Chapter 8

　　"You…!"

　　Upon spotting him, Sylvia’s face instantly flushed crimson. Owen glanced up the stairs the men had taken before his gaze returned to her.

　　"You have a remarkable tolerance for humiliation," he said sardonically. "To stand there and listen to all of that so placidly."

　　"You—how long have you been standing there?"

　　"Does it matter?" Owen asked, looking aloof as he folded his arms.

　　An instinctive revulsion at having her magic seen through washed over her, but his insolent tone snapped Sylvia back to her senses. He was right. That was not what was important. What mattered was the obscene curse this man had placed upon her. Suppressing the urge to seize him by the collar, Sylvia raised a trembling finger.

　　"You!"

　　"What is it?"

　　Despite her threatening gesture, he only looked more bored. His indifferent reply, as if he were merely humoring a younger sister, made Sylvia’s ears burn. She averted her eyes slightly, her voice dropping despite herself.

　　"My body… it has been strange ever since I was with you. This is all your doing, is it not?"

　　She had begun with such righteous fury, but by the end, she sounded as timid as someone being threatened. Owen silently observed her reddened ears, then, sensing another’s approach, he took her hand.

　　"Come with me. If you are seen here, you are the only one who will suffer for it."

　　She could not tell if he was concerned for her or luring her into a deeper den of villainy. For now, however, Sylvia decided to follow his lead. In the privacy of her home, she had called him a degenerate of the highest order and trembled with rage, but in truth, she had known him for five years. Though their conversations had been limited to ‘Where is Heston?’ or ‘Are you all right? That wound looks severe, shall I call a doctor?’, Five years of brief exchanges and shared battlefields had fostered a trust she had never questioned—until now.

　　Owen led the way to his room with practiced ease. When others appeared, he pushed Sylvia into the shadows between the pillars and stepped before her, completely shielding her from view. The knights cast odd glances at him as he stood there blankly, fingers fidgeting with the curtains, but they soon muttered among themselves that he had been acting strangely of late and quickly moved on. Even as they openly disparaged him, Owen did not so much as bat an eye. Hiding behind his back, stealing glances at his profile, Sylvia felt something akin to respect.

　　But upon reaching his room, the moment the door clicked shut behind her, Sylvia realized she had followed him far too carelessly. It had only been three days since their night together. And just before coming here, what had she been doing in her room, thinking of him? Sylvia moved her hands behind her back, trying to cool the heat that had begun to prickle her palms. Pressing them against the cold wall only made the pulse at her fingertips more pronounced. To Owen, however, it must have looked like an exaggerated attempt to secure an escape route. He scowled in annoyance and stepped back.

　　"I am not going to eat you."

　　With that declaration, he strode to a distant chair and collapsed into it. He crossed his arms and legs, his face etched with the particular irritation of a man facing a troublesome ordeal. How am I to resolve this? his expression seemed to say.

　　Sylvia watched him tap his foot, then belatedly, she hesitated before sitting across from him. It was unsettling to perch on the edge of the bed, of all places, but a thorough scan of the room revealed nowhere else to sit. The chamber was spartan, containing only a bed, a washroom, a wardrobe, and a desk.

　　Just as Sylvia, seated uncomfortably, was about to speak, Owen’s heavy voice filled the space.

　　"Explain." He pressed her, as if his patience had worn thin simply from waiting for her to sit.

　　Sylvia was taken aback, her intended line of attack stolen from her in an instant. "Explain what?"

　　"Explain what you have done to me," he said, leaning slightly forward.

　　"What have I done?!" she asked, dumbfounded.

　　Owen simply raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you not aware? Sylvia, who had intended to have a calm discussion, felt her temper flare at his arrogance.

　　"Frankly, the one who should be demanding an explanation is me, not you."

　　"You are the one who wields magic, and I am a mere knight. Between us, who is more likely to conjure such a bizarre affliction?"

　　He did not yield an inch. Sylvia blushed, offering a deflated defense. "I naturally assumed it was the power of the treasure you received."

　　At that, his eyebrows shot up. "Treasure?"

　　"The Emperor’s treasure you received two years ago!" she exclaimed, flabbergasted that he could forget. Owen had received the Emperor’s medal and treasure two years before Heston, whom everyone hailed as a hero. It had been a reward for purifying the troublesome Winser region of its monsters, but he seemed as uninterested in such accolades then as he was now.

