Chapter 35

His expression vanished completely, wiping away every trace of the easy smile and lighthearted banter from moments before.

Dezeb Avganis stared down at her with shadowed eyes for a long, heavy moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her slender throat.

Her pulse fluttered beneath his palm. A single firm press, and her breath would slip away for good. She was utterly defenseless.

He dragged a sharp nail across her skin, tracing the line of her artery. Tiny beads of blood welled along the shallow scrape, trickling down the soft curve of her neck.

Silence stretched between them.

Releasing her throat, he let his fingertips trail down her jawline before pulling back entirely. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and struck a light, though his dark gaze never left her face.

And she claimed she slept well.

Looking down at Erabelle Vermilion’s pale, exhausted features—worn down to the bone by relentless overwork—Dezeb let out a quiet, hollow scoff.

Always so painfully diligent. She never changes.

With a faint sigh, his thoughts drifted back to a year and a half ago.

"Here, um..."

Erabelle stood frozen near the entryway of his secondary residence, her posture stiff and rigid. She was taking painstaking care not to step onto the costly carpet.

He had hardly expected her to complain about coming here, but for an adopted daughter of a count, her demeanor suggested she had been raised in a broom closet. She kept inching backward, as if frantically calculating the property damage if she made a wrong move.

Yet the Count’s family had never mistreated her. By all accounts, they were remarkably close.

"Try to bear with it, even if it falls short of your standards. You're only here a few days every three months anyway."

"Yes."

She answered as if he were speaking a foreign dialect. Dezeb felt a sudden flash of annoyance at his own words, though the absurdity of it almost made him laugh.

"Relax. I bought this place specifically for our arrangement."

He tilted his head toward the sofa. Erabelle sat precisely where he indicated, her back straight and her entire body locked tight.

"Should we move to the bed instead?"

Her overwhelming tension rasped against his nerves, prompting the blunt question.

She flinched, caught entirely off guard. It was clear the thought had not even crossed her mind.

Why? I am your ideal match, after all.

Still, the question jolted her out of her stupor. She offered a cautious reply.

"In that case, I should wash first. I haven't been able to wash my hair in three days."

"...Right."

He had no retort for that.

With her rumpled uniform and disheveled hair, she looked as though she had been sleeping curled up in a transport shuttle seat for four days straight. From the look of her, he doubted she had even washed her face.

Why do I even want to sleep with her?

Dezeb found himself questioning his own judgment. Yet the desire remained, which only added to his dark amusement.

"Bathroom's over there."

He might as well let her clean up. He had intended to skip the pleasantries, but pushing her right now seemed likely to make her pass out on the spot.

And so what if she does? It isn't as if I'm the one suffering.

Watching her tremble felt like hitting a reset button. They had done this dozens of times, yet every encounter felt as if the previous ones had never happened.

"Curiosity getting the better of me—doesn't your head itch after four days without a shower?"

"My scalp is remarkably resilient."

"I feel like I've heard that line before."

"...Yes. I said it once."

Her tone was measured, though the tips of her ears flushed a deep red. If she was so easily embarrassed, why did she wander around the capital looking so unkempt? Dezeb shook his head and swung the bathroom door open.

"Go on."

"Y-Yes, sir."

She offered a awkward smile, clutched her worn backpack against her chest, and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind her.

Immediately, the sound of frantic, pacing footsteps echoed from within.

Walking in circles, pulling her hair out, losing her mind completely. He could picture it clearly without looking. Leaning against the doorframe, he smirked.

Come to think of it, she had reacted the exact same way the first time he had barged into her quarters.

Even though AT-types possessed an expansive perception radius, women like her always assumed they were safe as long as they remained out of sight.

Which was why, when caught unprepared—

So she really had no intention of anything happening between us today.

Why not? She isn't indifferent to me...

And why was he so intent on this in the first place? It was a point he could no longer bother denying.

Dezeb pulled a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it with a heavy exhale.

What is the big deal? If it's just a matter of stabilizing the noise, anyone would do. There are three other matches in the capital. If they aren't available, I could request someone from the support corps. So why her?

