~Chapter 8~
Nicolai misread the tremor in Lovelace—not as fear of him, but as sheer terror at Larvihan’s presence.
“Miss Lovelace is frightened,” he thought.
It pleased him in a dark way to know she harbored negative feelings toward Larvihan. Yet standing before the man, he dared not smile.
That man was irredeemable—not even in God’s name could he be saved. Nicolai pressed his rising bile back down.
“Our new Holy Father is said to despise all things unclean.”
Larvihan withdrew his hand from Lovelace. She still kept her eyes tightly shut, shoulders trembling with tension. Larvihan’s displeasure surged.
He tapped the three-tier tray on the table. Cookies tumbled across the lace cloth, tarnishing it with crumbs.
Nicolai’s face went pale.
“Oops—slipped. You look troubled. Care for some tea?”
But Larvihan wasn’t asking—before Nicolai could respond, Larvihan poured tea into his cup until it overflowed. The tea flooded the table and dripped onto Nicolai’s pristine white robes.
Crash!
Nicolai sprang up, pushing his chair back in shock.
“Sir Larvihan!”
“Yes, Your Holiness?”
“You are truly rude.”
“I’d prefer not to hear that from a Pope who trespasses into others’ homes uninvited.”
Nicolai shuddered, turning on his heel.
“I said I would visit sometime… but perhaps that will never happen.”
“Indeed it won’t,” Larvihan replied with cold certainty. Nicolai turned back—his gaze fierce and pleading—on Lovelace.
“Would that really be so?”
Lovelace felt the intensity of his eyes. He wanted her to betray Larvihan.
She bit her lower lip.
“Bad habit,” came Larvihan’s calm whisper—his fingers, now bare of gloves, brushed her lips, releasing that familiar, fresh scent. A tremor of comfort ran through her.
“Why Larvihan? And why this story?” she thought, her heart in turmoil.
He took her hand tenderly and led her into a room. Once inside, he summoned his knights.
“Why must I entertain guests uninvited to this house?” he asked them, voice soft but edged.
The elderly, rough-handed knight Nibl stepped forward.
“I swear it won’t happen again,” he murmured.
Larvihan studied the scars on his face, taking two long strides before delivering a sharp slap to Nibl’s cheek.
Lovelace exhaled silently, relieved it wasn’t a sword, but Larvihan’s hand, striking.
“Consider yourself fortunate the future Lady of Tugging fears blood.”
With that, the tension broke; the knights, shaken, exhaled in relief like they’d survived death.
Lovelace swallowed bitterly.
Larvihan glanced at her, then rang the bell. Davidson entered promptly and bowed.
“Bring crème brûlée.”
“…For His Grace?”
“No—our lady, of course.”
Lovelace looked at him, and Larvihan crooned kindly:
“Shall we restart afternoon tea? I noticed you cleared the crème brûlée the last time.”
When did he even notice that?
Lovelace—still reeling from Nicolai’s warning—had polished off the custard so cleanly it was almost prophetic. She didn’t know whether to admire his perceptiveness or feel terrified by it.
Davidson arrived with the crème brûlée—its sweet aroma filling the room.
“Eat… or shall I feed you?”
Larvihan’s playful words and gestures—sweet, yet intimate—made Lovelace’s limbs go slack.
“No, that’s fine,” she replied, unsettled. She didn’t feel hungry anymore.
“Did the Pope insult me? Did you start disliking me because of that?”
Larvihan, leaning on his hand, smiled gently.
How could anyone refuse saying no to that face?
He knew exactly how to use his appearance to disarm her. It was scary how well he understood her.
“…No.”
Larvihan’s eyes flickered—perhaps at her hesitation—but softened into a gentle smile.
“I am a bad man.”
A sudden confession, startling in its sincerity. Lovlcease knew—because she recognized him better than most.
“I know.”
Because she was living inside the very novel she had read. And he was—
The protagonist who shook everything.
Lovelace took up her spoon. Perhaps sugar could drown out the eeriness.
“You knew? Smart of you, my holder.”
She couldn’t not know.
“That novel—it was a sensation in female romance fantasy. The male lead was pitifully poor yet irredeemably trash… and no heroine—maybe yet to appear. Still classified as romance because Larvihan captured hearts.”
She’d given up finishing it, not knowing the end.
I should’ve read to the end.
Regret knotted within her, but she couldn’t stay there. She stared at Larvihan, desperate for something—anything—that could help.
“The author can’t describe for beans.”
“What was that?”
She crumbled the sugar crust of the crème brûlée.
Alas, no insights came—only the urge to blame the author.
“Better at describing my toes’ filth than his prose.”
He’d been described as god-like, yet that was still insufficient.
He was crafted—body and face perfect, a creation of divine proportions.
She was subconsciously finding reasons she mustn’t betray him.
A spoon clattered to the floor—it was Larvihan’s long finger that brushed it from her hand.
“You got some on there. This tastes good, though.”
Still staring at her, he licked the sugar from his fingertip.
That lecherous fiend!
Lovelace scrubbed aggressively at the spot his finger had touched.
In that moment she saw a fox spirit—ancient and fatal. A tidal wave of fear washed over her: if she stayed, Larvihan would swallow her soul.
“Continue what you were saying. Yes, I’m a bad man… but I treat mine well.”
Fulfilling.
She’d witnessed him dealing with subordinates—twice already.
“You expect me to believe that? Wait—maybe it’s true. Just maybe, because you never thought anyone was yours.”
“Yeah. I didn’t.”
“And now you expect me to believe it?”
“Yes…now I do.”
That—a sudden, sweet earth-shattering line.
Lovelace blinked. Larvihan’s smile bloomed like a spring flower.
“You, Lovelace—you’re mine now.”
“…”
“I’ll treat you well, so forget running off. I’m serious, Rae.”
Even if it weren’t meant wholly truthfully, it felt sincere.
“I’ll treat you well…” and “don’t run away.”
Her throat tightened. She drank water, looking up at him into that soft gaze—and let out a weary sigh.
In the novel she’d read, the ending had been ruin. The final scene she remembered: the world shattered at his hands.
“The land turned barren—nothing could grow.”
That was the last line she saw.
“I don’t want to die! If the world must break, then do it after I live a normal life here!”
Her head buzzed.
“I… if I don’t want to die—I need to be on his side.”
She thought of Nicolai. Whether he knew it or not, Larvihan watched her, smiling softly.
Some time later…
That night, after Lovelace fell asleep, Larvihan pulled the blanket up to her neck and quietly left the room.
He slipped into his study, fingertips snapping to light up the room. He winced from the sudden brightness and lay on the sofa, his legs too long for the seat.
Lovelace didn’t know this, but Larvihan always came here to sleep—he couldn’t bear to leave yet, because even the slightest noise from him still startled her. Sharing a bed still seemed far off.
…At least I’ll wait until the wedding. I can’t risk her fleeing.
He recalled how, without hesitation, she received his food… he smiled.
“You’re alive, after all.”
If it weren’t for Emperor Arwen’s words today, he might’ve ended the day at peace.
But Arwen… she had said she wished he was dead, then smiled innocently when he lost his power and was buried in a cave.
His face hardened.
“No more of that tedious talk. Instead, someone fun’s been brought into the house.”
He knew Arwen meant Lovelace.
Damn. The people I least want involved are interested in her.
Larvihan rubbed his face wearily.
“This is going to get messy.”
A few mornings later, noises and screams echoed through the Vallios estate—the kind of sounds never heard in a noble house.
