-Chapter 29-
It wasn't the roughness of his voice, thick with vitriol, that jolted her up his bed. Right after speaking, he moved on to flippantly wringing his still-dripping hair with a large towel in hand. So it wasn't that.
Nor was it his drab indifference that unsettled her so sharply.
It was how he looked as he emerged from whatever shadowed corner of the room he had dropped out of.
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Félix wiped his hair, albeit mechanically, mentally cussing at Bach for bringing her in without prior notice. A proper warning would have given him the time to better prepare for the incident of stumbling on her like that. Bach had one job—one simple job—and he blew it right in his face.
The Duke spent a quarter of a minute scrubbing that one spot, not caring if it punctured a hole the size of a crater at the very top of his head. He deserved every bit of humiliation he felt then, with her standing there and him barely clothed. His privacy had been wrongfully infringed upon, and there was nothing he could do about it any more than he could quit towel-drying his hair like he'd been doing for well over a minute now.
A crack of white light sifted through the mated doors leading out to the open balcony, and the sun kissed his bare torso, his morning robe half-exposing his midriff. The fabric, barely there, was ivory silk, clinging to him like a second skin—his wet trunk shimmered underneath, catching the light in a glittery sheen.
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Estella allowed herself to be bewitched by it, her gaze tracing every water droplet trickling down his broad chest.
Despite herself, her eyes trailed lower than his navel ring, moving further down until they stopped just short of the growing bulge pressing against his misty grey pants. A hiccup ripped out of her.
"Has it been long since Bach left you in here?" Félix asked, casually turning his back to her like he hadn't noticed her reaction just now. Reaching and picking out a thicker robe from the cloth hanger, he discarded the water-stained one.
His voice, combined with the abrupt movement, momentarily distracted Estella, mild heat creeping up her neck. When he turned back to face her, he had donned the heavier robe, which reached nearly to his toes and was cinched tightly with a sturdy belt. From the look of it, Félix wasn't willing to risk any more chances. Arms folded across his chest, his stance remained resolute as he waited for her answer.
Estella's lips parted slightly, just enough for a wisp of air to trickle through, but the words she really wanted to say would not come out. Her mind felt utterly fried as she stood there, caught between wondering if it was the rosewater scent mixing with Félix's signature civet sandalwood that had left her tongue-tied, or the slow thrum between her legs from the graphic sight she had just watched.
"Estella?" the Duke called her name, but silence answered back.
"Well," he said. "Do I deserve an answer or not?" He frowned slightly.
"No," came her staunch reply.
Félix's frown deepened. "No to what, exactly?" he asked, vexed.
Estella was startled, her mind whirling with thoughts unhinged. What was she thinking, still standing there with him, when his presence alone did far more to her than he realized? Why was she even entertaining his talk?
"Well?" Félix pressed, his tone harder now.
"I… I don't know why that man brought me here," Estella stammered. "Please let me go back down to my father." She gulped loudly. "Your Grace."
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Back down to her father? Félix fumed internally. What did she mean by that? He'd barely said a word to her. He'd brought her here to talk things out with her, to explain himself—and, if possible, to… apologize.
He set his jaw. "Estella," he called.
She answered, "Your Grace."
But Félix did not like the shivering voice she'd answered him in. What had happened to the spitfire he'd sparred with in Lady Agatha's backyard? The woman standing before him now was a far cry from the girl he'd met that day, and he did not like that. It unsettled him deeply.
Putting one foot forward, he noticed her do the same, visibly trembling as she sidestepped to an angle away from the bed. He took another advancing step toward her; she shifted again. When he moved to approach her fully, her neck strained visibly, her veins bulging out as her eyes widened with panic.
"Don't come—" she blurted in a strained voice, her palms raised high and facing outward. "Any closer." Her eyes dropped.
Félix tilted his head as though assessing her palm as if something unusual were written there. His brows furrowed into creases all at once.
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A flicker of some gutting emotion crossed the Duke's eyes. And Estella did not, for the life of her, know what that meant.
Was he thinking of marching up to her and grabbing her by the neck to strangle her? Was that what he had swirling in his mind to do to her for how she'd dared to stand up to him, even blackmailing him that day? Was that why he had brought up talk of her having stolen from him, to lure her here and successfully carry out his wicked plan?
Of course, now that her logic had returned, she could see that was surely why Bach had brought her all the way here, to the heart of the Duke's manor, where anything could be done to her, and the actual report of what went down could be manipulated before being told her father.
Frantic, Estella made a dart for the door, the blood draining from her limbs as she hurried to get there. She reached it and fumbled with the doorknob but couldn't quite get it right. It also didn't help that the Duke's countenance was fiercer than before when she looked over her shoulder. It was in the way his eyes glared, cold and intent. And then there was the overpowering sound of his footfalls, increasingly filling the air.
"Where do you think you are going?"
The Duke's voice filtered coldly into her ears, sending a chill through her as it drilled deep into her bones. Quickly glancing back again, she fiddled with the doorknob. How had Bach opened it before? Had he turned it this way or the other way?
"Estella."
That commanding voice came again, accompanied by the pounding of his footsteps growing closer. She needed to get out. Had to open the cursed door, and fast.
"Would you be open to at least talk?"
Estella heard him stop, but she wouldn't budge. She had nothing to say to him. What she wanted was to be left alone. Could he not see that and just give her a little more space? What was so hard in that?
She didn't notice when he picked up his pace again. She was too focused on attempting to open the door.
Just as Félix's breath slid into her ears, a whiff of chamomile tea lifting into her nostrils, and with Félix standing directly at her back, the door gave way.
Estella's mouth rounded into an "O," but no sound came out. Walking down that way was Bach, a bunch of keys tinkling behind him.
Estella squinted her eyes tightly shut as soon as she saw him, half-expecting him not to notice her and half-expecting the head slam to the polished stone floor that never came.
Before she could crash forcefully to the ground, a large hand caught her by the waist, pulling her back into him. Spinning her around so her front faced him, Félix's brows eased of their tension as he looked into both of her eyes curiously.
"Your… your Grace—"
His index finger pressed against her puckered lips, silencing her as her eyes widened in surprise.
Before she could even think to melt or slip out of his grasp, his big arms firmly wrapped around her, pulling her close.