Chapter 9

　　A heavy silence hung between them.

　　In the room where a subtle, electric heat had swept through, a resentment-filled woman and a man bearing a formidable erection remained.

　　Because Owen was still in a state of high arousal, Sylvia’s physical condition mirrored his intimately. It felt as though a hazy, ticklish heat had latched onto her most sensitive parts, clinging and unrelenting.

　　"That," Sylvia finally said, breaking the silence. "Why do you not go and take care of that?"

　　She spoke while looking vaguely at his chest, unable to meet his gaze, and he let out a short laugh.

　　"How? Would you like to touch it for me, as you did last time?"

　　At that, her eyes narrowed into slits. He leaned back, anticipating her fuming.

　　"Ah, perhaps you were too drunk to recall? That time, you…"

　　"I recall," she bit out, her voice tight. "So you need not say it."

　　A handsome smile touched the corners of his mouth. He was so striking that even in this situation, her gaze was helplessly drawn to him. A moment later, his tone softened as if to soothe her.

　　"To find release, I would have to stroke it, but then you would be panting over here. And it seems excessive to go to the washroom, strip, and douse it with water. Our options are poor, so it is best we simply bear it."

　　Sylvia agreed with his logic, but she could not understand how he could remain so composed when she was not. After all, he was the one with the erection.

　　"How can you be so calm?" she asked, a note of injustice in her voice.

　　He tilted his head. "I am not calm."

　　But judging by his face alone, no one would have known he was so fiercely hard below.

　　Sylvia abandoned the argument of whether he was calm or not and fell silent. Any conversation on this topic was poison, constantly dredging up memories of the night she had spent with him. If only she did not know what his face truly looked like when he was aroused, she would not feel so tormented… Sylvia swallowed hard. She squeezed her thighs together as tightly as she could, brought the hallowed words of God to mind, and clasped her hands.

　　"So, you are saying that when you become aroused, I do as well." The divine words had their effect. She managed to speak in a surprisingly steady voice.

　　Owen nodded in agreement, then added one more thing. "And if you cry, or become angry, or feel anything at all… so do I."

　　"What do you mean?"

　　He furrowed his brow at her shocked expression.

　　"Then why else," he countered, "would I have been weeping over a wooden training doll as if I had lost my mind?"

　　"A wooden doll? During training? But that was two days ago. You have known about this since then?"

　　He offered no reply, but his silence was an affirmation, and Sylvia gave a long-suffering sigh.

　　"Then why did you not tell me?"

　　"I intended to. But you fled."

　　"Do not tell me… you did that deliberately?" Her voice grew colder than it had ever been. The agonizing memory of gripping the bedpost, panting for what felt like an eternity, flashed through her mind.

　　"Do try to contain your excitement," he murmured, his brow furrowed as if he knew precisely what scene was unfolding in her memory. "It seems to be having an effect on me."

　　His brazen audacity sent a rush of blood to her head, so potent that Sylvia felt she might swoon.

　　"Excitement? I am furious! Why must you inflict your… state upon me?"

　　Leaning back until his elbows touched the armrests of his chair, Owen raked a hand through his hair.

　　"Very well. Let us speak of this no more."

　　"What do you mean, ‘no more’? Are we to ignore that you knew everything, like some deviant, and still you provoked me?"

　　"I did it to summon you. And you came running, did you not?"

　　"What are you—!" She cut herself off, lowering her voice as she heard footsteps passing in the corridor. "You could have simply sent for me, as any normal person would."

　　"And what would I have written? ‘I am suffering a unique form of torment every time you laugh or weep, so I beg you to attend me’? Given the chasm between our stations, do you truly believe such a letter would have reached you unread?"

　　His point was valid, and it silenced her, though it did nothing to calm the frantic beating of her heart. After a moment, Owen’s gaze softened as he studied her face.

　　"Was it very difficult for you?"

　　His question, echoing in the quiet room, stirred something within her. Was it because his sudden gentleness felt like a balm? Or was it the subtle tremor of arousal that still hummed beneath his tone? A sudden, mortifying question arose in her mind: when she had surrendered to his state, had he heard the moans that had escaped her lips?

　　"…You are right. Let us speak of this no more."

　　He merely shrugged. In the ensuing silence, Sylvia began to assemble the facts. So, since the night we lay together, we have been sharing emotions. And states of arousal. That, in essence, was the bizarre truth of their situation. It had all begun after they had… been intimate.

