"Look, Leonie. That night, when they dragged you into Dorian's room, nothing happened. Neither of us laid a single finger on you."
The girl stares at them as if they had suddenly grown two heads. And truly—she has no idea what to make of this. Is this some kind of trap? A trick to lower her guard? She doesn't remember much… but she does remember Dorian tearing her dress off…
"He's telling the truth," Dorian adds with a quiet sigh. "I swear it."
"No." Leonie's voice cracks as she takes two steps back.
"You're lying! You just want to get into my trust so you can—so you can—"
"So we can what, Leonie?" Dorian asks, his voice calm and unhurried.
"If we wanted to bed you, we wouldn't need tricks to do it," Marcus shrugs. "Let's be honest—we're a lot stronger than you." Facts are stubborn things.
"You're lying…" A tear slips down her cheek as she shakes her head. "I remember…"
"What exactly?" Dorian lifts a brow, genuinely curious. The girl had been unconscious nearly the entire time.
"I remember… I remember you ripping off my dress!" she points at him accusingly, and Marcus snorts.
"That scrap of nothing you wore hardly counted as a dress."
Dorian silences Marcus with a small gesture, then stands and takes a step toward her—slow, careful, as though approaching a frightened doe.
"That part is true," he admits, because now that the topic is open, they might as well finish it.
"But only because you couldn't have traveled in that… whatever it was. You needed warm clothes, and you were practically in a delirious state—you couldn't have changed by yourself. Marcus tried to take it off properly, but he's always been hopeless with women's clothing, so I chose the faster solution."
Leonie only shakes her head, twisting her fingers anxiously, utterly overwhelmed.
"I know we frightened you," Dorian continues, gentler now. "But we had to make a quick decision. Approaching an unconscious woman is not our custom."
"Pff… Dorian rarely seeks out women at all. Don't take it personally—he just enjoys being miserable," Marcus grins.
"Only so you could have a chance for once," Dorian mutters, though his eyes never leave Leonie—her tear-streaked face, the storm of confusion beneath her lashes. Does she believe them? Perhaps even she doesn't know yet. But suddenly, for Dorian, it becomes painfully important that she understands.
"Did you feel pain the next day?" he asks.
The girl blinks, not understanding at first. Every part of her body had hurt—how could she know which pain he means? Marcus's heart twists at the realization: Leonie has no idea what they're talking about.
"Little one… do you know what should have even happened?" Marcus asks. Leonie's entire face turns beet-red—probably even her toes blush.
"I… I…"
Dorian takes pity on her and sighs.
"Leonie, I know it's hard to trust us right now. But in time…"
She stares at them for nearly a whole minute, breathing unevenly—then gives the tiniest nod.
"I… I… I'm going to go wash up now," she blurts, and without waiting for a reply, she spins around and flees toward the lake.
Her thoughts are a tangled, storming mess. She reaches the lakeshore, falls to her knees, and buries her face in her palms as sobs shake her thin shoulders.
Marcus scratches his head helplessly.
"Well… that went great. Should one of us go after her? Before she tries to drown herself?"
He raises a brow at Dorian, who—after a long hesitation—finally heads toward the lake. He finds the girl quickly, curled up and shaking. Without a word, he sits beside her. Marcus soon joins them, settling on her other side.
The three of them sit in silence until her crying softens. When she finally lifts her head, she realizes she has been wedged between two men twice her size. She shifts awkwardly, but their calm, steady presence is strangely reassuring, and in a few minutes she's regained enough composure to wipe her face.
Could it be true? These two men—whose arrival had caused such a commotion, men the baron had treated as though they outranked even a king—had thrown everything aside to take her away? The thought makes her chest tighten again.
But why?
They don't know her. And the first thing she ever did was punch Dorian.
"I'm… I'm sorry I hit you," she murmurs, lifting her translucent green eyes to him.
Dorian keeps staring out over the lake, silent—so Marcus naturally answers first.
"Great right hook," he grins. "Honestly, I was impressed. Watching a woman punch Dorian? Not something you see every day."
He flops back onto the grass, hands behind his head, while Leonie fidgets shyly and keeps glancing at Dorian's contemplative profile.
Then Dorian finally turns to her—and catches her looking. They stare at each other for half a minute before he speaks.
"Not like Marcus, who's used to getting slapped by offended women."
Dorian lies back as well, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Marcus sputters indignantly.
"Hey! That was a misunderstanding. And it happened once."
Leonie listens to their playful bickering, utterly unable to grasp what is happening around her. The elves behave as though nothing terrible has ever occurred—as though they are simply out on a pleasant evening picnic. Meanwhile the baron's men are likely hunting them at this very moment.
Can she trust them?
"And now… what's your plan? Aren't you afraid? Aren't you worried they're following us?" she cuts into their banter. Both men turn toward her, but Dorian answers first.
"A handful of humans won't scare us so easily," he says with a small, sideways smile.
He doesn't add that what worries him is not the threat itself—but how Leonie would feel if danger arrived. Why does he care so much? He sees she's still uncertain, but somehow… calmer. Less stiff. That warms something inside him. He wants her trust—more than he should.
Then, to both his shock and Marcus's amusement, Leonie lies down between them.
Dorian's breath catches for a heartbeat. She settles in, clearly unbothered—or unwilling to show it—if she brushes against them. His chest tightens. Her trust is beautiful… and terrifying. She's so young. So painfully naïve. But she wants this to be true—wants so desperately not to be afraid anymore, to escape her prison.
If she doesn't believe… what future would she have? What would be left for her?
"Are all elves as full of themselves as you two?" she asks, and the faint curl of her mouth gives her away.
Marcus bursts into loud laughter.
"Just wait until you meet the others. You'll be begging to come back to these peaceful days with us. We're practically humble compared to them—right, friend?"
He glances at Dorian, who seems to be staring at the girl beside him with the intensity of someone seeing an elf for the first time in his life.
His king has taken a certain… interest in Leonie. The real question is: does the king know it himself?
"Marcus, you're like a warhorse—charge at full speed and trample everything in your path. Sorry if I'm the first to point it out," Dorian says dryly.
"And you're beginning to remind me of what you were like three hundred years ago. You might want to think about that before we meet the others," Marcus shoots back.
A shadow flickers across Dorian's face. As much as he'd love to punch Marcus, the bastard may not be entirely wrong.
"Why? What were you like three hundred years ago?" Leonie pipes up, having no idea what they're talking about over her head. It's starting to irritate her—this feeling of being in the dark. She can also sense the way Dorian's entire body tensed at Marcus's remark.
"Incredibly handsome. Just like now," Marcus grins at the top of her head.
She mutters something under her breath, unimpressed, but Dorian quickly ends the topic.
"And now sleep," he orders, bringing the night's conversation to a close.