A month had passed, and Béatrice's condition had stabilized. While she still bore deep trauma and remained passive, it was an improvement compared to before—she no longer recoiled every time Ymina touched her.
One day, in the sparse room Béatrice now occupied, devoid of any furniture save a simple chair, a subtle yet significant change occurred. Béatrice, seated on the chair she had once resisted, softly called out Ymina's name.
Ymina, attentive to even the slightest change, felt her heart swell with hope at the sound of her mistress's voice. Yet, the weight of sadness lingered alongside her joy.
"Come," Béatrice whispered, her voice fragile yet resolute. "I will tell you everything that happened that day."
"Madame, you don't need to force yourself," Ymina replied, her tone gentle but concerned. "It was a painful experience. There's no need to relive it."
Béatrice remained silent for a moment, her gaze distant.
"That day… that man arrived," she began, her voice trembling. "I was angry at him. Why was he the one to return and not my…?" Her words faltered as a sickening feeling churned within her. Covering her mouth, Béatrice's face twisted in disgust.
"Madame, please don't push yourself," Ymina pleaded, her worry evident. Yet, she couldn't deny her own curiosity, an intense desire to understand the full truth of what had transpired.
"I'm fine, Ymina," Béatrice assured her, though her pale complexion betrayed otherwise. She drew a deep breath and continued, her words carrying the weight of her anguish.
"When he appeared before me, my hatred vanished," Béatrice admitted, her voice tinged with shame. "I praised his act of coming to mourn his loyal servant alongside his wife. Or so I thought. The sadness overwhelmed me, and I wept. But then…" Her voice broke, and she shuddered. "He lifted me and carried me to the bedroom. I didn't resist."
"Madame, please don't blame yourself for—" Ymina began, but Béatrice interrupted her.
"And what do you know?" Béatrice's voice rose, cracking under the weight of her emotions. "He undressed me in my husband's bed. And I… I felt pleasure." Her words were laced with self-loathing, her fists clenched tightly. "I didn't hate him for what he did. While he defiled me, all I could do was beg him to stop. But there was no hatred in my plea, Ymina. None."
"Madame…" Ymina's voice softened, her own heart aching for her mistress.
"And do you know what disgusts me the most?" Béatrice's voice cracked further, her tears streaming freely now. "When he told me he had killed Gedrick to claim me for himself, I couldn't even muster the strength to hate him. I just… let him. I am pathetic. A pathetic excuse for a woman!"
Overcome with sorrow, Béatrice buried her face in her hands, her sobs echoing through the room. Ymina, hesitant but resolute, moved closer. She sat beside her mistress and gently wrapped her arms around her.
"Please, calm yourself, Madame," Ymina whispered, her embrace firm yet tender. "You are not to blame for what happened. I am sorry I wasn't there to protect you."
Béatrice said nothing, her tears gradually subsiding as Ymina's warmth enveloped her. Minutes passed in silence until exhaustion claimed Béatrice. Her eyelids grew heavy, and soon, she drifted into sleep for the first time in weeks, cradled in Ymina's arms.
Ymina sighed softly, carefully adjusting Béatrice to lie comfortably in the chair. She draped a blanket over her sleeping mistress and stood to leave. As she reached the door, a faint murmur stopped her.
"Thank you, Ymina," Béatrice whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Sleep well, Madame," Ymina replied with a small smile, closing the door quietly behind her. She leaned against it, her thoughts heavy.
"I hope our future won't be as grim as it seems," she murmured to herself. "Things are bound to become challenging for both of us."
Two months had passed since the incident. Though Béatrice's condition showed gradual improvement, her fear of physical contact and her sleep disturbances persisted. The physician continued to use magic and sedatives when examining her, but what he didn't realize was that Béatrice had developed a resistance to the drugs.
One day, as she lay in her chair, drifting in and out of consciousness, muffled voices reached her ears. The conversation was faint but enough to catch her attention.
"It's… like this…" a male voice said.
"Yes… I'm sorry for her. I don't know what kind of magic was used, but I doubt our current methods can heal her. And her matrix has been deformed. This will likely be her first and last pregnancy."
"Wait, she's pregnant?" Ymina's voice interrupted, sharp with surprise.
"Yes, though it's not fully formed yet," the doctor confirmed.
From her chair, Béatrice stirred, her mind hazy yet alarmed. Her voice, though weak, cut through the room.
"I'm… pregnant?"
The room fell silent. Both Ymina and the doctor turned to find Béatrice awake, her expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Their faces paled, realizing the gravity of what had just occurred.
She carried the child of the man who had broken her. The realization settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach, and an uncomfortable silence filled the air.
Ymina's mind raced as she tried to decide how to handle this new and devastating revelation.