint, metallic tang. Danuta swallowed, her voice a hushed whisper.
“There was… a creature. Like a wolf, but larger. It was cornered by the guards.” She paused, recalling the tormented eyes, the almost human desperation. “It was beautiful, and terrifying.”
Ziven’s head snapped towards the guards, who stood rigid, their expressions unreadable in the pre-dawn gloom. One of them, a grizzled man with a scar running across his cheek, cleared his throat. “Your Grace, we tracked it from the western woods. A rogue beast, larger than any we’ve seen. It nearly breached the inner wall.”
Ziven’s gaze returned to Danuta, sharp and assessing. “And you… you stood between it and my men?” His voice was low, incredulous. He finally let his hand fall, not to her arm, but to the rose, gently plucking it from the snow. The vibrant petals seemed to pulse with an inner warmth against his pale fingers.
“It wasn’t attacking them,” Danuta defended, her own conviction firm. “It was trapped. Frightened.” She thought of the beast’s eyes, the fleeting spark of something she couldn’t name. “It understood.”
Ziven studied the rose, his brow furrowed. “Understood what, Danuta? A wild animal understands hunger and fear, nothing more.” He stood, pulling her up with him, his grip surprisingly firm on her wrist. “This is not a game. These mountains are unforgiving. You are the Duchess of Kresnik Spire now. Your life is not your own to risk so carelessly.” His words were harsh, yet there was an underlying tremor, a frantic urgency she hadn’t heard before.
Before she could respond, a distant shout echoed from the main gates. A flurry of torches moved across the courtyard, and the heavy clang of the outer gates opening reverberated through the quiet morning. Ziven’s eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Who in the blazes could be arriving at such an hour?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He released her wrist, dropping the rose into the snow. “Return to your chambers. Immediately.”
Danuta watched him stride away, his cloak swirling behind him, towards the commotion. The discarded rose lay like a splash of blood against the snow. She lingered for a moment, then, with a troubled sigh, walked back towards the mansion, the cold seeping into her bones.
By the time Danuta had changed into a suitable morning gown of deep forest green and descended to the breakfast salon, the unannounced guest was already making himself comfortable. Baron Verian Orlov, her former suitor and a man whose presence was as welcome as a frost blight, sat at the head of the polished oak table, a smirk playing on his lips. His fine velvet coat, the colour of midnight, was draped over a nearby chair, and his gaze, the pale blue of a winter sky, swept over her with an unnerving familiarity.
“Danuta, my dear! You look as captivating as ever, even amidst this… desolation.” Verian rose, his movements fluid and possessive, and took her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her knuckles. His eyes, however, were fixed not on her, but on Ziven, who stood by the hearth, a dark, silent sentinel.
“Baron Orlov,” Danuta managed, pulling her hand gently from his grasp. “To what do we owe this… unexpected visit?”
Verian chuckled, a low, smooth sound that grated on her nerves. “Unexpected? My dear, I was positively distraught when I heard of your hasty marriage to Duke Radomir. Such a remote estate, such an… isolated life. I simply had to ensure you were well, and not pining away in this, ah, quaint little fortress.” He gestured dismissively around the grand, if somewhat austere, salon.
Ziven offered no greeting, standing unmoving beside the mantle while Verian leaned back to test his temper. “Indeed, Duke,” Verian continued, turning his full attention to Ziven, his tone laced with condescension. “It is rare to see you venture from your chambers, let alone entertain guests. One might almost believe the rumours of your… solitary habits.”
Danuta felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Verian was openly baiting Ziven, pushing at the fragile peace they had cultivated. She glanced at Ziven, expecting his usual aloof dismissal, but instead, she saw a flicker of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. He remained by the hearth, but his posture subtly shifted, becoming more rigid, almost predatory.
“The rumours, Baron,” Ziven said, his voice a low growl that cut through Verian’s affected charm, “are often exaggerated by those who lack the courage to face reality.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards the table, his gaze never leaving Verian. “My habits are my own, as is my estate, and more importantly, my wife.”
