Note : You can find the first 8 chapter in Novelupdates. The chapters on NU is cut in half. So they are the first 8 chapters. HERE
***
Look at Me Properly
Vessia returned to her bedroom after a somewhat unsatisfying meal. Of course, she wanted to visit the waiting room, but she didn’t want to interfere with the artist’s work unnecessarily.
The young lady, having removed her makeup, collapsed onto the bed. On the console table by her bedside was the bouquet Couven had given her. It was arranged in a vase with a pale sky-blue base and golden streaks radiating outward. The bouquet was placed in a narrow-mouthed vase shaped like a trophy.
The pink-toned flowers harmonized well with the atmosphere of the room.
Where did he get such a beautiful bouquet?
Still lying down, she reached out. Her fingertips brushed against the delicate petals. Soft like a blanket, yet with a faint chill like morning dew. As if tickled by her touch, the fuchsia stamens trembled.
I hope they don’t wither. Just like my feelings for him.
She pulled her arm back and crossed her arms, resting her cheek against the back of her hand.
As the maids massaged her, Vessia recalled what Couven had told her.
An Alpha…
But wasn’t his skin too pale for that? While it might be hasty to generalize, most Alphas she had seen so far had bronzed skin.
Was he a rare phenotype?
As she dwelled on his traits, a lewd conversation among Omega servants suddenly came to mind.
The things I overheard…
Apparently, as an Omega, no matter how unpleasant the scent might be, one’s body was irresistibly drawn to an Alpha’s pheromones.
They claimed that even when engaging with an Alpha during rut was agonizing to the point of death, the pleasure outweighed it, leaving them satisfied.
Some spoke of wanting to bond with a particular Alpha but lamented that he was sowing his seeds everywhere.
Others complained of Alphas who seduced Omegas, forcibly imprinted on them, impregnated them, and then abandoned them.
Pheromones were the distinct body scents emitted by Alphas and Omegas. These pheromones varied greatly, and Couven had once remarked that the pheromones of the Omega servants residing at the mansion disgusted him.
That man who said so reeked of a sharp, oily smell.
Though they had only met twice so far, there were times when that oily scent was so pungent it pricked her nose and other times when it was faint and ephemeral.
Vessia knew she was a Beta. She was acutely aware that, as a Beta, she couldn’t sense the pheromones of Alphas or Omegas.
Omegas could likely perceive Couven’s scent, but the chatty servants who loved gossip had never once discussed what the artist’s pheromones smelled like.
That made her curious.
What did the man’s pheromones smell like?
***
Vessia, wearing a mask, held her foil steady. As she brought her folded arm forward, a thin blade rose sharply, splitting her face in two along the centerline.
“Phew…”
“Relax, Sia. You look cute like this, but cut me some slack today.”
The young lady took a deep breath. She gripped the foil tighter, calming her mind. The heavy weight of her fencing uniform pressed pleasantly on her body.
Standing opposite Vessia, Lord Maybach mirrored her movements, preparing for their duel.
He tightened the buckle on his wrist to ensure his gloves wouldn’t slip off. Behind the intricately woven mask, his sky-blue eyes blinked.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
The two signaled the maid serving as their referee to start.
The maid, who had been reading a book in the corner, stepped between the young lady and the count’s heir.
“En garde (On guard).”
As she spoke the opening words, she alternated her gaze between the two. The two nobles glared at each other, lowering their stances. Tension surged through their spread thighs. Behind their masks, their heated breaths grew heavy.
“Et vous prête? (And you, ready?)”
Like enraged bulls provoked by a red cloth, the tension between the two reached its peak. They both nodded.
“Allez! (Go!)”
Vessia was the first to dart forward, stomping her foot on the ground. Lord Maybach quickly thrust his blunt blade as he retreated a few steps, but she skillfully avoided it.
The maid’s eyes darted rapidly to keep up with their movements.
Lord Maybach parried Vessia’s foil, advancing aggressively and brushing against her blade. He feigned a thrust toward her abdomen, only to land a touch on her shoulder.
Charcoal dust smeared her shoulder. Confident in his score, the man raised his fist and roared. The maid raised her hand toward the count’s heir.
“Foolish.”
The young lady threw off her mask, chiding herself.
After a brief rest, the two returned to their starting positions and assumed their stances again. Knowing she couldn’t match his build, she resolved to exploit his weaknesses.
Vessia retreated, dodging a blade aimed at her throat with agility.
Once. She glanced at his face, smirking confidently.
Twice. She noted his chest opening as he advanced.
“Look at me properly, Sia.”
“…”
Her eyes shimmered quietly. Had her yellow eyes always been this cold? A chill ran down Lord Maybach’s spine, sending goosebumps across his skin.
The young lady, twirling her foil, began driving the count’s heir back. The sound of the blade cutting through the air was downright menacing.
Adopting an aggressive stance, she suddenly pulled back, widening the distance.
Thinking he had won, the man, dimples appearing as he smiled, approached her.
Just a little more.
