Chapter 13
Chapter 13
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Eyes in the Dawn
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"To the operating room, now!"
Madam Molly's shout sent Arthur sprinting forward. Blood, impossible to tell whose it was, soaked the bed and soon spread across the floor.
Arthur scooped up the limp female form slumped on the ground. The arms, which had seemed utterly devoid of strength before, now felt completely devoid of any spark of life.
The delayed cries of nurses who grasped the situation, screams, someone's barked orders, and the stomp of military boots filled the space in chaotic disarray.
The woman cradled in Arthur's arms approached Dever. Or rather, she was being wheeled toward him.
A dangling red hand brushed against the hem of Dever's white shirt. Like blaming him for the failed operation, a crimson streak marred the flawless expanse of his chest.
The footsteps of the group faded into the distance. A suffocating silence soon filled the void left by the uproar.
Dever stood frozen in the exact pose he'd held while issuing orders. The only change was the mark left on his shirt by the woman.
The blood, steadily expanding its territory, had now reached the toes of Dever's boots. He stared blankly at the small puddle for a moment before taking a single step back.
Arrogant Dever. The mocking bloodstain pursued him slowly.
One more step back. Another step.
It was a horrific game of tag played alone.
"Dever!"
Arthur called out loudly, but Dever's feet headed not toward the crowded operating room, but toward the door leading outside.
He wasn't the only one watching the man walk away without so much as glancing at the operating room. Raphaelle, awakened by the midnight commotion, also saw that heartless retreating figure. Her blue eyes, wrapped in a shawl, followed him obsessively.
With only the doctor and Madam Molly entering the operating room, Beth's friends—who knew nothing of her condition—could only fret and stamp their feet in anxiety.
Raphaelle shot an irritated glance at Aines, who was sniffling and pacing beside her, but what rolled off her tongue was a voice thick with affectionate concern.
Pretending to be the ever-adorable Raphaelle princess was never difficult. Not even in situations like this, where everything grated on her nerves.
"What will happen to that girl?"
"I don't know. Sniff, it looked like she got shot. What are we going to do?"
Aines buried her face in Raphaelle's embrace. Soon, Raphaelle's sweet consolations poured over her.
Arthur met the inscrutable blue eyes of Raphaelle.
What are you so worried about? Raphaelle's eyes curved into crescents. But she immediately hardened her expression under his cold, appraising gaze. The only ones who wouldn't bend like her tongue were that half-baked brother of hers and the wolf cub.
Raphaelle's gaze shifted back to the operating room swarming with people. Inside there was the woman her man had been watching. She'd never once held Dever in her grasp, but she'd never once thought of him as anything but hers.
From the moment she'd first laid eyes on him—that day when the seventeen-year-old entered the Imperial Palace with Duke Cassius, sounding the victory bells. To Raphaelle, the most coveted jewel became Dever Cliff.
In the palace rife with deceit and pretense, she'd worn the mask of the lovable Raphaelle princess ceaselessly, searching for a stepping stone to climb ever higher. Every night, she'd lie awake with the burning desire to live a life different from her mother, who had spent her days forever overshadowed by golden glory.
The highest woman in Nexus. One everyone would look up to. Untouchable. Far more valuable than some princess only good for admiring from afar.
The seat beside the Cliff family.
No power broker in Nexus was ignorant of the fact that the Emperor relied on the Cliffs while keeping them in check. Rumors swirled that the endless border skirmishes were to prevent any potential civil war with the Cliffs.
She was convinced that marriage to her would benefit both the imperial family and Dever. The Emperor could monitor Dever more easily under the pretext of family ties, and Dever could finally escape the interminable wars.
It was Raphaelle's judgment that a man who had always stubbornly clung to positions of dominance would never marry some insignificant woman.
So naturally, that spot was hers. After all, she was the one who had stayed by his side the longest, where no one else was allowed.
"That girl has to pull through."
The habitual lie slipped from her lips. If lies were sins, she should have been cast into the fires of hell long ago. She swallowed the self-mocking afterthought.
"The unexpected is a misfortune."
The moment she saw Dever freeze as the woman was carried toward him in Arthur's arms, she knew for the first time that a variable had entered the equation.
She prayed the girl wouldn't carry misfortune all the way with her.
Raphaelle offered up the utmost mercy she could muster.
The moment Dever arrived at his barracks, he yanked open the drawer roughly. He dumped out the last of his pills and poured the remaining vodka straight down his throat. The searing heat reminded him he was still alive.
Everything had gone according to plan. The lieutenant buying time just as provoked, the sniper appearing at the perfect moment, the hostage who didn't resist.
But one final variable had made a mockery of his hubris.
That woman was timid, too weak to control the recoil of a gun. He'd assumed she'd stay put until rescued.
It was a rash judgment born of his superficial assessment of Beth.
In the last instant, as the sniper pulled the trigger and the lieutenant, overcome with rage, moved to fire—Beth seized the moment when the lieutenant lost his reason and twisted the gun barrel away with all her might.
