"Theo."
"Theodore."
The overlapping memories that had momentarily clouded his mind vanished in an instant.
Olivia was staring at him with startled eyes. It felt strange to be called Theodore instead of Theo. They had not seen each other since childhood, so there should have been no bond left between them to still address each other as “Theo” and “Via.”
The two stood in silence, gazing at one another without a word. Theodore could not understand why she looked at him with such a conflicted expression. Sad, anguished… and yet, joyful.
Nor did he understand why he could not simply turn and leave.
He had nothing to say to Olivia. Matters of inheritance could be handled cleanly through Marquis Ascensio and the lawyers.
And yet, he could not bring himself to turn his back on her. He could not even tear his gaze away.
She had grown exactly as he had once imagined she would. Slender and pale enough to be lifted with a single arm, her delicate features upon her small face resembled a lily.
Her sorrowful aquamarine eyes shimmered with moisture. Thinking it must be because of their father, he muttered without thought:
"You’re not crying."
Sweeping her long hair back with her hand, Olivia replied:
"Isn’t it strange? People… no matter how much they suffer, they cannot cry forever."
"Is that so."
"It is."
He assumed the suffering she spoke of was grief for losing Pavel.
Their conversation broke off, and again they stood staring at each other in silence. They were not in any position to reminisce fondly about their childhood, nor was it fitting to share sorrow appropriate to a funeral.
Something strange passed between them. Or perhaps it was only his illusion. What Olivia needed was comfort and grief, and Theodore had no emotions left to share with her. He must not reveal anything of himself.
She did not know what had driven him to storm out of the house. She did not know the unjust anger he had held toward their father.
Yes. Unjust anger.
But he had no intention of confessing it, of altering the world’s judgment of his father. By writing marriage into his will, his father had already declared his own innocence—without any understanding of how that made Theodore feel.
He turned to leave.
"Don’t be out too late."
Just as he chose escape once again and spoke those words, Olivia stepped closer and called to him:
"Theo."
The same name she had used in childhood. An improper name.
Theodore turned away from her. Olivia drew another step nearer and asked:
"Do you still hate me?"
He recalled their conversation long ago in this very place, and whispered in a low voice:
"I do."
Now they stood so close that a single step would bring them into each other’s arms. But that was the limit. It could go no further, he told himself. He would not allow it.
He swore he would never waver before this woman. Ten years lost in self-loathing and denial had been more than enough.
She had no idea what vile thoughts had consumed him in those years of loathing himself. Yet she gazed up at him with that pure, untroubled face.
Her full lips parted hesitantly, closed again. As though she had bitten down on the inside, the folds of her lips tucked in and then slipped out once more. Theodore’s eyes followed every detail. Her lips parted slightly again, pale membranes glistening, and between her teeth her tongue flickered, soft as a puppy’s or a kitten’s.
"But you…."
At last Olivia spoke. Theodore, who had forgotten even to breathe while staring at her lips and tongue, snapped back to himself and raised his eyes.
She lowered hers as though to escape his gaze. Her golden lashes caught the moonlight and glimmered.
"You… you can kiss me, can’t you?"
Her tone was neither quite question nor affirmation.
At that moment Theodore felt an explosion of rage and passion. Without even realizing it, he seized her arm.
And then Olivia was already in his arms. His large hand gripped her chin and the back of her head, devouring her lips in a rough, stolen kiss.
Her soft lips opened without resistance. Theodore thrust in his burning tongue, sweeping and lapping through the warm, wet depths. Olivia’s startled tongue faltered, and he twined around it, dragging it toward himself, stealing all her breath.
He felt like he was losing his mind. No—he already had.
You can kiss me, can’t you? Did she truly not understand that such a thing was beyond question? She did not know why he had left—no, fled. That ignorance was why she could approach him without fear, looking at him with that spotless face.
Heat surged from every point of contact, his loins tightening painfully. Her tender lips were like petals, and crushing them felt like grinding flowers into pulp. He felt wretchedly filthy. In truth, he himself was the mire, unable to escape.
If only she had resisted, he might have felt cleaner. If she had screamed, cried no, thrashed wildly in his grasp, he would have come to his senses and released her. Then they might have returned to some semblance of a rightful relation.
But Olivia, gasping, had only clutched at his sleeve. Theodore slid the hand at her nape down to her back. Even through her indoor gown he could trace her body’s fragile lines. Exactly as he had imagined—slender and delicate.
"Hh… ngh."
A moan escaped Olivia’s throat. That sound jolted him to himself.
As she sagged, he forced her upright in his embrace. Their lips barely parted, only enough for her to catch a breath, while his scorching breath still poured into her mouth.
Her face was crimson, and tears welled blue at the corners of her eyes. Theodore gazed into them, and before they could spill he brushed them away with his thumb.
"Did you really mean that question?"
"You can kiss me… so why don’t you want to marry me?"
"Being able to kiss you doesn’t make you a good bride. If you knew what I want to do to you, you’d only want to run."
"What is it you want to do to me?"
"Why? Do you want to marry me? Better to be Countess than just the Count’s bastard foster daughter?"
He could not even tell whether what he felt was rage or lust. Likely both.
He wanted to make her angry. To make her cry and flee. Anger rose in him that she had no inkling of the burden he bore.
Yet despite his insults, Olivia still gazed up with that impenetrable calm.
"I only want to know. What you really think of me…."
The night air was cool, yet Theodore felt nothing of it. Heat flooded his vision until the world turned red.
He had once sworn he would never desire this woman, even if he craved all else in the world. The very need for such a vow proved how much he wanted her—and how he despised himself for it.
In countless dreams he had ravished her. Toppled her radiant, sunflower smile to the floor, forcing her legs apart as she screamed and called for her father.
And still, even now, he desired her and loathed himself. He could not deny it, not anymore. He had wanted Olivia from the beginning. Even if she had not shared his blood, his heart had already committed the sin.
So the only right choice was to feign ignorance of this fatal mistake and leave her here.
Slowly, Olivia lifted her hand to his cheek. Her whisper spilled from her lips, clear and fragrant as the scent of lotus blooming on water.
"I am not the Count’s daughter… nor your sister."
Surely she did not mean to tempt him. Yet to Theodore, her words sounded like a devil’s sanction.
The will, the marriage—those thoughts vanished completely in that instant. His vows, his loathing—all were scoured away.
As though bereft of reason, he plunged back into Olivia’s lips. When she sagged again as though her strength left her, he sank with her, pressing her down to the floor.