“I don’t like it.”

“I’m… s-sorry.”

She couldn’t figure out what had upset him. Was it meeting the princess? Asking about her? Seeing Ilion? Or the fact that he had applied the ointment? It felt like everything and nothing at the same time.

Areos grip tightened ruthlessly, her jaw throbbing as if it might break. Cyrene grabbed his hand, but all she could manage was a weak scratch at the back of it, utterly powerless to make him stop.

“Ah… Your Highness. I’m sorry…”

At that moment, a sharp slap echoed and her head snapped to the side. Her hair came loose and fell around her in a mess. Disbelief at what had just happened overwhelmed her pain and a stunned sound escaped her lips.

“…Ah?”

She couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. Only after a moment’s delay did a sharp pain radiate from her cheek. Dazed, Cyrene raised a hand to her flushed cheek, the heat searing against her palm.

“Ah… ugh…”

Her body jerked roughly. The slick, wet sounds and the familiar sensation of him inside her contrasted with the unfamiliar sting on her cheek. Areos gritted his teeth and stared down at her, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his hand rose again.

Cyrene flinched instinctively, her body curling into a ball. The Crown Prince paused, staring at her trembling form for a moment. Then, as if nothing had happened, he gently ran his hand through her dishevelled hair, the touch almost tender.

“Cyrene, you need to remember who you belong to and act accordingly.”

Her cheek still throbbed with pain, and his tender whisper sent an involuntary shiver through her body. Angry one moment, tender the next – she couldn’t keep up with Areos’ unpredictable moods.

“Ah… ugh…”

A mixture of pleasure and fear coursed through her. Her trembling body tightened reflexively around him as his rough movements stirred inside her. Her hips quivered uncontrollably. Areos pressed his lips tightly against hers, then moved his hand to caress her already swollen cheek. Pain radiated from every place his fingers brushed.

“Ha… ugh…”

Cyrene’s blue eyes trembled. The cold emotion on Areos’ face filled her with fear. As if branding her, he planted a harsh kiss on her reddened cheek before shifting his position. Bent over the desk, Cyrene let out a sobbing gasp, her breath ragged and uneven.

She could feel his hands roughly tracing the scars on her back, pressing into them as if engraving the memory. Her entire body shook with pain. The lines between fear and pleasure blurred, leaving her overwhelmed and confused by Areos actions.

As she struggled to catch her breath, her thoughts drifted to Ilion.

He would have been kind to me. Why does that thought keep coming back?

This isn’t kindness.

Her whole body ached, the pain spreading like poison to the tips of her fingers. Cyrene closed her eyes tightly. Just as Ilion had once said he “could not understand”, Cyrene could no longer understand Areos version of kindness.

“Ah… ugh… ah!”

Her hands, which had been gripping Areos back, now raked the surface of the desk. The persistent clattering sound echoed around the room. Behind her, it felt like a beast was sinking its teeth into her back.

***

“Are you all right?”

It was the first time Ilion had asked about her cheek. Three days had passed and none of the other men had mentioned the mark on Cyrene’s face. Even as it darkened to a deep purple bruise, or began to fade to a bluish hue, they cast only brief glances, their expressions subtly tense, but no one said a word.

“It hurts.”

Cyrene stared at him in silence as Ilion took a few small jars from his pocket and opened one. Just like last time, he carefully applied the ointment to her.

Every touch of his fingers hurt, yet she found herself watching his furrowed brow intently. When she was with Areos, she thought of Ilion; when she was with Ilion, the Crown Prince occupied her thoughts.

He would be angry again, wouldn’t he?

He would reopen her wounds and slap her cheek. Rougher than usual s*x would follow as an afterthought. Cyrene knew that Ilion’s actions towards her only fuelled Areos’ rage, but she didn’t want him to stop.

Ilion tilted her chin slightly to meet his gaze, her expression clouded with a fleeting hint of desperation.

“Did His Highness beat you?”

Cyrene nodded silently. Ilion clenched his fist and let out a long sigh. Without a word, he resumed applying the ointment, applying it with deliberate care to the bruise. Despite the pain, the touch felt… soothing.

Why was that?

Why did his touch, though painful, feel good?

When Areos inflicted pain, it was nothing but agony. Cyrene turned her back to him. Then, without hesitation, she began to undo her dress. A hasty hand tried to stop her.

“What are you doing?”

“My back hurts too.”