"Um... May I borrow a razor?" Her voice drifted timidly through the paneling.

He could envision the bright red stain on her ears. The thought brought a subtle tightness to his chest. Dragging on the filter, Dezeb let the smoke drift lazily from his lips.

"Lieutenant... do whatever you like."

"Th-Thank you..."

A moment later, the hum of an electric razor started up, followed instantly by a loud clatter as something was knocked over in sheer panic.

Dezeb let out a low chuckle. What amused him most was that her immediate priority had been reaching for a razor.

He stood leaning against the frame for another beat before pushing off the wall.

If I want to, I will. It isn't as if she would refuse.

In fact, she would probably grit her teeth and bear it even if I stripped her down in the middle of the central plaza.

Driven by the cynical thought, he turned the handle and pushed the bathroom door open.

She froze instantly, razor in hand—her body a patchwork of visible injuries.

He went still.

Arms, legs, torso. Her skin was peppered with small shrapnel scars and several larger, jagged marks. Some had faded into dull white lines, while others remained raw, angry red wounds still in the process of healing.

Erabelle’s body was a map of violence.

Yet it was hardly surprising for someone deployed to an active combat zone; if anything, the fact that her injuries were limited to this was impressive.

Nor was it news to him. During previous ID tag integrations, she had chipped teeth and split her fingernails. Once, while serving as live bait, she had her thigh torn wide open.

"...Oh."

Erabelle remained frozen mid-gesture, a toothbrush tucked in her cheek and one leg propped awkwardly as she shaved. She stared at him with wide, blank eyes.

Just how many things is she attempting at once?

Dezeb let out a brief, dry laugh and perched himself on the edge of the tub.

"Carry on."

"...Y-Yes, sir."

She shifted over to give him room and, still visibly dazed, resumed running the blade over her skin.

The steady hum of the razor filled the tense, awkward space between them.

"You hardly have any hair to begin with. Why bother shaving?"

"I... I feel self-conscious... so... I prefer to..."

Her expression practically begged for the ground to swallow her whole.

"Keep going."

"Y-Yes..."

Dezeb sat quietly on the edge of the porcelain, smoking. Erabelle pressed herself almost flat against the far wall, taking painstaking care not to splash a single drop of water in his direction.

Though the bathroom was spacious, she remained glued to the tiles as if cornered. She didn't even ask why he was sitting there, watching her like a specter.

"Go wait for me in the bedroom. Second door on the left. It might be cold." He tossed a plush bathrobe toward her.

"U-Understood..."

Still appearing somewhat bewildered, Erabelle pulled the robe around herself. She retained just enough focus to retrieve her backpack from its spot on the toilet seat before stepping out.

The door clicked shut. Dezeb brushed the damp strands of hair from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Keep your temper in check. Not in the middle of the capital. Not now, and certainly not over this.

He drove his heel hard into the base of the sink.

"...Dammit."

He really shouldn't have lost his control.

A violent rupture echoed through the room as the pipe burst, showering the space with a torrent of water. It drenched him instantly from head to toe, soaking through his clothes.

He looked down at the ruined, dripping cigarette with a scowl. Without a word, he set his boot against the jagged fracture of the pipe and forced it back into position with sheer strength.

The cracked metal jammed together, slowing the gushing water to a trickle.

Dezeb jammed the pipe back into the wall cavity, then stood up, water streaming from his clothes.

What a fucking disaster...

Stripping off the soaked shirt, he ran a hand through his wet hair and walked out toward the bedroom.

"...Erabelle."

He stopped dead at the threshold.

She was lying squarely in the center of the mattress, entirely unclad.

She had even arranged a pillow beneath her hips. Her entire frame was trembling violently.

She looked precisely like an offering prepared for an altar.

Am I supposed to cut her open now? Dezeb let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.

"What... are you doing?"

"Y-Yes...?"

Erabelle gripped the sheets until her knuckles turned white, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"I asked what you are doing."

"I-I'm doing my best..."

He stared up at the ceiling and let out a long, heavy breath. When he brought his gaze back down, her trembling had only grown worse.