He lowered his head as if to kiss her, a stark contrast to the way he had treated her with such disgust moments earlier. Areo’s hand grabbed a handful of her s*men-soaked hair.

“Ah.”

Her head was jerked back sharply, drawing a cracked moan from her lips.

“Right. It’s absurd, isn’t it?”

He let out a low chuckle, though his eyes remained cold. There was no real amusement in his expression. Cyrene, staring blankly at his callous smile, tentatively stuck out her tongue.

Soft lips brushed the tip of her tongue. The action was almost instinctive, as if to soothe him. Her tongue licked him lightly, like a cat trying to win his affection, causing a flicker of movement across Areo’s brow.

Cyrene licked his lips again, tentatively. The taste of s*men lingered. His grip on her hair tightened.

“Ah…”

Her head was pulled sharply, drawing a short moan from her lips, but before the sound could fully escape, his lips crushed against hers. His tongue invaded her mouth, dominating and tangling with hers.

“Mmm… ugh… ah…”

Cyrene instinctively reached up, almost wrapping her arms around his neck, but stopped herself and clung to his clothes instead. The hand that had been roughly gripping her hair gradually loosened, replaced by a slow, deliberate stroke across her sticky cheek.

Her body was suddenly lifted and she was laid back on the bed. Between her legs, still white from the countless others before, Areos p*nis pushed against her.

“Ahh… ah… ugh…”

Her hole stung slightly as it stretched, probably swollen from overuse. He positioned her legs to wrap around his waist. Cyrene slid her arms carefully around his back, but he didn’t utter a word of disgust.

“Haah…”

Although there was no trace of the drug in her system, the familiar sensation of pleasure soon overcame her. The precise, targeted stimulation of her most sensitive spot elicited moans she thought she no longer had the energy for.

“Ah… hmm… ugh…”

Short gasps escaped her lips. She felt as if she had become a woman who found satisfaction in nothing but a man’s touch. Cyrene trembled as she clung to Areos neck, her body shaking.

“Haah…”

He looked down at her, her cheeks flushed again. She was a complete mess, covered in s*men. Disgusting. No, she was supposed to be disgusting.

Then why was his chest so painfully tight?

Cyrene’s blue eyes were blurred, unfocused. He was the one who had given her the drug and forced her into this, yet the memory of it filled him with irritation and frustration.

The duke’s words resurfaced in his mind: “Do you like her?”

Or was it, “Do you love her?”

Ridiculous… absolutely ridiculous.

A mocking smile curled the corner of Areo’s lips. Cyrene could never be that kind of person to him. She was just an object, something he already had, with nothing to offer but a beautiful face.

Even though her body, slick and sticky with s*men, disgusted him, he could not resist the urge to hold her. Areos hugged her tightly, despite her sticky mess. A soft moan escaped Cyrene’s lips.

***

“Ah… ugh…”

A muffled groan escaped her lips. Every time her hands clenched, the crushed grass beneath her released a pungent green scent.

Since that day, Areos had grown colder towards her – or rather, cold wasn’t the right word. No matter whose arms she ended up in, the Crown Prince always came back for her.

Cyrene couldn’t understand his behaviour. Sometimes he seemed kind, almost tender, only to become terrifying moments later. Just when she wanted to run away from him, he would show a vulnerability that left her shaken.

“Mm… ah…”

Sunlight washed over her face, causing her to squint against the brightness. The man above her now looked vaguely familiar. She still didn’t know his name, but she knew he was one of the nobles who followed Areos.

“Haah, hah…”

The man’s hand gripped her thigh tightly. With every thrust of his hips, Cyrene’s back scraped against the dirt beneath her. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Mm…ah…”

A faint sensation of pleasure began to stir within her. Areos damning words about her lewdness echoed in her mind. Cyrene bit down hard on her lips. The man’s lips brushed against her face, and every time she turned her head away in disgust, he seemed to find it amusing, growing more fervent in his actions.

The rough p*nis inside her moved without regard for her, mercilessly stirring her insides. Instead of wet, slick sounds, all she felt was the stinging pain of her skin scraping against the ground.

