CHAPTER 34: CHAPTER 34: IT WAS HER

Aiden roamed around the kitchen, his hands restless, his eyes sharp with a predator’s desperation. He opened drawers, cupboards, his steps careful yet hurried, searching for something, anything sharp.

The faint smell of roasted herbs and fresh bread lingered in the air, clinging to him, suffocating in its domestic calm when his blood was anything but calm.

His breath came uneven. He needed a weapon—not too large, not too clumsy. Something easy to hide, quick to draw, lethal if aimed at the right place. His fingers brushed over spoons, ladles, iron pots still warm from the fire, but he rejected them all with silent contempt.

Finally, his hand found it. A small blade used by cooks to dice onions and carve meat. Sharp as always. The butlers and kitchen maids kept their tools cleaner and deadlier than any soldier’s weapon. He tested the edge against his thumb, a bead of red almost surfacing before he stopped.

"This will do."

He tucked it behind him, held in place by the tight waistband of his pants. The cold kiss of steel against his back was both terrifying and comforting.

His shoulder still ached, a dull throb left by Amber’s desperate grip, her nails digging deep into his flesh earlier that. She had healed him, yes— not his wounds but his vigor, enough to keep him standing, enough to charge him with raw energy.

But he had been reckless, greedy. He should have let her finish her work, let her fully mend him instead of rushing away. Now the pain was a reminder, a punishment for his haste.

Yet her scent still lingered on him, a ghost clinging to his skin, sweet and sharp all at once. He inhaled unconsciously, and for a brief second the storm inside him calmed. The memory of her warmth steadied his breath, drew his heart back into rhythm.

But then another image struck him—Gail.

The memory of the severed head flashed before his eyes like a nightmare painted in blood. Aiden’s hand instinctively touched his own neck, fingers gliding over skin still intact, still warm with life. He swallowed hard.

"Was it... the Lord?" he thought. The question echoed like a tolling bell in his skull. It made no sense. The Lord had only just arrived; what reason would he have to do that? To sent a peasant some message.

Gerald? Aiden dismissed the thought just as quickly, though paranoia still gnawed at him. Gerald knew too much, far too much. Sometimes Aiden suspected the man understood him better than he understood himself. That alone made him dangerous.

The truth, however, was worse: he didn’t know. And in that ignorance, every shadow in the mansion felt hostile.

Most of the servants, most of the butlers—they were charmed, their wills bent. That much Aiden had ensured. But not the guards. Not the knights of the Leonidus Legion. They were disciplined, loyal beyond corruption. They were the next obstacle, but not tonight. Tonight demanded something else.

The clock ticked past 10:55.

Aiden slipped through a quiet quarter of the mansion, the northern wing where silence reigned and no footsteps echoed but his own.

The walls breathed faint light—candles flickering in their holders, the flame trembling whenever he passed. His boots struck the polished floor in slow rhythm, each step amplifying his thoughts.

The air grew cooler the deeper he went, shadows heavier, as though this corner of the estate wished to be forgotten.

His thoughts swirled violently, fragments of suspicions colliding like shards of glass. Faces. Voices. Motives. Somewhere in that chaos, clarity flickered. A pattern. A connection. And then it clicked. Not certainty, no—but enough to stop him cold mid-step.

"I think... I know who it is," he breathed silently to himself.

If he was right, then everything changed. If he was wrong, he would lose his head before sunrise anyway. A coin toss of death and death.

His pace quickened, no longer hesitant but sharpened with grim resolve. His heart thudded, each beat louder than the last, as if his own body were counting down the seconds.

He stopped at the door.

Breath in. Breath out. Chest rising, falling. The old rhythm of battle nerves. Anxiety curled inside him, not paralyzing but sharpening, forcing his mind into focus. He had always been at his best when uncertainty loomed like a blade at his throat.

Knock. Knock.

The sound reverberated too loudly against the wood, his knuckles betraying more force than intended.

The door creaked open—not from the other side, but from his own touch.

"...unlocked," he thought grimly, "for me?"

