“You don’t have to do that.”

She still didn’t understand. Was it because his dark eyes didn’t reflect the same soft emotions she was used to seeing? When Cyrene pulled back, he lowered his hand and offered an awkward smile.

Ilion gently picked the tangled bits of grass from her dishevelled hair. His fingers moved carefully, brushing through her hair with a slow, deliberate tenderness. Cyrene stared at his face in silence.

She wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. All she could do was hold onto his sleeve and part her lips slightly, as if trying to form words. Frustration bubbled up inside her and she shifted uncomfortably. The sticky sensation between her legs reminded her of the lingering humiliation, but she forced herself to focus on the warmth of his presence instead.

It was all she knew, so nothing else came to mind. As Cyrene began to lower her head, a large hand gripped her shoulder tightly.

“Hah.”

A heavy sigh escaped him. When she blinked up at him, Ilion gave her a wry smile.

“It’s really fine.”

“…Why?”

Everyone else wanted this. Why didn’t he?

She tilted her head, feeling as if everything about her was being rejected. Was she useless to him? Her question made Ilion frown for a moment before he smiled again.

“I am not like His Highness, the Crown Prince.”

The sudden comment made her frown as well. He was certainly different – his appearance, his voice, his whole presence. Everything. But what did it matter?

“Ilion Lasker.”

What did that matter?

Cyrene met Ilion’s gaze blankly as he watched her calmly, as if measuring her reaction.

“Ilion.”

“Ilion.”

And?

He repeated his name over and over, as if it held some kind of power, some hidden meaning that would make her remember something.

When she showed no reaction, Ilion seemed to resort to a final measure. Carefully, deliberately, he spoke, emphasising each word.

“I am a marquis now.”

“Marquis.”

How high a title is that, exactly?

Cyrene nodded. She knew it was a noble title, but she had never really learned its meaning. Living in the crown prince’s palace, such things had never mattered.

Seeing Ilion’s expectant expression, Cyrene didn’t know how to answer.

“Is a marquis a high rank?”

“…Hah.”

He let out a heavy sigh, followed by a weak, bitter smile as he lowered his head. The way the sunlight glinted off his golden hair was almost blinding. Cyrene gently stroked the back of his hand. As she moved closer, his face seemed to cloud with a mixture of emotions.

“I don’t even know how to explain it.”

He murmured softly and stroked her cheek with a hand. His touch was softer, kinder than when Areos had occasionally caressed her. Pressing her cheek against his calloused palm, Cyrene felt a small relief.

Because he wasn’t trying to undress her. Because his gaze didn’t have that unnerving, oily glint. Because his touch was soft.

Cyrene blinked slowly, then reached out and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body close. Ilion, momentarily frozen in surprise, finally let his arms wrap around her back, pulling her closer. The intensity of his embrace, strong enough to make her feel like she might break, strangely brought her comfort. A small sigh escaped him, muffled against her back.

“I’ve thought a lot about what to do, but standing here in front of you, none of it seems to matter.”

Cyrene tilted her head up and planted a kiss on his cheek. Slowly, her lips moved closer to his, but just as they were about to touch, his hands pushed her firmly away.

“Aren’t we going to have s*x?”

Her abrupt question made Ilion tense visibly, his lips pressed into a thin line. Cyrene saw no problem with the idea. In fact, she wanted to. It was the only thing she knew how to do.

“I want to have s*x with you, Ilion.”

He looked down at her, his expression conflicted, unsure how to respond. As she pressed against him, eyes wide, she felt a response from beneath her. Her hand reached out and caressed the bulge in his trousers, teasing it as she began to undo the button. But before she could go any further, she was suddenly pushed back, her body tumbling to the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

He quickly helped her to her feet, his movements hurried and awkward. Her thighs were exposed beneath the rolled-up hem of her dress, and Ilion, visibly nervous, awkwardly pulled the fabric down to cover her.

“Are you hurt?”