The muzzle aimed at Beth swung toward the lieutenant's head, and because the target's position changed so suddenly, the sniper's already-fired shot struck Beth instead.
His thick-knuckled hand clenched and unclenched around the pill bottle repeatedly. His hands were as pristine as the white container. He recalled the bandages wrapped around the woman's hand turning scarlet.
His unfocused eyes stared out at the dawn breaking outside.
Beth hadn't trusted Dever.
That's why she'd acted that way. Was she dead?
A hazy fog spread through him, his vision swimming. Amid it all, he seemed to see the woman's dark eyes glaring at him in resentment, eyes he'd never see again.
Hours later, Arthur roughly shook Dever awake. Arthur's wound had mostly healed, and he was dressed in his uniform. The scattered pill bottles and spilled liquor soaking the floor told the tale of Dever's night.
Dever lay sprawled on the cot, looking up at Arthur's face. A hollow chuckle escaped at the sight of the prince's expressionless face, one he hadn't seen in ages.
She's dead.
Dever's hand reached for the liquor bottle on the nightstand.
"Ease up on the booze."
Dever staggered to his feet, still hunched over, but towered over Arthur even so. His intimidating gaze pierced Arthur, who met it head-on without flinching, staring straight at his friend.
"Snap out of it, Commander Dever Cliff. You planning to visit the patient reeking of booze?"
"Visit?"
His voice was hoarse and cracked.
"She's alive."
Arthur snatched the bottle and took a swig in his friend's stead before perching on a chair. The harsh alcohol burned his nostrils, wrinkling his nose.
"You chug this much at once, you'll poison yourself. You know that?"
"What do you mean, alive?"
"What else? That woman you ordered killed survived. I figured she wasn't ordinary the moment she blew that pervert lieutenant's head off."
Arthur shrugged and continued.
"Of course, you probably didn't mean it literally, but from Beth's perspective, how's she supposed to know your intentions? She was just struggling to stay alive. Whether that turned out well or ill, I don't know. But Madam Molly said—"
Before Arthur could finish, Dever bolted from the barracks. He stormed into the hospital, bounding up the stairs without giving the soldiers time to salute. His heartbeat pounded in sync with his footsteps.
His frenzied steps halted at the door of the isolation room where the chaos had unfolded.
Dever ran a dry hand over his face.
"Idiot."
He hadn't even waited to hear Arthur out, so he had no idea where the woman was.
Come to think of it, he had no reason to come here. There had been a snag in the plan, but ultimately the hostage lived, and the spy self-destructed. She might even prefer he stayed away.
His mouth tasted bitter, perhaps from the lingering alcohol.
"Dever?"
Madam Molly, emerging from the isolation room just then, snapped him out of his daze as he stood blankly at the door. A small sigh escaped her lips at the sight of him. No overcoat, still in the bloodstained shirt from last night—he'd come running like this.
"Here to see Beth?"
Her voice was thick with exhaustion. Her usually impeccably pinned-up hair was disheveled, uncharacteristic for her. Even for a veteran of wars, this dawn had been grueling.
"A stroke of heaven's luck. Truly. One tiny deviation, and we'd never have seen her again. It just grazed her neck. She was covered in blood from the lieutenant's."
The madam pressed her temple as if her head ached.
"Extreme stress brought on shock; she collapsed. Can't blame her."
She looked up, meeting the silent eyes of Dever, who offered no response.
In her memories, the little boy who barely reached her waist had eyes just like these back then. The child who'd pounded on her door, terrified of his father, had become the empire's symbol of fear.
At times he seemed every inch the imperial army commander, but seeing him stand still like this stabbed at her heart. It felt like facing the young Dever she hadn't been able to save.
"Go on in."
Fearing she'd say something foolish amid the rising emotions, she stepped away first.
Dever's hand carefully turned the doorknob. The room inside was spotlessly cleaned, as if nothing had happened. It didn't feel like the same place filled with screams and sobs at dawn.
Black hair splayed across the white bed announced Beth's presence there. She was asleep, oblivious to any visitors, yet Dever found himself holding his breath.
He just felt like he had to. As if she wouldn't welcome his sound, his scent, anything about him. Even if it was just in her dreams.
Her pallid face looked even more gaunt than at dawn. A streak of blood on her cheek, not fully wiped away, caught his eye.
His hand reached out across the distance he couldn't close. Just like that first time in the supply closet when he'd overlapped his hand with hers, an unfamiliar warmth touched Dever's skin.
As if afraid pressing too hard might wake her, he stroked her cheek as delicately as fine glasswork. But the dried bloodstain didn't budge under his dry touch.
Dever's brow furrowed slightly.
Before he knew it, seated on the bed's edge, a bit more pressure entered his thumb. The soft texture became even more vivid.
How much time passed?
Over Dever's focused hand came a faint touch his body remembered.
"......"
Dever's hesitant eyes slowly lifted.
Dark eyes were watching him.