Chapter 12
Lyrette took a long, steady breath.
Her heart was still pounding from being carried here upside down. Nothing in particular had actually happened, yet her nerves felt oddly frayed. Only a beat later did she realize the cause of that unease.
Even if it had been accidental, his hand had pressed firmly against the area near her “Name” while he was carrying her.
“Don’t do things like that again.”
“Why?”
“Why, you ask?”
Lyrette shot him an incredulous look.
“I can move my own arms and legs just fine. Even without doing something like that, I could have returned to my room without any issue.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“What exactly are you trying to ask?”
He slowly bent down in front of Lyrette.
The movement etched into her retina was slow, measured, almost calm. But to her, it felt like unrestrained savagery. It gave off the impression of a predator stalking its prey.
“When I think about it, I don’t recall seeing you walk properly lately.”
The thirty minutes in the annex were always spent holding hands.
And everything surrounding that routine was just as consistent.
Valderion would enter her room, sit on the sofa, set an hourglass, and pass the time. When it ended, he would immediately leave. In all that time, he could barely remember seeing her walk properly.
And even then, it was usually just a slight limp, as if she had twisted her ankle.
Lyrette quietly watched his darkened golden eyes, now tinged with unease. That was why she was startled when he suddenly reached for the hem of her skirt.
A struggle broke out—her trying to stop him, and him trying to lift it.
“What are you doing…! Why are you doing this all of a sudden?”
“I’m checking your legs. Move your hands.”
“No, don’t!”
As expected, she was fiercely resistant.
Even though she was clearly at a disadvantage, she refused to back down. Valderion felt slightly worn down by her unyielding stubbornness. But he had no intention of yielding either. The image of her stumbling on her way to the bedroom earlier was still stuck in his mind.
He smirked faintly.
“Do you think I find them disgusting?”
“That’s not the point—ah!”
In an instant, her body was lifted again.
Like a sack of luggage, Lyrette was thrown over his shoulder, flailing and striking his back with her hands. But her blows were no more than light taps.
So harmless it was almost absurd.
Valderion found himself strangely impressed.
“Then I suppose I’ll just have to wash you.”
He muttered something incomprehensible and walked toward the bathroom attached to the bedroom.
Lyrette, upside down, felt dizzy and disoriented, unable to tell where she was being taken. When her folded body was suddenly dropped, she nearly screamed.
“Agh!”
The moment she landed, she heard a creaking sound. The fabric beneath her was quickly soaked with water.
When her blurred vision cleared, she realized she was inside a white bathtub. As she pushed her tangled hair back, her skirt was already beginning to soak through.
Valderion lifted a wooden bucket beside him and poured hot water into the tub.
“Hah…”
Now soaked like a drowned rat, Lyrette stared up at him in shock.
He emptied the bucket completely and tossed it aside. A sharp scraping sound echoed through the humid bathroom.
Then he placed both hands on the edge of the bathtub.
His broad chest and shoulders spread wide, enclosing her like a barrier.
Lyrette glared at him, his hair slightly damp as well.
“You… truly… such a crude…”
The Duke’s house of Eustutia was a great noble family, a model of propriety.
Elegance, refinement, dignity.
Those words were supposed to define them.
From her childhood—before their honor had fallen—she had heard it repeated so often it had worn into her ears.
A great noble house.
A model of virtue.
Elegant? Refined? Noble?
The man in front of her was nothing of the sort. He resembled a brute more than a noble, closer to a reckless thug than any aristocrat.
“Being called crude by someone like you… isn’t so bad.”
He brushed back his disheveled hair with deliberate slowness. The scattered light of the bathroom fell across his sharply sculpted features.
“I didn’t tell you to touch my legs. I said I would touch yours—but you still had to turn this into a mess?”
Lyrette let out a disbelieving laugh.
Who was the one turning it into a mess?
“I said my legs were fine.”
“Fine?” His gaze dropped. “Like a broken bird trying to walk on one leg.”
He looked down at her legs. The hem of her skirt had ridden up, and the rising water now reached her ankles. Only then did he turn off the tap. The sound of water ceased, leaving a heavy silence behind.
In that silence, he looked.
His first thought was: how white.
Her skin, reminiscent of porcelain, was so pale it looked carefully sculpted. Not just her face, but her entire body carried that impression.
But something disrupted that image.
Tiny, scattered scars—impossible to notice unless one looked closely at such proximity.
They were old, faded, no longer raw. No trace of redness remained, only pale brown marks that had settled over time.
Yet there were so many that they inevitably drew the eye.
Lyrette noticed his gaze fixed on her legs. She also realized her skirt had ridden up to her calves.
“Let me out. Move.”
She quickly pulled her clothes down.
Only then did his sharp gaze rise to her face, like a thorn being pulled from flesh. But meeting his eyes was its own kind of ordeal.
Whenever he looked at her so directly, as if piercing through her, something inside her tightened. It was a sensation she doubted she would ever grow used to.
Whether it was the “Name” engraved on her back, or the inexplicable intensity in his gaze, she could not tell.
At this point, expecting him to behave like a proper noble—gentle or refined—was meaningless. Lyrette pushed herself up from the wet bathtub floor.
But her unreliable leg refused to cooperate. Just as she tried to straighten her upper body, she staggered violently.
“Agh!”
Water splashed violently under her feet.
As she flailed for support, something suddenly grabbed her firmly. Realizing it was Valderion’s hand, she immediately tried to shove it away. But he had already wrapped an arm around her waist.
He clicked his tongue and lifted her out of the tub.
“Doesn’t it bother you? With your leg like this.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Used to it?”
There was clear confusion in his voice.
Lyrette immediately realized her mistake.
She had spoken without thinking, distracted by his arm still holding her waist. Once she noticed, she bit her lip.
“Again… Dailen?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“I’m curious. Answer me.”
“You don’t get to demand answers just because you’re curious.”
Without another word, she slipped out of his hold and left the bathroom.
Her poorly healed leg continued to aggravate his patience.
But despite her words, she walked as if she were used to it—dragging her injured leg, as though it were simply part of her body’s routine.
As he followed her out, Valderion briefly considered breaking that stubborn pride of hers today.
But when he saw her thin, worn frame heading toward the bed, something in him soured instead. Even after losing everything, she clung to what little dignity remained, stubbornly making her way to the bed.
His brow furrowed.
He strode forward and suddenly shoved her back.
Her slender body collapsed without resistance.
She fell onto the bed just in front of her, fortunately breaking the impact.
Lyrette turned her head, clearly furious.
But before she could react, his hand slipped beneath her skirt.
“Ah—!”
Before she could protest, a large hand gripped her calf tightly.
It moved inside her skirt with deliberate control, as if inspecting every detail. The shape of his touch pressed against the fabric, tracing her leg.
He examined the area around the scars, slowly moving downward.
Lyrette, silently stunned, trembled as his hand followed the contours of her leg.
A strange loosening sensation spread through her tightly coiled nerves—unfamiliar, unsettling.
It was not like when he held her hand before.
The feeling of being touched like this—on her leg—was something entirely different.
