Reborn: The Duke’s Obsession

Eric swirled the deep red wine in his glass, the firelight at the fireplace catching in the liquid and making it glow like a ruby. A slow, appreciative smile played on his lips as he looked at Delia, a new sense of respect in his eyes.

"Are you sure this is your first time proposing a deal?" he asked, his voice a low, amused rumble. "Because you do it better than my own aide. He could learn a thing or two from your directness."

Delia felt a genuine smile touch her lips, the first truly relaxed one she'd had all night. The tension of the past few hours began to melt away under the warmth of the wine and his compliment. She took a small, confident sip from her own glass. 

"So," she replied, her voice smooth, "what do you think about making me your new business partner?"

Eric raised his glass, the smirk on his face softening into something more genuine. "I'll be honest, Lady Delia," he said, his gaze meeting hers over the rims of their glasses. "You're quite interesting." He tilted his glass forward. "To our partnership."

Delia raised hers to meet it, the glass making a clear, ringing sound as they clicked together. The sound echoed in the quiet room, sealing their strange and sudden pact.

Moments later… or perhaps it was an hour…

"I once asked my father… for a prince," Delia announced to a particularly fascinating leather-bound book on a low shelf. She was now sitting on the thick, soft rug in front of the fireplace, her sense of grace and poise having been left somewhere in the bottom of her wine glass. She let out a small hiccup. "And of course, he said he would get me one." She dissolved into a fit of soft giggles, the memory seeming incredibly funny to her now.

She reached for the wine bottle on the center table, her movements clumsy. Her fingers found the neck, but when she lifted it, it felt far too light. She peered at it with one eye closed. The bottle was empty.

"Oh," she said, her voice full of disappointment. "It's finished." She stretched her empty glass out towards Eric, who was watching her from one of the armchairs. "More, please."

Eric took the glass from her outstretched hand, but he didn't move towards the decanters. "Let's call it a night, Lady Delia," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "You're intoxicated."

Delia laughed, a loud, uninhibited sound. "Me? Intoxicated?" she slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at her own chest. "No, I am perfectly… perfectly fine."

To prove her point, she tried to get up, but her limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. She ended up back on the floor with a soft thump. Eric sighed softly and, in a smooth, fluid motion, lowered himself to sit on the floor beside her. He didn't say anything, just sat there, a silent, steady presence in her swirling world, and stared.

Her hair, which she had so carefully and elegantly pinned that afternoon, was now completely disheveled from her constant touching and moving. A few pins had already fallen out. Frustrated, she began pulling the rest of them out with clumsy fingers.

"This is so annoying," she murmured, tossing a pin onto the rug. Once the last one was out, her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, a cascade of dark, heavy curls that glowed in the firelight. 

Eric watched the entire process without a word, his expression unreadable.

She tried to stand again, but this time her hair got in her way, falling over her face and blinding her. Eric went to his desk and returned with a thin, dark blue ribbon, the one used to bind the stack of parchment.

He knelt in front of her. "May I?" he asked softly. "I have a sister, so I'm used to this. You won't believe it, but I'm quite familiar with corsets and their impossible buttons as well."

His casual, charming admission made her giggle again. She nodded, too drunk to feel shy. He gathered her thick hair in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin on the back of her neck as he worked, and he paused for a moment, noticing how slender she was, how delicate the bones felt beneath his touch.

"You don't like eating much, do you?" he asked, his voice losing its teasing edge, becoming serious.

Delia laughed, but this time the sound was brittle, hollow. "The Baroness says a man doesn't like a plump woman," she said, her words slightly slurred, followed by another hiccup. "So she cuts off my food ration." She shrugged, as if it were a simple, unimportant fact. "I'm already used to it."

Eric looked slightly annoyed, a frown creasing his brow. "You need to eat more if you want to marry me," he stated, his tone surprisingly possessive. "I don't want my wife leaving this world before me."

He finished tying her hair into a loose, low ponytail and brushed a stray strand from her cheek back behind her ear. The simple, caring gesture seemed to unlock something inside her.

She hiccuped again, her eyes suddenly wide and unfocused. "Do you know I've died before?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "I have. Seeing your whole life flash before your eyes… and then going into the light?" She paused, and a violent shudder wracked her small frame. "That's scary. I was so scared."

Her drunken haze seemed to clear for a moment, replaced by a raw, painful clarity. She pointed a trembling finger at him, her voice breaking despite the alcohol. "All I wanted was to be loved," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "To be accepted. To be respected. Was that really too much to ask for?"

Eric was just staring at her, his face was serious, though something flickered deep in his eyes. He didn't know what to say to the raw pain she was showing him. "Come and lie down," he said softly, his voice gentle. "You're intoxicated."

But she wasn't done. The alcohol had broken the dam, and everything was flooding out. "But I'm wiser now," she continued, her voice growing stronger, harder. "And I'll make all of them pay for what they did to me. One by one."

With that final vow, her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body went limp. She slumped forward.

Eric reacted instantly, catching her before she could fall and hit the floor. He held her gently, pulling her against him until her head rested on his shoulder. He looked down at her face. Her cheeks were flushed a deep red from the wine and the emotion. Dark strands of hair, freed from the loose ponytail, clung to her damp skin.

Carefully, he pushed them gently to the side. His fingers lingered for a moment. Then, after a brief, almost brief hesitation, he let his hand move to her face. He touched her cheek softly, his thumb stroking her smooth skin. His fingers moved lower, tracing the curve of her jaw, coming to rest, ever so lightly, on her lips.

He stared at her sleeping face, at the woman who had said and done a whole lot of things all in the space of a few hours.

"What an interesting woman," he whispered into the silent, firelit room.