9. Warm Nightmare
2023.11.09
In an instant, the visages of the Count and Countess, exposed and shamed, turned bright red as if they had been strangled.
Eugene calmly scanned the surroundings and continued with a sharp rebuke.
“There must be a reason I chose Helena over you. Do not dare test my judgment. Unless you wish to be branded like cattle before your own dining table.”
“Your Grace!”
Christine, unable to stand it any longer, shouted in protest, but Eugene returned serenely to stand before Baron Count. Placing a hand on the count’s shoulder, he pressed down slightly and leaned forward.
“Do not trust my mother too blindly. If I may give you one piece of advice for your own sake: when you have little, you must also know how to yield appropriately to survive. Even in the field, it is always the unruly shoots that are first removed. Ah, of course, you must also know who the farmer is.”
In Instantia, there were only two men capable of comparing a mighty baron family to mere weeds: the King and the Duke of Evergale.
The King of Bohemia was generous by nature, but unfortunately, the man standing before the count was the Duke of Evergale—his mood exceedingly twisted.
“The negotiations for the mining rights scheduled in two days are canceled.”
“Y-Your Grace! I-I made a mistake—”
“Do I look like someone who would reconsider a decision due to a belated apology? With that gaze, how do you even intend to distinguish who the farmer is?”
At these words, the count’s face fell in utter despair.
Eugene withdrew his pressing hand and stepped back. The crowded corridor suddenly cleared with just that single step. He moved through it as if nothing had happened.
A tiny crescent moon hung in the dark midnight sky.
Though it was rather late, Eugene opened the door without hesitation. Immediately, a small figure leapt forward, as if waiting, and clung to him.
After a sigh-laden chuckle, Eugene lifted a hand to gently stroke Natasha’s back.
“You’re up late. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I think I knew you would come, Your Grace. Somehow, I couldn’t feel sleepy at all.”
Natasha lifted her face from Eugene’s chest to meet his eyes. Seeing him after a few days, she noticed his expression had grown somewhat harsher than the last time. She let her eyebrows droop.
“It upset me.”
“Did something happen?”
“Your Grace’s face… it looked troubled.”
Her smooth hand slowly traced up his chest, finally cupping his cheek.
The warmth of her touch and the scent of amber mingled with the quiet night, impossible to resist. Eventually, Eugene drew his hand from her back and relaxed his expression.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“How can I just let it go? I worry more than about my own body.”
“Really, you don’t need to. Just…”
Eugene’s words faltered. He had never seriously considered Helena’s antics, or her departures, as anything more than minor nuisances—like a sudden pimple that could be ignored. Helena’s presence, then and always, was to be treated as inconsequential. It must never inconvenience him; he had a life to live.
That was why he had sought out Natasha: to remind himself he needed to remain whole and fulfilled.
‘I’ll have to block it with a new fragment, somehow.’
While Eugene briefly wrestled with his thoughts, Natasha wriggled, pressing along the contours of her neckline. She began softly, hesitantly.
“I heard that Madam left because she wanted a divorce. Was there… some kind of conflict?”
Natasha’s words made Eugene’s face harden instantly.
“Who told you that?”
“I—I misspoke. Please forget it.”
“I asked who spread that nonsense.”
Natasha lowered her gaze, refusing to answer.
Gently, Eugene adjusted his hand on her back to hold her arm and quietly prompted her.
“Natasha.”
His tone softened, deliberately. Recognizing the effort, Natasha finally raised her eyes. Surprisingly, her expression remained calm. Though the slightest trace of intimidation lingered, it was not fear.
A clear voice came next.
“If I promise not to punish the maid for my mistake…”
Eugene blinked slowly, struck by a sense of déjà vu from a similar past situation—not a pleasant memory.
“You’re too timid, Natasha. A person shouldn’t be so… soft—”
⌜Madame Tara is my person. If you want to get rid of her, you’ll have to get rid of me first.⌟
The déjà vu finally resolved into the image of a woman: pale-faced yet defiant, eyes sharp as a blade. Madame Tara still guarded her room, while the one who owned it was gone.
To dispel the unwanted image, Eugene exhaled a deep sigh, finishing his interrupted thought.