“……”

“You applied ointment to my back last time, didn’t you?”

Gradually, the tension in his hand eased and the loose cloth slipped from her shoulders. She crossed her arms and leaned forward slightly as trembling fingers gently brushed her hair aside.

“It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?”

The rough palm that moved slowly down her back was callused. His hands were anything but gentle, yet they felt softer than any fabric. Why was that? Cyrene tilted her head slightly, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Ilion, his expression slightly dazed as he carefully tended to her back, suddenly jumped and straightened, his posture stiff and tense.

“Was this His Highness’s doing as well?”

“……”

She remained silent, fear tightening its grip on her. What if he realised how much Areos despised her meeting him? If she admitted that these marks were due to his presence in her life, he might never visit her again.

A small sigh escaped him as his trembling hand continued to run down her exposed back. Cyrene let out a shaky breath, her body reacting instinctively to his touch. But as his hand moved lower, brushing near her waist, she suddenly caught it and turned to face him with wide, searching eyes.

Sunlight streamed over her bare br*ast, highlighting her pale skin. She felt his gaze linger on her partially *rect n*pples. The soft rustling of leaves filled the air as a light breeze blew through. Ilion’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed hard, a faint, stifled groan escaping him along with the breath he had been holding.

“……”

His large hand hesitated, then began to slide slowly up her waist. He touched her ribs carefully, as if counting them one by one. When his hand brushed the underside of her br*ast, she froze, as if he’d touched something forbidden. His fingertips trembled slightly and he pulled back instinctively, unsure of what to do.

Without a word, Ilion turned his head away and began to straighten her clothes.

“Your clothes…”

His voice, hoarse and harsh, made her jump. He pressed his lips together and cleared his throat several times.

“Your clothes were slipping.”

The faint redness on his face was unfamiliar, yet it made her heart race. The tingling sensation she always felt when she saw him spread all the way to her fingertips, making her repeatedly press her nails into her palms.

In that moment, she decided she didn’t care if Areos got angry. Whatever pain his wrath might bring felt insignificant compared to the thought of not seeing Ilion again. The idea of losing him hurt far more than anything else.

Cyrene’s gaze drifted blankly to Ilion as he handed her a small jar. Unlike the plain metal case he had used before, this one was adorned with intricate patterns. Yet, she barely noticed its design, her thoughts still consumed by him.

“This one is good for bruises, and this one… this one is for wounds that are bleeding….”

His low voice faded and Cyrene’s gaze remained fixed on his lips as he spoke, completely transfixed. Without a second thought, she leaned in, closing the distance between them. But just as their lips were about to meet, Illion drew back, tilting his head away.

“…Cyrene.”

Undeterred, she pressed herself against his thigh as she climbed onto his lap. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned in closer, her pale blonde hair falling around them like a curtain. The sunlight danced around them, casting a radiant glow. His eyes, reflecting the glow, held an emotion that could not be put into words.

Ilion’s dark eyes narrowed briefly before fluttering shut, and in that moment, she pressed her lips firmly to his. His trembling hand hesitated over her waist before slowly, deliberately resting on the curve of her body, palm first.

It was just a kiss—no intertwining tongues, no fiery passion—just their lips softly meeting as they matched each other’s breaths. Their unsteady exhalations brushed against their cheeks, while his long fingers gently tangled in her hair. Even without an intense, consuming kiss, a tingling excitement radiated from deep within her.

“Ilion.”

Cyrene called his name softly. When her lips parted slightly and her breath met his, it was as if life itself had been breathed into him. His eyes opened wide at that moment.

“…Ha.”

He let out a shaky breath. But instead of kissing her back, he pulled her tightly into his arms. The sound of a heartbeat – whose, she couldn’t tell – pounded loudly in her ears.

“A damned ordeal.”

“Why?”

Even as she squirmed in his arms, the grip that held her tightly didn’t loosen. Cyrene managed to wrap her arms around Ilion’s back, and above her head he let out a deep sigh.

“I meant that I’m pathetic.”

Why?

Countless questions swirled in her mind, but she asked none. Just like the many questions she had asked others, she knew she wouldn’t get an answer.

“Sometimes it’s not enough to know something in your head.”

“Mmm.”

She simply nodded. Ilion, who had held her so tightly it was almost painful, let out a soft, short laugh. Cyrene buried her face in his chest, breathing in his scent.

It was undeniably and completely Ilion’s.