　　A phenomenon known as mana exchange.

　　Her brow furrowed. She now recalled the words of the imperial physician—that her mana was in disarray. Sylvia risked a glance at Owen, who was watching her intently, even as the lingering heat in her own body refused to settle. The moment their eyes met, he asked, "What is it you have remembered?"

　　Reading her expression was a simple matter. Her uneasy look suggested it was hardly good news, but he was relieved to have grasped some piece of an answer. While it could not compare to the frequent tides of arousal that swept over Sylvia, Owen’s own life had been in utter chaos since that day. He would find himself laughing against his will or feel a tempest of anger churning within him. It was as if he were possessed.

　　And the self-pleasuring… that was strangely humiliating.

　　It seemed the shame Sylvia felt at her own body’s betrayal had been transmitted directly to him. The experience of seeking release while awash in such feelings had been singularly dreadful.

　　And above all else…

　　Owen’s gaze drifted to the corners of Sylvia’s eyes. Her expression, hardened by concentration, held no trace of melancholy, yet he studied her pale face for a long time.

　　The reason she wept so… it was because of Heston, was it not?

　　The emotion that had flooded him when she had broken down before the entire company of knights was not bewilderment, but a profound and piercing sorrow. A deep sense of loss, regret, loneliness—all of it had swirled together into a suffocating wave. Some of the feelings were so vivid they had nearly made him sick. His own life had been far from easy, but he had never known an agony quite like that.

　　Does she truly carry all of that inside such a small frame?

　　Owen was suddenly thrown back to the night of Heston’s engagement party. Heston had asked him to find Sylvia. Though summoned to the celebration, Owen loathed gatherings teeming with nobles and had readily agreed, thinking the search a welcome alternative. But when a shock of pink hair had emerged from the garden shrubbery, his first thought had been, Perhaps I should pretend I saw nothing. In the end, however, kindness had won out. He had crouched behind her and gently patted her back.

　　"Sylvia. What are you doing here? Heston is looking for you."

　　He had expected the mention of Heston’s name to snap her to attention. But Sylvia had only twitched an ear before burying her face once more. He could see the bare skin of her arms, exposed by her short-sleeved dress, trembling in the cool air.

　　"I am not going."

　　"Why not?"

　　"I do not wish to see his face."

　　As if to prove her resolve, she pushed herself deeper into the bushes. Sharp twigs pricked her tender cheeks, but her stubbornness was absolute. Owen had given a rough nod. Were he in her position, he would have no desire to see the man’s face either. To have a decade of devotion answered with an engagement to another woman…

　　"Are you certain? He is searching everywhere for you."

　　"I will not see him."

　　"They will find you if you remain here."

　　She ought to have gone home. Hiding in the garden was little better than begging to be found. Muttering to himself, Owen had scanned their surroundings. If he left her, she might fall prey to some drunken guest. He had to get her inside.

　　"Sylvia. Let us go."

　　Shielding her with his hand so the sharp branches would not tear her dress or skin, Owen had begun to pull her from the foliage. He had managed to extricate about half of the pink-haired bundle when he noticed her pale, sky-blue eyes fixed upon him. He tried to ignore her stare as he worked her arm free, but then she spoke.

　　"Summers."

　　"What is it?"

　　"Could you… hide me?"

　　Perhaps it was the cold night air that made her sound so uncharacteristically plaintive. Owen had looked from her cheek, warm against his palm, to the pale strands of her hair, tangled in the leaves.

　　No, this is not a plea.

　　But whatever it was, that is how it had felt to him.

　　"Do you wish to come with me?"

　　He had said it as a final test, tilting his head in subtle invitation, his eyes half-lidded. It seemed to have its intended effect, for even in her drunken state, Sylvia had slowly reached up and laid a hand on his face. Owen had blinked slowly, watching her fingers trace the corner of his eye, the bridge of his nose, his cheek. He knew she did not truly comprehend the delicate current flowing between them. She was too intoxicated, and she had only ever known one man. Which was why, when she closed her eyes and clumsily pressed her lips to his, Owen had simply stood there, blinking stupidly as he parted his lips to receive her. A soft peck.

　　He should have looked at her face more closely then. Because he had not, he could only superimpose the sorrow he had felt that night onto the face before him now.