It was excessively provocative.

However, Yevgeny didn’t seem to care at all. He elegantly crossed his legs and picked up the half-folded newspaper. At the same time, Rochelle held her breath.

She already knew what kind of wicked stories might be fabricated on that thin paper. Surely, the newspaper would be filled with nothing but tales of Rochelle Kotov, the one who harmed Ivan.

With anxious eyes, Rochelle followed Yevgeny’s movements. Yet, he simply flipped through the thin pages, only stopping when he reached the last one.

He turned his head toward Rochelle.

“Can you read? In Breton, I mean.”

His tone was calm to the point of arrogance. Rochelle tried to hide her nervousness and stuck out her chin.

“Yes, a little.”

“That’s good to hear. Please come sit closer, miss. Language is very important if you wish to settle in Castiya.”

“……”

“First, you should start practicing reading step by step. Since Breton and Castiya share the same letters, you shouldn’t have much trouble reading and understanding.”

Nodding, Rochelle moved and sat in the chair beside him. The faint warmth they shared made her hands and feet tremble slightly. She still hadn’t received any clear answer from Yevgeny about his suspicions.

At times, she even wondered if he was enjoying her misfortune, fully aware of everything.

Even so, both Rochelle and Yevgeny pretended at a clumsy peace, as if nothing had happened. The more she thought about it, the more confusing it became. Why?

Yevgeny, watching Rochelle’s cheeks grow redder and redder, pretended not to notice and placed his index finger on the first printed paragraph.

“Can you read this?”

He asked. Rochelle hesitated for a moment, then nodded with difficulty.

“Yes, I think so.”

“……”

“It says there was a festival held successfully in Troika Square.”

“Read it aloud, exactly as it’s written.”

“On the 6th, Tro—Troika, Square, Festival, was, su—success…”

It wasn’t easy. Like a child chewing on tough meat, she moved her lips awkwardly, repeating the unfamiliar language in an unnatural way.

Sitting beside her, Yevgeny rested his chin on his hand and looked down at the beautiful woman, a faint trace of mockery in his eyes.

What if his cruel, violent brother had pushed even harder and brought about a tragic end for her? How would the people have praised him, and Ivan—what kind of smile would he have worn in the midst of it all?

There was nothing more hideous or horrific than seeing that smooth face soaked in joy. Just imagining himself forced to applaud made Yevgeny shudder and recoil.

That was why he kept looking at this woman’s unharmed face, feeling a subtle pleasure and delight. Moreover, this young lady was clever enough to doubt and fear people, but, as those raised in flower gardens sometimes do, she also trusted others too easily.

She hid her true feelings behind secretive walls, but was too weak to bare her claws. That frailty and insignificance made him smile.

As Rochelle, her ears red, struggled to read the newspaper, Yevgeny pointed to a word and spoke slowly.

“Ro, ze.”

“……”

“When you pronounce ‘euh,’ you have to force the air from deep in your throat, rubbing your uvula strongly. It’s closer to ‘h’ than to ‘euh.’”

“Rozeuh.”

“Faster.”

“Rozh.”

“That was close enough.”

Yevgeny nodded as he spoke, then reached out and poured vodka into a small glass from the windowsill.

Rochelle watched the golden liquid pour, then glanced sideways. Through the small window, only darkness seeped in. It was a night so dark you couldn’t guess the time.

“Um, Yevgeny. Isn’t it a bit late to be drinking?”

“For some time now, I’ve needed a bit of alcohol to fall asleep. Would you like a glass as well?”

“No, thank you. I don’t really enjoy alcohol.”

When she shook her head, Yevgeny didn’t insist, simply bringing the glass to his lips and drinking.

Rochelle couldn’t tell whether her lightheadedness was from Yevgeny’s praise or from the smell of alcohol coming from him, and she just kept muttering, “Rozeuh, rozh,” to herself in a daze.

Yevgeny praised her again.

“You’re getting better and better.”

“Thank you.”

Rochelle tilted her head slightly to check Yevgeny’s expression. Was this some amusement to break the boredom of travel? He looked at her with a faint smile, as if encouraging her to continue.

Rochelle, the corners of her lips lifting slightly, finally reached out and fumbled through the newspaper.

It was a small effort to escape the awkwardness, but unfortunately, fate was not on her side again. The familiar card she had tucked between the pages was revealed by her touch.

[Rochelle Kotov, unmarried, 20 years old. Prisoner number N2779, deep violet hair and blue eyes. White skin and a curvaceous body. A large scar on her forehead. Worked as an employee at the ‘Villette’ tavern in the capital for about two months. Bounty: 32 francs.]

Rochelle slowly reread the familiar information, then stared intently into the man’s golden eyes.

He must know what it says as well. Still, she couldn’t figure out his true intentions. Rather than panic and flee in fear, Rochelle hid her emotions and demanded an answer from him.

“Sir.”

“……”

“Do you believe me?”

She felt a bit of regret. Was she just making things worse by bringing up this topic again after he had already let it drop?

But what was done was done, and she would have had to ask him this question sooner or later anyway.

Nervous, Rochelle pressed her lips together and waited for his answer.

Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to bring it up first, because Yevgeny’s pupils widened slightly as he looked at her, then slowly brought his hand to the glass.

His throat bobbed.

“Well.”

He dragged out his words, pretending caution. The hand that set down the glass slowly came to rest on the table. Rochelle and Yevgeny’s hands lay side by side. Yevgeny stared intently at her small, thin wrist.

“I am certain that the desperation and despair you showed me last night were not a lie.”

“……”

“Even though I know full well that the eyes of a cunning person can sometimes hide the truth.”

“……”

“In any case, while we are heading to Castiya, I promised to protect you under me, and I will certainly keep that promise.”

Yevgeny smiled. Silently, very faintly.

“So, I will believe you are not Rochelle Kotov, but a lonely orphan, and that you are simply a commoner who wishes to settle successfully in Castiya.”

‘I will believe you.’

Yevgeny’s emotions, so much condensed, were conveyed. The cynicism hidden behind his kindness reached her.

A chill ran down her back.

How could kindness and cynicism coexist? For someone like her, who had spent her whole life locked away and cut off from human relationships, he was truly incomprehensible in many ways.

But Rochelle simply placed her hands quietly on her lap.

“Thank you for believing me.”

Her eyes curved prettily as she smiled brightly. Her neat white teeth and the arc of her red lips tickled Yevgeny’s throat like a fever.

With practiced ease, Yevgeny took another sip of vodka. The bitter and sweet liquid slid down his throat.

As he gently pressed his now-warm stomach, a cheerful knock sounded from the guest room door.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sir Yevgeny.”

“……”

“A letter has arrived from the capital.”

The two, who had been enveloped in a heavy silence, naturally turned their gaze to the tightly closed crimson door. Through the small round window in the door, a figure could be seen standing upright.

Rochelle glanced warily at the unfamiliar man beyond the door. As if it were only natural, Yevgeny was about to let his servant Owen into the room, but he glanced at her slowly, frowned, and tilted his head. His golden hair slid softly down the line of his face.

“You’d best get some sleep now.”