QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 74: Breathe

Chapter 74 – Evelyne POV

I read the morning report with one brow arched.

It seems the duke was... quite productive yesterday.

Three removals, two official investigations launched, and a sealed message sent to the Crown for audit support. Not bad. Not that I feel anything about it, of course.

I fold the parchment neatly and place it back on my desk.

Let him have his victories.

I stand. My dressing gown is still tied loosely around my nightgown. The early light hasn’t yet spilled fully into the estate, the sky barely streaked in hints of rose and silver.

I don’t know why my feet are moving.

I tell myself it’s nothing. That I just want to speak with her. That it’s a matter of estate etiquette—a formal check-in, perhaps, to ensure harmony among the ladies.

But I’m using the lesser-known corridors.

The servants’ paths. The side hallways. The ones that don’t pass through the central staircase or draw unnecessary attention.

Because I’m still in my nightclothes.

Because I don’t want to be seen.

And that, in itself, should be enough of a warning.

What am I doing?

Why am I like this?

Something inside my chest screams at me to turn around.

To go back to bed. To remember who I am.

But my feet don’t stop.

Outside her door, I find her maid.

She bows quickly, eyes respectfully lowered.

"Your Grace."

I nod.

"Open the door."

She hesitates, but only for a second, then obeys.

The door creaks open.

And I step inside.

It smells... clean.

Soft. Subtly floral. There’s a kind of calm in this room I never feel in my own. The morning light has only just begun to filter through the gauzy curtains, casting long, quiet shadows across the rug.

There she is.

Daphne.

Asleep, curled into the blankets, hair messy, face soft in a way she never allows when she’s awake. Her guard is down. Entirely unguarded.

Peaceful.

Now that I’m here... what was I planning to say?

I walk silently to the edge of the bed and lower myself to sit. The mattress shifts, barely, under my weight.

It was always going to be like this.

Of course she’s asleep. It’s just past dawn. The maids haven’t even brought in the morning tea yet.

What was I hoping for? A dramatic confrontation? An accusation?

Or something else?

I stare at her.

My hands feel cold.

My chest, hot.

And then—

"Why are you up so early?"

A sleepy voice.

Not alarmed. Not surprised.

Just tired. Familiar.

Before I can respond, her hand snakes out from the blanket and grabs my wrist.

"Come here."

She pulls.

And I don’t resist.

Suddenly, I’m in her bed.

Arms wrap around my waist, tugging me in. My cheek brushes against her shoulder, and her breath fans across my collarbone.

She holds me like I’m hers.

And I—

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I feel like I’ve just been struck.

My heart is a traitor, slamming against my ribs. My entire body is frozen, stiff with confusion, panic, and something worse—longing.

Her grip tightens, just slightly, as if she can sense the hesitation in my muscles.

She murmurs something—soft and low—against my skin. I can’t make it out, but the tone is so... intimate.

Too intimate.

"Let me go," I whisper, my voice barely above breath.

A protest, in theory.

But even I can hear the betrayal in it.

I don’t sound like a woman who wants to leave.

I sound like someone begging not to be left behind.

She shifts behind me, pulling me in tighter, her breath warm at my nape.

"A couple more minutes," she says, voice muffled against my neck.

"Can I not have them with my wife?"

And then—

She kisses me.

Not on the lips.

Not even properly.

Just a soft, reverent press of lips against the side of my neck.

But it’s enough.

My heart drops.

Straight into my stomach. Into the floor. Into the very core of the earth itself.

Wife.

That word rings in my head like a church bell. Shattering. Echoing.

Wife?

Wife?!

The warmth of her body. The calm in her tone. The way she said it—like she’s said it a thousand times before. Like it belongs to me. Like I belong to her.

I sit frozen, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

Then—

Her hand shifts.

It trails along my waist, up toward my chest.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And I—

I’ve never felt so overwhelmed in my entire life.

The fabric between us might as well not exist. Her palm presses over my chest like it belongs there. Like I belong to her.

And the worst part?

I feel heat surge through my entire body.

This is not right. This is not what I came here for.

My breath catches. Panic takes over. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

I lurch forward in a blind rush to get away, to escape the heat crawling down my spine and the thoughts screaming at me to stay.

But I move too fast.

My foot catches the edge of the rug.

I fall—hard—with a loud thud as my shoulder hits the floor.

For a moment, there’s silence.

And then—

"Duchess?!"

Her voice is sharp with surprise.

I look up.

She’s standing over the bed, blinking sleep from her eyes.

She’s wearing a large white shirt—definitely male in cut—and it hangs loosely over her thighs, baring far too much skin and still managing to look effortlessly divine.

Her dark hair is a wild halo around her face, and there’s a smear of pillow-crease across her cheek.

She looks... human. Confused. Beautiful. Beautiful???

And I—

I want to die.

I try to stand, scrambling to recover even a shred of dignity, but my ankle twists and I stumble again.

She’s beside me in a blink, kneeling down, one arm reaching to steady me.

"Careful," she says gently, fingers curling around my elbow.

I flinch at the contact.

But I don’t pull away.

Her hand stays firm on my arm, steadying me with a confidence I can’t understand. Like she’s done it before. Like she’s held me together more times than I know.

She gently guides me back to the edge of the bed, lowering me down like I’m made of glass.

And I let her.

I’m just... sitting there.

Completely dumbfounded.

She kneels in front of me, barefoot, nightshirt brushing the tops of her knees, and starts checking me for injuries with the same seriousness a physician might have shown.

She brushes back the fabric at my sleeve, examines my elbow for bruises, gently presses around my ankle.

Her fingers graze skin, and I flinch again—but not from pain.

From her.

From how careful she is.

From how familiar this feels.

From the quiet way she doesn’t even ask permission—just knows what to do.

Meanwhile, I just sit there.

Like a doll.

Like a fool.

My mind is blank, and somehow, too full.

I don’t stop her. I don’t tell her to step back or call for a maid or remember who I’m supposed to be.

Because right now... I can’t remember how to breathe.