QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 113: I don’t understand

Chapter 113 – Evelyn POV

I do everything in my power to carry Daphne.

She’s barely conscious. Her body is limp, too warm, too still. Her skin—pale. Her breath—shallow. Her blood—still on my hands.

And I—I can’t stop shaking.

I’ve never in my life felt this much fear. Not when I defied my family. Not when I was married off like a token. Not even when Cedric raised his hand to me.

But this?

This is terror.

"Daphne..." I whisper her name like a prayer, like a promise. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and I tighten my hold on her.

I have to get her out of here.

The carriage waits in the distance, barely visible through the trees—two horses still hitched to it, but no rider in sight. Probably fled when Cedric began his madness.

Coward.

I left Frida behind. She’s pregnant. I didn’t want her traveling this far. She eventually accepted John’s constant proposals, I’m happy for them but now I regret it. I wish had someone with me right now.

Now I’m alone.

Completely alone.

I can’t leave Daphne here to go for help. What if something happens while I’m gone? What if she stops breathing and I’m not there?

No. I can’t risk that.

Her weight is heavy in my arms—she’s taller than me, stronger than me, and her limbs keep slipping, like she’s trying to disappear into the earth.

"No," I say firmly, holding her tighter. "Stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me." freёweɓnovel.com

She doesn’t answer.

I grit my teeth and push forward. Each step is uneven on the forest path, roots catching underfoot, my arms screaming in protest. I can’t keep carrying her like this—I’m not strong enough—but I can’t stop. Not until I get her to safety.

When I reach the steps, I falter. I don’t know how I manage to open the door with my elbow, how I find the strength to lift her one last time and ease her inside, laying her gently across the cushioned seat.

Her lashes flutter. She groans, barely audible.

"Daphne?" I lean close, brush sweaty strands of hair from her forehead.

Her eyes don’t open, but her lips move. I can’t hear the words. It sounds like—

"...sorry..."

"No. No, you don’t get to say sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong," I whisper, brushing my thumb over her cheek.

I take off my cloak and fold it beneath her head. Her hand twitches as I reach for the blanket stored beneath the seat, tucking it around her.

"I’ll go get help," I whisper, hesitating at the door. My fingers curl around the edge of the frame, knuckles white.

"I’ll be right back."

I try to stand, try to force myself to move, but then—

A hand tugs weakly at my skirts.

I look down.

Her fingers tremble as they clutch the fabric, pale and shaking.

"Please stay," she whispers. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, glazed with pain and exhaustion. Her voice is so faint I almost think I imagined it.

But I didn’t.

I freeze.

Her grip is like the lightest thread—but it holds me in place as if made of iron.

And I don’t leave.

I sit down again, slowly, carefully, afraid that if I move too quickly I’ll break something. That she’ll vanish. That this will all shatter like glass.

My knees bend against the floor of the carriage. I reach for her hand, wrap mine around it gently. Her skin is damp with sweat, her fingers twitching against mine.

I want to scream.

I want to shake her and demand answers. Why are you like this? What happened to you? What are you hiding from me?

But I don’t ask.

Because I can see how much it hurts her just to stay awake.

I press my forehead against our clasped hands.

"I’m here," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I won’t go anywhere."

The silence stretches.

I blink back my tears, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

She was fine.

She literally helped build Frida’s marital home, brick by brick, barefoot in the summer sun with her sleeves rolled up and dirt on her cheeks. She laughed when I scolded her for lifting too much, and carried twice as much the next hour just to be annoying.

She was healthy.

Strong.

When she pulled me away from the Duke—when her eyes locked onto mine and she threw him to the ground with a strength that came from somewhere deeper than muscle—I believed nothing could break her.

I believed in her more than I believed in anything else.

And now...

Now she lies here, unmoving, her body giving out on her like it no longer belongs to her. As if some cruel god decided she had done too much, interfered too many times, and demanded a price.

It doesn’t make sense.

It’s like her body just... collapsed.

It’s not illness. I know it isn’t. This isn’t fever or fatigue or any affliction I’ve ever seen.

This is something else.

Something unnatural.

"Why now?" I whisper, stroking her hair back. "Why is this happening now?"

She doesn’t answer.

I don’t expect her to.

I just sit there, stroking her hand, memorizing the feel of her fingers in mine. The only sound is her breathing—fragile, uneven—and the distant rustle of wind through the trees.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Dragging. Crunching the gravel path just outside the carriage.

I freeze.

My head lifts, heart catching in my throat.

Maybe it’s someone. A rider who saw the horses. A traveler, a villager—someone who can help.

I reach for the door, gently slip Daphne’s hand from mine, and step down onto the dirt.

And then I see him.

The breath leaves my body.

It’s him.

Cedric.

The Duke.

He’s still alive.

Bruised and bloodied, his lip split, one eye swelling shut. There’s a smear of dried blood along his collar, and his once-pristine coat is torn at the shoulder. But it’s him.

He limps closer like some wretched ghost, one hand gripping a tree for balance.

My heart drops. Nausea twists in my stomach.

"What do you want?" I ask. My voice is low, dangerous.