Chapter 5 – Part 8

Somewhere in the city center of Bachmann, there was a social club for gentlemen.

The three-story building, seemingly only accessible to the elite, contained a formal dining room, meeting rooms, a librarian’s library, and a sunny common room.

Despite deliberately dim lighting, the atmosphere was discreet, with leisure spaces scattered around, including a bar, billiards tables, and poker tables.

Marcus was sprawled on a low couch in the center of the bar. He was deep in thought, fiddling with a glass of amber-colored brandy, seemingly uninterested in the games going on around him.

Occasionally, a few brave souls approached him, only to retreat without exchanging a single word. His vacant gaze was oddly dark, almost as if it held a secret too burdensome to bear.

Marcus was thinking over and over again about the face and voice of the woman who had so fearlessly asked him to waltz.

“Do you want to dance?”

It was a clear voice that woke him up from his foggy thoughts, or a contradictory voice that lulled him into a daydream. If he could give it form, it would be something colorless and transparent, without the slightest impurity.

Somehow thirsty, Marcus brought the glass to his lips. He lowered his shadowed eyes and wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand.

The music pounding in his ears faded. Before he knew it, Marcus was swept up in the lilting Waltz of Porneff.

Their gazes entwined throughout the ballroom, their hands never far apart, their thighs brushing against each other, and finally, the woman who lifted her hands and kissed him on the cheek.

He returned it with a brow, what he truly desired was to kiss her lips.

“…D*mn.”

A muttered curse snapped him out of his futile reverie. He leaned against the sofa backrest, his desires akin to those of a dormant beast stirred awake. Marcus couldn’t ignore the impulse that had taken hold of him.

He slammed his half-full glass down on the table. Pushing himself to his feet, Marcus left the bar. A hidden staircase led to a dimly lit hallway.

This corridor led to a space exclusive to Marcus, the only member who owned such a secluded area within the club.

After unlocking the door with his key and stepping inside, Marcus flopped down on the couch without even checking to make sure it was closed properly. He didn’t even bother to flip on the light, a gesture of uncharacteristic impatience.

There was no room for anything else in his lust-filled mind. There was only one sensation he wanted to savor right now.

The hairs that stood up on his neck thickened at the thought of the white, lanky face. Marcus moved his arms and tilted his head languidly. A small bead of sweat formed on his smooth forehead.

The light of an occasional passing carriage slanted in through the curtained window; it flickered across the man’s puffing breath and disappeared.

The movements of the large hand grew faster and faster. Its muscular forearms bulged with heat.

He wants to hear her watery voice. He wants to greedily savor her soft skin. He wants to push her slender body beyond its limits and make a mess of it.

His breathing became ragged as his cravings grew stronger. The veins on the backs of my arms twitched like a creature with a mind of its own.

A low moan escaped Marcus’s lips as he was completely consumed by his lowest desires. The heat that enveloped his entire body intensified.

Sweat trickled down his body in a thick, hot stream, and he drew in a ragged breath, not bothering to wipe it away. His eyes, which had been staring into space, gradually came into focus.

Lowering his chin, Marcus looked down at his wet hand and his brow furrowed. He felt dirty, even though he’d tasted his climax, and he was even more annoyed that he couldn’t figure out why.

“…F*ck.”

Once the fervor had subsided, Marcus, now burdened with a dirty feeling, leaned back, muttering under his breath. It was his first time indulging in such desires alone on this cozy sofa.

And it was all because of her, the woman he had imagined

He must have gone completely insane, but there was no denying the madness that had taken over him. Marcus smoothed his disheveled pants and hands with a grimace of disapproval. The desire to lay her down on this overstuffed couch had gotten the better of him.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally emerged from the room. Except for slightly dampened hair from washing his face in the adjacent restroom, he looked almost the same as before, neatly dressed as ever.

He needed something to distract himself—a game of pool or cards—something to clear his head. With that thought, he headed back down the stairs and back to where he came from.

Reaching the basement, Marcus stopped in his tracks. His eyes were drawn to a man who was looking around, heading for the back door.

Unlike the club’s main entrance, which is guarded by four guards, the underground back entrance leads to a dark alleyway. It was used as a passageway to bring in objects or people that would add a little spice to the men’s gatherings.

It was highly likely illegal, but the building was designed with that in mind.

From the way he was glancing back and forth as he headed for the back door, he was about to do something stupid. He’d seen dozens like him, but somehow he couldn’t take his eyes off him.

He was definitely an old face. His name was probably….

“Count Smith.”

Marcus muttered quietly. The Count disappeared out the door without acknowledging him. Suddenly, his animalistic senses tugged at an old memory.

Count Smith, strangely agitated at the celebration of the exhibition, and Lieselotte, insisting on being alone with them. Afterwards, she suddenly disappeared without following Marcus’ orders.

Perhaps he was the one she was trying to meet.

As Marcus pondered further, he didn’t hesitate any longer.

He briskly walked towards the back door, opening it wide into the dimly lit night alley. Behind a large dumpster, voices could be heard faintly.

“What do you mean you can’t reach your hitman?”

Count Smith’s voice was answered by a stranger, presumably a henchman.

“He operates in the shadows, so naturally, it’s hard to reach him, My Lord. You ordered us to execute the plan as soon as possible. He must be lying in wait for an opportunity. And about that woman… she hardly comes out at night, they say?”

“D*mn it! We need to find him and change the plan to something unprecedented. If that insolent girl were indeed related to the Duke, we wouldn’t have made such plans.”

“I would have left a knife mark on her face!” muttered Count Smith, kicking the trash can as he spoke.

“Do you know how shocked I was when I saw that woman next to the duke that day? I couldn’t even enjoy the banquet properly and fled in a hurry! It’s driving me crazy that I’ve been looking for the hitman that way and haven’t been able to reach him.”

“If you were really a lord, you should have restrained yourself. You ended up like this just trying to retaliate.”

“You ungrateful bastard, you should be grateful that I made you a butler for an Count when you were just a smuggler.”

“The smuggling was under you. Anyway, are you sure she’s Duke Balthazar’s woman, and not some pr*stitute working in a tavern somewhere?”

“I’ve done my research. Rumors are spreading everywhere. It seems everyone knows that the duke showered her with expensive luxury items at the department store. That lowly-born woman was indeed a noble.”

“You got it wrong, my lord. Wasn’t she the lady he escorted to social events? Could she possibly be his fiancée?”

A sound of spitting followed.

“Whatever it is, make inquiries and find the hitman as soon as possible. The plan has been compromised. If that woman’s face even gets scratched, our lives are as good as dead.”

“All right, then I’ll….”

The subordinate’s face suddenly paled. Count Smith, about to vent his frustration, narrowed his eyes.

“What, what did you see….”

“Ugh!”

A fist flew out like a thunderbolt and landed squarely in the center of his subordinate’s face. With a sound of something breaking, the steward fell backward, motionless and covered in blood.

“Who, who…!”

Count Smith whirled around in surprise to find his head snatched by a strong hand. He didn’t even have time to recognize his attacker. The immense force slammed his head into the trash can.

“Ow!”

Blood trickled from beneath his burst nose. Marcus shook the Count’s hair, which he still hadn’t let go of, and forced eye contact. The Count’s eyes widened in horror.

“Duke… Your Grace.”

“Dustin Smith.”