His hands moved gently, stroking the back of her head and checking her back. The gentle touch sent a faint, inexplicable wave of pleasure through her – not from anything s*xual, not from his touching her *rogenous zones, but simply from the tenderness itself.

“Mmmm…”

Her shoulders trembled slightly, and Ilion’s hands froze before withdrawing. Unlike Areos, this man was unfamiliar to her. There was no lust in his eyes, but his body betrayed his own desires. And even as he wanted her, he ran away from her.

“I hope… I hope we can meet again.”

He suddenly stood up in one swift motion.

Cyrene stared at his retreating figure, watching it grow smaller in the distance. Though no iron bars separated them, it still felt as if there was an invisible cage between them.

***

“Party?”

Cyrene stared blankly at the maid, who nodded. A party. Why did the sound of that word make her entire body tremble? The memory of being surrounded by countless men flashed through her mind and her body shook uncontrollably.

“…I don’t want to.”

She protested quietly, but it was useless. The maids, focused on their task, bathed and dressed her without a flicker of emotion. Even as she struggled and wriggled, their expressions remained indifferent.

“It is His Highness’s order.”

A maid, perhaps losing her patience, cut off her resistance with a firm statement. Cyrene froze, her almost tearful protests coming to an abrupt halt. Areos’ order. Why did those words fill her with such fear again?

Cyrene turned her gaze to the mirror, staring at her reflection as if it belonged to someone else. With each touch of the maid’s hands, her dress became more extravagant, and a flush of red brushed across her cheeks.

“…”

She remained silent, trapped in her own reflection, unable to reconcile the polished, painted image with the fear twisting inside her.

She felt terrible. Cyrene knew instinctively that nothing good was going to happen today either. But there was no way out. She was still Areos’ property – he was her god and her master.

The maids led her into the same room as that day. In her stiff, frozen hands, the maid gave her the same small vial. She knew what it was now, and she knew what would happen if she stepped inside. Her hands trembled uncontrollably.

There had been times when she thought it would be better just to take the drug. But now that she had it in her hands, all she felt was fear.

Because the same thing would happen as before.

“Drink it.”

The maid urged her, her voice devoid of sympathy. With trembling hands, Cyrene swallowed the contents of the small vial. The same bitter taste slid down her throat as before, even though there was barely enough liquid for a single swallow.

As the door opened, she saw the empty centre of the room. Where had the bed gone? She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, and noticed figures sitting or standing along the shadowed edges of the room.

“Cyrene.”

The voice called her name. Her body stiffened as she recognised it.

A familiar voice echoed around the room. As Areos stepped forward, his face became clear in the light.

“Your Highness…”

Her voice trembled. She could feel the weight of countless stares piercing through her, as if their gaze could tear off her clothes and pierce her very soul. Stares. Stares. Stares. Her hand gripped her dress tightly as her eyes darted around the room – and then she froze.

Ilion.

He stood in a corner. Though partially hidden in the shadows, his form was unmistakable. His faintly visible expression seemed to be one of unease. Cyrene was certain their eyes had met.

“Take it off, piece by piece.”

Areos’ voice slipped past her ear, soft and commanding.

“Cyrene.”

“Yes…”

Her reply came in a dazed, almost absent tone, as if her mind had separated from her body.

“Take it off.”

Cyrene’s fingers trembled slightly at the firm command. Only a few days ago she had suggested having s*x with Ilion, so why was the thought of undressing in front of him now so embarrassing? She didn’t understand herself.

Was it because he didn’t want to see her n*ked? Was that why she was ashamed?

As she hesitated, fumbling with the laces of her dress, Areos stepped forward with purpose. His large hand grabbed her dress and pulled violently. The sharp sound of tearing fabric filled the room, and a torn piece of her dress fluttered to the floor.

“Ah…”

Her knees wobbled as she tried to steady herself. As she instinctively clung to the torn cloth in a vain attempt to cover herself, Areos gave the command again.

“Take it off.”

His words left no room for resistance. Slowly, Cyrene untied the strings of her remaining garments. Was this why the maids had dressed her in so many layers? Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes, then forced them open.