　　Is that why he and Heston are friends? Sylvia sighed, feeling she was beginning to understand how the two dissimilar men could be companions.

　　"In any case, it was not me. I would never do such a thing. Because of you, today—no, ever since that night, I have been so…" Her voice, which had started weakly, became tinged with the moisture of injustice. But she felt Owen’s silent gaze and fell quiet. As thoughtless as she could be, she was well aware of how scandalous and dangerous it was to be in a man’s room, confessing how his memory made her so aroused she could barely function. She decided it was best to simply toss the problem back to him. "So, what symptoms did you experience?"

　　Owen tilted his head back, frowning as if in pain. "You have not heard the rumors?"

　　"What rumors…?"

　　"The rumors that I was weeping uncontrollably."

　　As Sylvia blinked at him dumbly, Owen sighed and elaborated. "Yesterday, you were smirking one moment, then angry, then sad, and then you finally vomited, did you not?"

　　It was only human to laugh and feel anger, but when he mentioned that she had vomited, Sylvia’s jaw dropped. It was true. The day before, she had smirked over the dessert Rosalyn had brought, which had been truly delicious, then bristled with anger when Mrs. Blanke arrived bearing gossip, snidely criticizing her for leaving the tea party. Sadness over her circumstances had followed, and by evening her dinner had refused to sit well, leaving her to bring it up. How Owen could possibly have known all this was beyond her.

　　The words of the passing knight returned to her.

　　"Yes. He was smirking one moment and angry the next. A total madman."

　　At the time, she had thought nothing of it beyond, How strange. But now, it occurred to her that all of it might be connected to her. But how? By what principle?

　　Wait a moment. If he knows I cried and vomited, does that mean today I…

　　As an uneasy premonition crossed her face, Owen delivered the final, thunderous blow, cornering her completely.

　　"And today, I imagine you have been wet all day."

　　The way his eyes met hers for a fleeting moment before subtly sweeping downwards made it clear he was not referring to tears. Sylvia, her face flushed to the tips of her ears, could only stare at Owen, utterly speechless.

　　Meanwhile, Owen was lost in thought as he gazed at her rose-colored face.

　　Does she have any idea what she looks like?

　　With her pink hair and pale, rose-tinged skin, Sylvia Appleton looked precisely like a ripe peach whenever she blushed. When she looked at a man with those moist eyes and that face, it was enough to stir even the most stone-hearted of men. Besides, he still remembered exactly how she had crumbled beneath him. The memory of that night caused the desire he had managed to suppress to stir once more.

　　Shall we test it, then?

　　With a rough hand, he gave himself a forceful squeeze. But it was she, not he, who was overcome by the jolt that shot through her hips. Sylvia’s body trembled as if struck by lightning. She bowed her head, shocked by her own body’s sudden arousal in front of Owen, and froze as if time had stopped. From across the room, Owen could see the blush creep from her ears down her nape. He could also see her hands, knuckles white as she fought to conceal her state.

　　It seemed she had only made a vague connection between them and had no idea how explicitly they were linked.

　　"Sylvia. Look at me," he commanded, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

　　But Sylvia’s vision had narrowed, the world tunneling as the arousal intensified. Though she lifted her face as he asked, she did not notice the prominent bulge straining against his dark trousers. He clicked his tongue, looking troubled.

　　"Even between us, it seems a bit forward to simply pull this out."

　　As his long fingers traced the shape of it through the fabric, her eyes finally registered his erection. She gaped, bit her lip, then raised a hand to point at him, and then back at herself.

　　"Then the reason my body is like this right now is…"

　　Instead of a verbal explanation, he gripped his length firmly in his palm. Sylvia trembled and bent forward, a jolt of intense pleasure shooting through the heated core of her, as if his hand were on her instead.

　　"Hngh, you… stop it. Right now."

　　But how could he stop when she was letting out such a sensual moan? With his signature impassive face, Owen deliberately stroked himself a few more times before dropping his hand. His member, now twice as menacing as before, stood erect between his legs, proud and defiant. Unresolved arousal simmered in his lower abdomen. His expression now languid, Owen looked at Sylvia and said, "Do you understand now? The nature of what has happened between us."

　　With that, he ran a hand through his messy hair, as if to calm himself. But to Sylvia, the smooth gesture seemed utterly arrogant—as if he had stimulated his manhood merely to prove a point, with no sense of responsibility for the consequences.