Chapter 41: In the Duke’s Embrace.

Chapter 41

Soren’s hold on Sigrid tightened, his large, calloused hands anchoring her against his frame with an unyielding pressure that brooked no escape. Sigrid, recovering her composure with practiced aristocratic ease, slowly lowered her gaze to his massive hands before tilting her chin up to study his expressionless face. A small, knowing smile played upon her lips, her crimson eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and intrigue. "You really are full of surprises, Your Grace," she murmured smoothly, her voice a low, teasing purr that did nothing to disturb the heavy quiet of the ancestral library.

Soren did not offer an immediate response, his jaw remaining set like sculpted granite as he simply looked down at her, his icy blue eyes dark with an unreadable depth. Sigrid tilted her head, her curiosity piqued by his uncharacteristic silence. "What is it?" she inquired softly.

Soren bent his head slightly, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes, and when he spoke, his deep, rumbling voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Nobody is undeserving of love," he muttered.

The words fell between them with the weight of an iron gavel, causing Sigrid’s crimson eyes to widen in utmost surprise. For the first time since her rebirth, she found herself completely paralyzed by shock, her mind temporarily failing to engineer a clever, deflectionary response. Before she could fully recover her wits, Soren continued evenly, his steady breath brushing against her cheek. "Especially someone who so clearly yearns for it."

A subtle, involuntary shiver passed through Sigrid’s spine at his blunt assessment. She let out a sudden laugh—not one of mockery or humor, but the fragile, breathless laugh of a master strategist who had been thoroughly caught off guard. "I did not think I was quite that poor at concealing my true emotions," she conceded, her aristocratic mask fracturing just enough to reveal the raw astonishment beneath.

Soren’s gaze remained fixed on hers, unblinking and steady. "You are not," the Duke countered calmly, "but I have seen that exact look before. It is not easily forgotten."

Sigrid scofled softly, turning her eyes away toward the dark perimeter of the room. Internally, she fiercely refused to admit the validity of his words, yet the nagging voice of her subconscious knew that Soren was entirely correct. She had always yearned to be loved, to be cherished unconditionally for who she was rather than what she could provide. Yet, the memory of her wretched curse—the absolute certainty of always being betrayed by those she had once held dear—had thoroughly reinforced the belief that she was fundamentally undeserving of such affection. She looked down at her pale palms, remembering the sheer volume of blood she had spilled in her previous life supporting Prince Ragnar, a man who had callously cast her aside for another woman. That betrayal, coupled with the tragic loss of her mother—the only soul in the world who had ever offered her genuine warmth—had carved a deep, unyielding conviction into her soul that love was a prize meant for others, never for her.

She let out a soft, resigned sigh, turning her attention back to her husband. "It is true that I yearn for it, perhaps, but do not fret over that, Your Grace. It is a useless sentiment in our line of work. However, you are not exempt from this analysis, Duke. You keep surprising me at every turn."

Soren did not loosen his grip on her waist, his steady warmth seeping through the fine lace of her undergarments and the heavy fabric of his own tunics. "What do you mean by that, Duchess?" he asked, a subtle trace of curiosity softening his deep voice.

Sigrid rested her small hands against his broad chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. "You preach the mechanics of love as if you have experienced it firsthand, all while holding me in this remarkably tight embrace," she noted with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Since the moment I arrived at this northern manor after proposing to you out of the blue, you have been entirely consistent. Expressionless though you may be, you are no less kind, and you have meticulously ensured that I feel comfortable and secure within your domain."

She felt Soren’s muscular frame stiffen slightly beneath her touch, his breathing hitching for a fraction of a second. "I am not experienced in the ways of love," Soren stated quietly, his eyes darkening with a distant memory. "Rather, I simply had someone in my childhood who truly cared for my well-being. She would always tell me that everyone deserved love, and she would hold me in this exact manner whenever I was in distress."

Sigrid’s lips curved into a gentle smile, her interest piqued by this rare glimpse into his shielded past. "Lady Hildegard? Your real mother?" she asked softly.

Soren shook his head, his gaze drifting over her shoulder toward the ancient volumes on the shelves. "She was not related to me by blood," he replied flatly. "In truth, she belonged to no branch of my family."

A sudden urge flared within Sigrid’s chest to push further, to interrogate him about the mysteries of his true lineage, his biological parents, the complex line of succession from which he had seized his Ducal title, and who Lady Hildegard truly was to his household. Yet, seeing the faint shadow of grief lingering on his brow, she chose to relent, pulling back from the edge of his secrets. "And yet, the sophisticated people of the capital call you the ruthless executor," she remarked, shifting the tone back to their current reality.

Soren’s body stiffened once more, his icy blue eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, grim intensity. "That title is entirely accurate," he said, his voice dropping into a harsh, remorseless cadence. "I have executed far too many people to be considered a human being by regular standards, Sigrid. My hands are stained beyond redemption."

Sigrid did not flinch; instead, she reached down and placed her smaller hands over his warm, scarred ones, squeezing them firmly. "And that does not matter to me in the slightest," she replied with absolute conviction. Internally, she knew that she too was a creature of blood and shadow; she had orchestrated downfalls and caused deaths in her quest for survival, making her no holier than the warlord beneath her.

Soren raised a large hand, his calloused fingers gently catching her chin to turn her face fully toward his. "I do not truly know what it means to love someone, Duchess, or what it feels like to be genuinely loved in return," he confessed, his voice carrying an unvarnished honesty that struck her deeply. "However, I can promise you this: I will treat you with the utmost care, and I will never abandon your side for as long as I draw breath. I will support your grand designs, whatever they may be. Though I am not entirely certain I will ever possess the capacity to love you the way a proper husband should, I will try my absolute best."

Sigrid’s serious demeanor melted away, replaced by a brilliant, mischievous smile. "Are you formalizing a proposal to me, Your Grace?" she teased, her crimson eyes dancing with mirth.

Soren’s lips twitched, a rare, faint smirk gracing his rugged features as he looked up at her. "How could I possibly propose to you, Duchess, when you brazenly stole that opportunity from me in the capital?" he countered smoothly.

Sigrid let out a genuine, melodic chuckle, the sound warming the cold air of the library. Soren’s smirk faded back into a thoughtful frown, and he muttered a few quiet words under his breath, a faint phrase that caught her attention: "...before I leave you."

Sigrid’s thoughts sharpened instantly, her internal calculations working through the meaning behind his whispered words. Is it because of the grand treason he plans to exact upon the imperial crown in the future? she mused silently. He truly was entirely different from the monstrous, unthinking warlord she had believed him to be during her previous life. "You fool," she muttered affectionately aloud, reaching up to wrap her hands around his large, warm palms once more.

She brought his hand to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his knuckles. "Then I shall simply have to enjoy my life to the fullest and follow you wherever you lead, my not-so-ruthless husband."

Soren’s icy blue eyes widened by a sharp fraction at her bold declaration, a visible look of astonishment breaking through his usual stoic armor. Sigrid smiled brilliantly at his rare display of vulnerability, her heart for some odd reason feeling lighter than it had in years. Soren, my foolish, honorable Duke, she thought with a deep, hidden satisfaction. When the proper time comes, I will reveal the absolute truth of my past and my plans to you. But for now, let me simply enjoy your utter cluelessness, it will be truly interesting.

Sigrid began to raise her head, intending to offer another teasing remark, but her words died in her throat as Soren’s face suddenly came into full view. The space between them vanished in an instant as the Duke bent his head forward, his powerful arm tightening around her waist as he leaned in and immediately kissed her, sealing her thoughts in a brilliant flash of sudden warmth.