Vessia, who had been waiting for the perfect moment, drove her blade into the man’s chest, which was wide open.
Soot spread across the left side of Lord Maybach’s chest. Clenching her fist, she let out a sharp cry.
Birds perched on the branches outside the window, peering into the mansion, fluttered away in surprise. A maid, clapping her hands in delight, raised her arm toward her lady.
Before assuming a ready stance, the young lady placed her hand on her waist and steadied her breathing, which had grown ragged enough to make her shoulders rise and fall.
Lord Maybach removed his mask to wipe away his sweat. Beads of sweat hung from his golden hair. A valet from the count’s household, who had accompanied him to the mansion, handed him a towel.
“Get back into position.”
“You’re full of enthusiasm.”
The man slicked back his sweat-dampened hair and put on his mask. Vessia checked if her fleuret was straight and dipped the tip of its blade in soot.
Once the two had finished their preparations, they lowered their bodies. Their eyes signaled the maid.
“Prêt, allez! (Ready, go!)”
TL’s Note : “Prêt, allez!” “Allez!” “Et vous prête?” “En garde.” These terms are part of the international fencing vocabulary and are used consistently in the sport, regardless of the fencers’ native language.
***
Couven pressed his boots firmly onto the polished marble floor, which gleamed as if it might cause him to slip. He crossed the hall of the Duke of Quixote’s mansion.
The cleaner responsible for the mansion’s entrance swept up the dirt falling from the artist’s boots.
The pheromones of omegas had long since vanished from this mansion. Occasionally, the scent of an employee who hadn’t taken their suppressants would linger faintly, but fortunately, it wasn’t enough to agitate an alpha’s nerves.
The chandelier scattered light from its candles, illuminating the entrance warmly. At the end of the hall, on either side of the wall, hung long drapes embroidered with the Quixote family crest.
The man quickened his pace. If he climbed the staircase at the end of the hall, he would reach the central corridor of the mansion. There, a portrait of the Duke of Quixote, thoroughly dried in the Wonder Room, was being hung.
The painting depicted the duke sitting on a plush armchair, his legs crossed, chin arrogantly raised.
It seemed the duke was pleased with the portrait. Standing in the middle of the corridor, he wore a deeply satisfied smile.
The duke also took it upon himself to supervise the servants hanging the portrait. Couven bowed from behind the nobleman.
“Good morning.”
Without turning around, the Duke of Quixote gestured to the artist. It was so dismissive that it was hard to tell if he was acknowledging the greeting or simply beckoning him over.
Couven stood a step away from the duke, observing the scene of the portrait being hung. The servants, who had climbed ladders, were struggling with the heavy painting that was much taller than they were. Their sleeves rolled up, they strained with clenched teeth. Their footing on the ladder wobbled precariously.
Maids who had paused their cleaning to watch clasped their hands tightly, worried the painting might fall.
“What brings you here today?”
Duke Alevi Quixote asked without taking his eyes off the servants.
To paint, obviously. What else would I come here for?
Couven swallowed the sarcastic remark.
Two thousand stotinka—an exorbitant price of one lev. He should be groveling in gratitude, not sassing back.
Perhaps this was what nobles wanted. Signing the contract meant the artist was bound as an absolute subordinate.
“I intend to paint Lady Quixote’s second portrait.”
“I see. Well, today…”
Couven focused on the duke, who stroked his chin, as if measuring something, before continuing.
“Never mind. I’ll oversee the remaining work, so you may go.”
The man placed his left hand over his right chest and bowed low.
The artist ascended the staircase leading to the right. Though the mansion’s web-like corridors and staircases were still confusing, he had memorized the path to the Wonder Room.
The chaotic atmosphere of the corridor where the portrait was being hung gradually faded behind him.
***
In the Wonder Room , Couven gathered his painting tools. Now, to paint the portrait, he would need to find Lady Quixote somewhere in the vast mansion.
Judging by the duke’s reaction, the lady didn’t seem to have gone out. He considered visiting her bedroom, but having only been there once, he had yet to memorize the way.
Since he had no knowledge of Vessia’s routine, he couldn’t guess where she might be at this time. Where should he go? Couven, frustrated, ruffled his already unruly hair.
At that moment, several maids carrying laundry baskets passed by.
“Excuse me. Do you know where Lady Quixote is right now?”
Couven stopped them and bowed slightly. The maids flinched at his close proximity, their faces either flushing or turning cautious. Unable to use their hands, as they were full with laundry, they gestured with their chins toward the end of the corridor.
“If you go to the room at the opposite end, you’ll find the lady.”
“Thank you.”
Following their indication, Couven nodded and gave them a brief bow of thanks. The artist, swaying his arms as he walked away, caused the brushes, paints, and pencils in his painting box to rattle and clatter.
Sunlight streaming through the windows warmly outlined his figure.
Passing numerous doors along the corridor and staircase, he reached the farthest room. Despite it being the lady’s quarters, her usual bodyguards were absent today.
Knock, knock.
He lightly tapped the door with his knuckles, but no one came to answer.
***
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