81. Olivia

“Are you really going to insist that you’re not drunk?”

Olivia, resting her chin on Cryer’s shoulder—which had caught her just in time as she almost face-planted onto the table—burst into a light, giggling laugh.

“No, I’m really not drunk. I’m just in a good mood. Isn’t that lucky? When I drink, my mood usually sinks to the bottom of the earth, and I just keep regretting everything.”

Her tone implied that someone else had been like that, and for a moment, curiosity flickered in Cryer’s eyes.

He asked casually, as if passing a remark:

“Was there really someone who regretted the past every time they drank?”

Of course, the word someone—especially the choice of “that guy”—barely concealed his irritation that she was referring to someone in particular. Yet Olivia, unusually, was too tipsy to pick up on such a trivial word.

She continued to speak with a carefree smile.

“Oh, there was. One of the royal knights… or maybe he isn’t a knight anymore? Anyway, there was this youngest one, practically like the last in line. After all the seniors disappeared, he was the only one left until the end of the war…”

“So, you drank with him, too,” Cryer interjected, stepping closer before she could finish her sentence.

“Uh…? I did drink… but aren’t you too close?”

“What exactly happened?”

It was a thing of the past—or rather, something that hadn’t happened yet, something that would never happen because he would always be by her side. Still, he couldn’t help feeling irritated, imagining grabbing the throat of this unknown guy and erasing any memory of Olivia acting like this.

“No, I’m saying it’s too close. Too close… way too close…”

“Olivia.”

The low, guttural call of her name, rising from the depths of his chest, sent shivers down the fine hairs on her skin. She should have stepped back then. She should have let go of his arm. She should have pushed him away… but she didn’t.

“Huu…”

Even as her breath, slightly escaping between her full, red lips, mingled with the alcohol-tinged air, Olivia neither backed away nor pushed him off.

Then, in an instant, the space between them seemed ready to explode.

Olivia’s thread of reason had long been frayed by the alcohol, and Cryer’s patience was just as thin. They were holding onto the barely-there threads of their own restraint, staring at each other.

Amid the dark red sunset, blue petals fluttered in the air. Falling? Blooming? Olivia blinked, and when she opened her eyes, Cryer’s nose brushed hers, their breaths mingling.

The sweet scent—was it from the honeyed whiskey she had drunk, or from her soft, red lips?

“Haah.”

Olivia exhaled, heated from the alcohol, and Cryer, without thinking, drew in her breath as if consuming it.

“Ha… huu!”

Her breath was as intoxicatingly sweet as it was dangerous.

The deep inhalation coiled around his body, stirring the desire that had been lurking just beneath his skin. Cryer seemed to devour her breath, as if no amount could ever satisfy him—like a traveler who hasn’t had a drop of water in days discovering an oasis and greedily drinking every last drop.

As he explored her with bold abandon, Olivia’s head tilted back, and Cryer’s large hand pulled her closer.

Olivia was lost—completely lost. Even before their lips met, her mind had been half-distracted. Now it felt entirely molten.

Her breath was shallow; his lips were burning like molten lava, yet her limbs were limp.

As Cryer’s arm tightened around her swaying waist, blue veins stood out.

What was this feeling? An indescribable fullness, a gnawing hunger at the same time.

“Ugh… ha… haah. Haah.”

When Cryer finally parted his lips, Olivia seized the chance to inhale deeply, her rounded shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths. Cryer’s Adam’s apple moved with a low hum, never breaking eye contact.

Tears glistened in her heated eyes, threatening to fall. Cryer pressed his lips to the clear drops, sending a more intense warmth through her already flushed face.

Olivia instinctively tried to push him away, but their eyes met—his dark red pupils containing only her.

The next moment, the surge of his desire washed over her, and Olivia shut her eyes tightly. Yet the tidal wave of craving quickly returned, greedily consuming her breath again.

Her chapped lips, dampened by tears, should have cooled, but even a single drop could not satisfy him. His intoxicating scent and the whiskey mingled, spinning Olivia’s head.

From top to bottom, then back up. Her whole body trembled, like a carriage careening down a rugged mountain path, until a sharp thrill shot through her hands and feet.

Without thinking, Olivia curled her toes and opened her mouth to catch her lacking breath. Naturally, Cryer did not miss the opportunity.

Delving greedily inside, he stirred her completely. Olivia, her expression melting, could not hide it, and he whispered:

“Olivia.”

The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end, and her slackened waist tensed.

Cryer ran a hand softly down her back and called her again:

“Olivia.”

Once, again, and again. Low, husky tones, repeating her name as if engraving it permanently.

Enchanted, Olivia called him in return:

“Cryer.”

“Say it a little more.”

“Cryer.”

If her name escaping her lips with a sweet breath was a mark, she would gladly carve it into her heart.

Cryer looked into her blurry blue eyes and slowly claimed her lips.

“If we stay here like this—”

He closed his mouth, but the unspoken words were clear. Olivia felt the same.

If they stayed together a moment longer, they might let everything go. Olivia took a steadying breath and, almost like clinging to a lifeline, forced herself to push his shoulder away.

Cryer’s eyes, ablaze with a consuming desire, studied her intently, but Olivia neither pushed nor pulled anymore.

Finally, he lightly brushed her cheek and turned away.

• Click.

The door slammed louder than usual. Startled, Olivia flinched, then buried her face in her hands.

Left alone, her body burned from neck to head in an instant. She exhaled hot breaths and muttered to herself, unheard by anyone:

“I’m crazy. Completely crazy.”

Her sigh carried not only the alcohol she drank but also the lingering scent of Cryer.

Sugar drew in a deep breath and exhaled repeatedly.

Still, the tightness in her chest did not ease.

“I can’t just waste time like this either,” she scolded herself, though her face remained shadowed.

It had been a long time since the man she did not want to call “brother” had disappeared from her life. Objectively, it might not have been that long, but for Sugar, every day, every hour, every second, felt unbearably long.

No one in this place—not the servants, not the passersby—gave her any sign of noticing her unease.

Yet Sugar felt scrutinized.

She hadn’t chosen to stay here, yet this was the palace of a princess. Anxiety made her pace in circles, letting out childlike sighs. If the princess had given her orders—“do this” or “go there”—she would have obeyed immediately.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Sugar instinctively traced the mark on her ribs.

What exactly should she do from here?

Now, she finally understood what the mark meant, what kind of life she was living, and why her late parents had raised her this way.

She even discovered truths about her family she hadn’t wanted to know…

“Haah.”

She let out a heavy, unchildlike sigh, furrowing her brow, struggling with the question she had pondered for days without a clear answer.

Though still young and constrained by hiding from the Old God, she instinctively knew one thing:

“I have to make a decision.”

In her short life, a turning point this significant would never come again if not now.