Verian’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise. He hadn't expected such a direct challenge. “Of course, Duke. Merely demonstrating my concern for the Duchess. A fragile flower, transplanted to such a… thorny garden.” He reached for Danuta’s hand again, but Ziven moved faster.
With sudden speed, Ziven stepped between Danuta and Verian. He didn’t touch her, but his mere presence was a shield. His hand, no longer trembling, slammed flat onto the polished table, the resounding thud echoing through the room. The silverware jumped. “She is no longer a flower for you to pluck, Orlov,” Ziven’s voice was cold, sharp as winter ice. “She is the Duchess Radomir, and my wife. Her garden is here, with me. And I assure you, it has very sharp thorns for those who trespass.”
Danuta stared, stunned. She had never seen Ziven display such overt possessiveness, such raw, untamed authority. Verian, for the first time, looked genuinely taken aback, his chin pulling back in brief retreat. Galina, who had just entered with a fresh pot of herbal tea, paused by the doorway, her stern face betraying a hint of surprise.
The tension in the room was a living thing, thick and suffocating. Verian recovered quickly, forcing a tight smile. “My apologies, Duke. My intentions were merely chivalrous. Old habits, as you know.” He gave a small, mocking bow. “I might do well to take my leave. The air here seems… rather charged.”
Dinner was a torturous affair. Verian continued his thinly veiled insinuations, questioning Danuta about the “excitement” of her new life, the “delightful” isolation, and subtly probing about Ziven’s health and activities. Ziven, infuriatingly, offered little reply, but his gaze, sharp and watchful, missed nothing. Danuta found herself constantly deflecting, her replies carefully neutral, trying to avoid giving Verian any ammunition.
Later that evening, after Verian had retired to the guest wing with a sneer about the lack of finer spirits, Danuta sought a moment of quiet in the library. Her thoughts snagged on Ziven’s sudden ferocity, leaving her unsettled yet fiercely drawn to the memory. She paced between the towering shelves, her fingers trailing over the spines of ancient tomes.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper alcoves. Verian stepped out, his smile replaced by a flat, calculating stare. “There you are, my dear. I knew I’d find you eventually.”
Danuta sighed, turning to face him. “Baron, must you always be so… intrusive?”
“Intrusive? Or concerned?” He stepped closer, invading her space. “This Duke of yours, Danuta, he’s a strange one. Reclusive. Ill-tempered. And then there are the whispers, aren’t there? The Radomir Curse.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming with malice. “They say a beast roams these mountains, tied to the Duke’s lineage. A monster. A curse from the gods themselves.”
Danuta’s breath caught. He knew. He knew about the curse. And the beast. “That’s just folklore,” she said, her voice tight, trying to sound dismissive.
“Folklore, perhaps. But a convenient explanation for a husband who flinches from his bride’s touch, who hides in the shadows, and whose estate is patrolled by guards hunting… something.” His gaze pierced her. “Tell me, Danuta, have you seen it? The beast that howls in the night?”
Her mind flashed to the tormented eyes, the blood-red rose. She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to give him a reaction.
Verian smirked. “Silence speaks volumes. I will not have my reputation, or more importantly, the Rostova name, sullied by a cursed husband. I will expose him. I will bring the truth of this… monster to the King’s court. The marriage will be annulled, and Duke Radomir will face the judgment he so richly deserves. Execution, perhaps. Or eternal imprisonment. Then, my dear, you will be free. Free to choose a proper husband. Free to choose *me*.”
His words hung in the air, a chilling threat. Just as Danuta began to formulate a furious retort, another voice cut in, soft but clear.
“He won’t stop, you know. He never does.”
Irina Orlova, Verian’s sister, stepped out from behind an embroidered velvet hanging, her elegant silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight. Her face, usually serene, showed cold pity, her gaze fixed on Danuta.