They stared at each other for what felt like an indefinite amount of time before Dorian finally signaled to the guard to open the dungeon door. The iron bars groaned as they swung wide.
Arabella pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, attempting to bow before him as he was her master, but her strength gave way. She stumbled forward, her knees buckling. In an instant, but Dorian caught quickly before she hit the hard stone floor.
Her body felt frail, fragile in his arms. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to protest, but no words came. He studied her face ashen from hunger, her breath shallow yet determined. She looked breakable, yet somehow unyielding.
Without speaking, he tightened his hold. For a moment, he didn't move, caught in the strange ache pressing against his chest. Then he exhaled slowly and carried her out of the dungeon.
Arabella wanted to resist. She wanted to tell him that she could walk, that she wasn't so pitiful, that he had no right to lower himself to carry a servant who had brought shame upon herself. But she was too weak, too worn down. So she let her head rest against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as the dim dungeon gave way to the lit corridors above. He didn't take her to the servants quarters but instead carried her to one of the guest rooms on the third floor of the mansion.
When they reached the guest room, her eyes were already fluttering shut. Dorian laid her carefully onto the bed, covering her with a blanket. He lingered there, his gaze tracing her features. She looked peaceful in sleep, almost innocent, and the thought unsettled him, at this moment, it was almost impossible that she could almost kill someone.
Why am I doing this? he wondered, with a light expression on his face. She was supposed to face three days… yet I end it after one. He began slightly nodding his head to himself carefully, he looked at her peaceful sleeping face before he chuckled lightly, he didn't exactly know what was wrong with her, but he was sure nothing was right either, as he always watched how her expression shifted from defiance to confusion.
His hand hovered briefly, as if tempted to brush a strand of hair from her face, but he pulled back sharply and turned away. Without a word, he left the room.
He didn't go to his chambers. Instead, his steps carried him down the darkened halls to the servants' quarters. His knock at head maid Maguriete's door was soft but commanding.
When the head maid opened it, she froze, then bowed deeply. "Master Dorian… good morning. Do you require something?" she asked not expecting him to be hear by this time.
For a moment, his silence unsettled her. His gaze was cold, yet there was a weight behind it. Finally, he spoke.
"Arabella is in the guest room on the third floor's right wing. In the morning, she will need to be cared for. After that, she resumes her maid duties."
Marguerite's heart jolted. Arabella? Already released? That was against the household's discipline. She opened her mouth to object, but Dorian's eyes darkened, silencing her.
"Any objections?" he asked, his voice smooth but heavy with warning.
Margaret forced a smile. "No, Master Dorian."
"Good." With that, he turned and left.
As his footsteps faded, Marguerite clenched her fists. Seriously she couldn't understand why Dorian would shorten her time in the dungeons, firstly she was supposed to be given a much more harsher punishment.
The next morning, two maids followed Margaret toward the guest room with an average food tray, confusion buzzed among them.
"Headmaid, why are we going here? We haven't had guests in weeks," she reminded as they were heading towards the guest rooms.
Marguerite,s expression was tight. "There is someone inside who requires tending." she answered shortly but sternly.
When the door opened, their breaths caught. Arabella was awake, sitting against the headboard. Her eyes were tired, her body weak, but she was upright.
The sight of her made the younger maids hesitate. Memories of the violence she had openly displaed was brought back to the surface, the almost killing of another maid flashed in their minds. Their faces shifted with fear and fright as their steps faltered.
Arabella noticed instantly. Her chest tightened as guilt swept through her. She didn't know what to feel. All she knew was that it hurt that heavy, sinking feeling in her heart. But she didn't and would never be to blame them.
If she were them, she would recoil too. Who would want to be near someone whispered of as a murderer?
She lowered her eyes, saying nothing. Silence pressed down on her as fatigue dragged her body.
A plain trolley of food was wheeled in It wasn't extravagant, but it was enough. Arabella almost began salivating at the sight of it as she had been so hungry, but before she could, Marguerite's voice cut sharply through the room.
"Once you are done eating, freshen up and resume your maid duties."
Her tone was clipped, almost harsh. Arabella's eyes darted away from the food.
Why was Marguerite so cold towards her? Had she wronged her somehow? She couldn't recall. At least not personally, or was it because of what she had done to the maid
But the weight of judgment was undeniable. Whether she had earned it or not, Arabella knew she would never be seen the same again.
And as she lowered her gaze to the tray of food, her chest tightened further.
"It wasn't her fault ".