“Haa…”

Cyrene tried to push him away by the shoulders. The erratic movements that tore at her inner walls elicited moans, not of pleasure but of pain. Her resistance only seemed to excite him further, making his thrusts rougher and more desperate.

If only I had taken the drug…

Maybe it wouldn’t be this bad.

Cyrene struggled, but the man pinned her wrists roughly to the floor. Both were panting heavily.

“Haah… hah…”

The man let out ragged breaths as he thrust deeper into her. She felt a twitch as something lukewarm entered her depths.

“Hoo…”

He stood up slowly, moving unhurriedly as he spoke. Cyrene stared at him blankly. He did not move to help her to her feet, only gave her a weak, mocking smile, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind.

Even when she turned her head away, his gaze followed. His eyes roamed brazenly over her bare br*ast, peering through her dishevelled clothes and lingering on the space between her still-splayed legs.

As she tried to sit up, a stream of s*men poured from between her thighs.

“Ah…”

She pulled down the hem of her rolled-up dress. It wasn’t so much embarrassment as discomfort. How had she come to this?

Even after pleading, crying and begging, Areos remained unmoved.

Was there something about her that displeased him?

Or was he simply tired of her?

Cyrene hunched her shoulders. Just as the man reached out to grab her shoulder again, another voice called out.

“Ah, damn.”

The sharp click of a tongue was followed by the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. She felt completely empty. No thoughts came to her. What to do. How to escape this situation. No matter how hard she thought, no answer presented itself. Her only saviour had even gone so far as to throw her to them.

“Ugh…”

Her whole body shook violently. She felt on the verge of tears. She couldn’t even decide if this was a situation where she should cry or not, so she bit down hard on her lips.

“Are you crying?”

A voice, long buried in the recesses of her memory, echoed. Kyrene lifted her head. The man she always used to see beyond the iron bars was now standing before her.

“Ah…”

Cyrene dug up the name she had kept hidden deep in her heart.

Ilion.

She murmured the name to herself.

“You always seem to cry when we meet.”

He gave a weak, bitter smile and knelt before her on one knee. When his hand reached out, she flinched inadvertently and Ilion blinked slowly.

A moment of silence passed.

As if to reassure her, he smiled gently and reached out his hand again. His fingers moved gently, closing the loose edges of her dress tightly over her br*ast.

The unfamiliar touch of someone tying the strings – strings that everyone else seemed to want to undo – took her by surprise. Cyrene stared blankly at his calloused fingers.

Was he one of those following the Crown Prince?

If not, how could he have so boldly entered the Crown Prince’s palace?

Cyrene silently etched his face into her memory – a face she hadn’t seen in so long.

He hadn’t changed. His deep golden hair shimmered like sunlight, swaying gently, and his dark, deep eyes reflected her image with startling clarity. She liked the way she looked in them.

Eyes that held neither slick lust nor chilling fear – just a soothing sense of comfort. She gripped his hand tightly.

It’s okay to touch.

There was no longer a rule that forbade her physical contact or conversation with others. Those days were long gone. Now Areos would undress her himself and offer her to other men.

As for talking, there hadn’t been anyone willing to talk to her, so she couldn’t be sure. But she thought that even if she spoke, nothing terrible would happen. Mustering all her strength, Cyrene gripped his hand as if letting go would mean she’d never find him again.

“Ilion.”

“You remember my name—it’s an honor.”

How can I keep him?

Her mind was a mess. She didn’t know how to have a proper conversation. All she’d ever spoken were short answers and panting whimpers.

Cyrene hesitated, then took his hand and leaned closer. She tried to mimic what she had done with Areos, leaning in to lightly lick Ilion’s lips. But before she could, his hand covered his mouth and her tongue brushed against his fingers instead.

“Why?”

She tilted her head in confusion. Everyone else had always liked it when she did that. Areos stroked her hair every time she leaned in to kiss him, and other men let out eager moans as they hastily lifted the hem of her dress.

She leaned in again and tried to press her lips to his, but Ilion held his hand tightly over his mouth.