WBWB | Chapter 39

That comment snapped me back to reality. His question about my relationship with the young master wasn’t out of simple curiosity.

“I apologize. But there’s truly nothing to worry about. If you wish, I can write to him again and ask him not to send any more letters…”

“There’s no need for that. On the contrary, it might cause unnecessary misunderstandings if your letter falls into the wrong hands. I believe you’re being truthful, so let’s not discuss this further.”

I was relieved that the Duke believed me. I inwardly sighed in relief.

‘Someone could misinterpret the letters if they were intercepted.’

The thought sent shivers down my spine. Everything about the court… perhaps I had been living in a truly terrifying world all along.

“The food is getting cold. Let’s eat.”

And we began our meal.

* * *

During the meal, Baldr reached a conclusion. This woman in front of him was completely oblivious to men’s affections.

‘She must have been rejecting Young Master Mael’s advances all this time. He must have been quite hurt.’

The Duke had felt a burning sensation when he read Mael’s letter.

I have been thinking only of you since you left.

Mael was consumed by a fever.

I know you’re not doing well. All I can say is, please endure. Until God chooses us again.
Those who are meant to meet will meet, and as long as you live, opportunities will arise.

A fever that robbed one of reason and judgment.

Mael would have known. Known that his letter could fall into enemy hands, that it could be misinterpreted and used against him. But he had sent it through his messenger. Not because he didn’t consider it dangerous, but because he was willing to risk it.

And Baldr could understand why. Because he was suffering from the same fever. Mael had wanted to convey his feelings, just as Baldr did. Sending a letter to his former tutor, exiled due to political machinations, was not something he would have done out of mere brotherly affection.

But Jeanne seemed completely oblivious. She wasn’t someone who was used to lying; her words were firm and unwavering, and her gaze held the conviction of someone speaking the truth.

She seemed to regard Mael the same way she regarded Ana; as a sweet child. But he had been thirteen when they first met, and as far as Baldr knew, he was almost an adult now. Old enough to understand love.

‘What does age difference matter when a man loves a woman?’

Baldr was dumbfounded by Jeanne’s confident assertion that Mael couldn’t possibly see her as a woman because of their age difference.

He had used political concerns as an excuse for questioning her about her relationship with Mael during dinner, but his true motive was to understand her feelings. Her answer had revealed both Mael’s and her own feelings. 

He realized that although she was kind, she was oblivious to men’s affections and had probably never been in love.

‘I didn’t even know I had a rival. And not just any nobleman, but a prince.’

The man who loved her was the king’s son, albeit illegitimate, and his mother was the king’s favored mistress. If Jeanne hadn’t been exiled, Mael would have eventually won her over. The thought fueled his jealousy, and the jealousy brought him a realization.

‘It’s not enough.’

The weekly dinners weren’t enough to satiate the hunger that was slowly constricting him. Jealousy ignited his passion. The desire to not only know her but also to touch her, to hold her, was now undeniable, choking him.

‘It’s not nearly enough.’

At first, he had thought seeing her would be enough. That seeing her face and talking to her once a week would quench his thirst. But that time together was like pouring saltwater on a parched throat. It didn’t take long for him to realize this.

The regular meetings, seeing her face and hearing her voice, initially brought him joy and satisfaction. But that satisfaction was fleeting.

Seeing her made him want to touch her. 

He found it increasingly difficult to focus on her words. 

His gaze was drawn to her sparkling eyes, her lustrous hair, her lips, the soft curve of her shoulders, the contours of her breasts. He wanted to kiss her eyelids, to slip his tongue between her red, shapely lips, to caress her soft skin with his hands and mouth, to peel away her dress and see the body hidden beneath.

And an instinctive desire, the urge to bury himself deep within her, awakened within him. A desire to love and to possess, to consume.

He wanted to see her composure crumble, to hear her cry out beneath him.

At first, he tried to suppress it. Things were alright as they were. But if desire could be suppressed by sheer will, humanity would have ceased to exist long ago. Once awakened, his desire robbed him of sleep, in a way entirely different from before.

‘I want to hold her.’

The desire to make her his, to possess her completely, to have her gaze fixed only on him, to know her intimately, to hold her, to have her bear his children, consumed him.

‘And I want to have her.’

The relentless desire, devoid of reason and morality, was like a hundred-eyed monster, refusing to slumber.

The night after their dinner, he had a dream. A vulgar, base dream, driven by blind instinct.

* * *

In his dream, he stripped her of her dress, parted her legs, and buried his face between them. He devoured her, as if trying to consume her entirely.

The soft flesh beneath his tongue aroused him. Like a dog with a delicious piece of meat, he devoured her hungrily, growling as if to ward off any potential rivals. A sweet nectar flowed from the mound between her legs, from the crevice beneath.

She writhed beneath him, her cries echoing in the air. To his ears, even her cries sounded like sweet music. Her thighs, clutched in his hands, twitched, almost convulsively.

He lingered there, licking, sucking, inhaling her scent and taste, imprinting them deep within his soul. 

She pushed at his head with her hands, but he ignored her. Her trembling hands ran through his hair, then clutched at it, pulling hard, like gripping the reins of a horse. Even that sensation was pleasurable.

He lifted his head and looked at her as he continued his ministrations. Her eyes, unfocused, met his, and she quickly closed them, startled. Like a pheasant burying its head in the bushes, believing it could escape the situation by hiding.

He lifted his head and moved on top of her. 

He stroked her trembling hair and covered her lips with his, wet with her essence. He thrust his tongue deep inside her mouth and cupped her breasts. They were full and soft. Feeling the pleasure and tremors spreading through him, he kneaded, rolled, and caressed her breasts with a gentle touch, pressing his body against hers, savoring her warmth.

He was on the verge of exploding.

He wanted to bury himself in the soft flesh he had tasted, in the crevice between her legs, and lose himself in the frenzy. 

But he also wanted to prolong this moment, to caress and kiss and touch her skin as much as possible before it ended. 

He walked a tightrope between these two desires.