Natasha, watching him quietly, tugged his shirt to get his attention.
“Will you promise, Your Grace?”
Her usually innocent eyes drooped even more. Eugene reluctantly nodded, tightening his grip on her arm to signal she must reveal who had spoken.
Fortunately, Natasha was not as stubborn as Helena.
“Aida did. Aida told me.”
Her compliance caused Eugene’s brow to furrow. Realizing the implication, Natasha smiled inwardly.
To cement the point, she whispered in a fragile voice:
“Lately, some of the jewelry the Duke gifted seemed to disappear… Even if the situation seemed pitiable, I shouldn’t have overlooked bad habits or careless behavior… It was my fault. Please forgive me, Your Grace.”
“Lift your head, Natasha. It’s not your fault.”
Eugene gently lifted her chin, revealing her true feelings more clearly. Aida would soon vanish from the estate; whether she could find another job was not his concern.
‘A talkative maid is safest to discard after use.’
As Eugene erased Aida from his mind, Natasha released the garment she had been holding.
‘Let him find me on his own.’
Her letting go surprised Eugene slightly. Satisfied, Natasha fully freed herself from his embrace.
“I’m sorry for keeping you too long, Your Grace. You should go now.”
She took a few steps back, bent her knees gracefully, and bowed.
“If you remember me again, please visit. I’ll always be here waiting for you.”
A shaft of sunlight tickled her nasal passage gently. The white lace curtains soaked it, carrying the languor of a weekend afternoon.
Helena blinked awake slowly, stretching her legs. As the clean sheets rustled, she felt a firm weight around her waist.
The sensation behind her was unmistakable—warm and inviting, mingled with the scent of the man she loved. She could even feel the subtle roughness of stubble along his neck from the night before. Helena chuckled quietly at the ticklishness.
“What time is it, Eugene?”
“I’ll chase Madame Tara away if she comes. Go back to sleep.”
He responded with a deep exhale, shifting his knee between her thighs.
The thin negligee allowed a strange, intimate friction. Helena twitched involuntarily. The red silk of his hair brushed past her, glowing in the morning sun.
Though waking together was usual for newlyweds, the sensation was still intoxicating. He made her tense and ache merely by touching her.
“Mm…”
Helena fidgeted to conceal her longing. The warmth disappeared as she braced herself. Just as the chill of the air crept in, his voice filled the space, making her shiver.
“Good morning.”
Eugene pressed his lips to her bare back, the vibration of his voice resonating against her skin.
“Eugene…!”
Unable to endure the sensation, Helena twisted. The room grew sultry instantly.
She tried to remove his large hand from her waist, but he held her wrist, pulling her closer.
“Stay still.”
Soft sounds of struggle mixed with the sensation of his lips moving up her spine—hot, damp, and affectionate.
The act, like branding her as his, overflowed with helpless love. Helena laughed involuntarily, overcome with joy.
The kisses ceased at her back, the embrace growing heavier. She breathed sharply.
“You’re heavy, Eugene.”
The pressure became nearly unbearable.
“Heavy?”
His voice turned ominously cold, the sweetness gone. His touch sent chills through her skin.
“If you cannot handle me, you shouldn’t have dared set foot in Evergale.”
The happy morning shattered.
Consumed alive.
Crushed.
Smothered.
Helena gasped for air, her voice barely emerging.
“Help me… help me, Eugene…!”
It was a nightmare.
“Did you hope I would love you even in a dream? Pathetic.”
Even reality itself was swallowed by the nightmare.
“No, no…”
He couldn’t understand.
“No!”
Helena finally gasped and opened her eyes.
Her chest heaved with her ragged breathing. She wiped cold sweat from her forehead, noticing she was in the inn on the way back to Preterita. The small room was unchanged from before she slept.
A half-open wardrobe, rough bedding, stained wallpaper, empty space.
Alone, as she had entered.
-Stay as you are.
‘It’s always just me.’
Despite tightly closed windows, the emptiness beside her felt cold. No one had ever sat there long, not even now.
Helena curled up, eyes closed, wishing…
For the dream, the nightmare…
‘Not to be lonely.’
She wished, even under the nightmare, to be held. Any warmth would do, even if false.