He pushed gently. The hinges whispered in response, smooth and feather-light, maintained to perfection by butlers who treated every door like a holy relic.

The room unfolded before him—and his blood froze.

"The Lord...?"

There, at the center of the chamber, lay the figure he feared most. The Viscount himself.

Aiden’s heart pounded like war drums, slamming against his ribs. His first thought was death. Caught, exposed. His sins laid bare. The Lord would cut him down without hesitation—for his betrayal, for his audacity, for the unspeakable crime of touching his daughter.

But then... he saw it.

The man was asleep.

Sprawled across the bed, half-covered by sheets, chest rising and falling in deep slumber. Not watchful. Not enraged. Unaware.

Relief washed over Aiden for only an instant before suspicion returned stronger than ever. The scent of the room told him more than his eyes could. Musk. Wine. Sweat. Familiar notes of indulgence.

Not the lord’s.

His gaze flicked toward the balcony.

And there she was.

Moonlight carved her into sculpture—her half-clothed figure gleaming like silver, every curve sharpened by shadow and glow. She sat with effortless poise in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, glass of wine balanced in her hand. Her hair spilled golden down to her hips, catching the moonlight as if strands of sun had been trapped within.

Lady Catherine.

The Lioness.

Aiden’s suspicion was truth.

The clock struck 11:00.

"So... you came."

Her voice was silk stretched over steel, soft yet unyielding. She didn’t look at him at first, her gaze fixed on the vast expanse of their fiefdom beyond the balcony, as if she ruled not just the mansion but the stars themselves. Only after checking the clock beside her did she turn, lips curling.

"Perfectly on time, as well."

Her bare foot nudged the empty chair before her. A subtle command, no less dangerous for its quietness.

"Come."

Aiden didn’t move at first. Words caught in his throat, his instincts warning that even breathing too loud could cost him. She was a lioness, and he was in her den. A dragon, and he but a mortal boy.

Still, he obeyed. He glanced once at the Lord—still asleep, still vulnerable—then stepped forward until Catherine’s presence swallowed him whole.

Her beauty was sharper than any blade. Earlier in the evening she had been dressed in gowns befitting her station; now, she wore only a man’s unbuttoned shirt, too large, its fabric sliding from her shoulders to reveal bare skin, flushed and glistening.

Her thighs gleamed in moonlight, stockings straining to contain their fullness. A shadow of sweat marked her collarbone, proof of exertion.

Her eyes, though—her eyes were the weapon. Blue and piercing, they devoured him. Predator’s eyes.

Aiden silently thanked the gods for Amber’s earlier embrace. Had he come here without that grounding, his desire might have betrayed him before his caution could speak.

A shimmer of text flickered before his vision.

[Catherine M. Leonidus]

Status: ————

Bloodline: Dragon Half-Blood (Mid-High Tier)

Mana: High

Grade: S+ Class

Personality: Unsatisfied / Angry / Suspicious

Skills: Dragon (High Tier), Myth Aura (High Tier), Blood Control (Ascendant Tier)

Beauty: Very Thick and Voluptuous (Extremely High Tier)

Talent: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

[High amount of Ember detected.]

---

"Sit."

Her tone cracked like a whip.

Aiden bowed before obeying, lowering his head not just out of formality but survival.

"...I greet the Viscountess," he said softly before taking the chair opposite her.

He reached into his coat, pulling free the folded paper—the invitation that had gnawed at his nerves all evening. He placed it deliberately on the table beside him, not sliding it across, not pushing, simply leaving it there like an offering at an altar.

"...I will put the invitation here," he murmured, his voice balancing between confidence and trembling restraint.

The lady’s lips curved. Not warmth—no, this was a smirk, a crack in the mask of her anger.

"Aiden... a small laundry boy, taken from the streets by Gerald. Raised to a servant, polished into a butler." Her words rolled slow, deliberate, as though she were recounting not his past but his crimes.

Aiden bowed his head slightly. Silence was safer. A bit ladeled with slight anger from her soft insult.

"At first," she continued, swirling the wine in her glass, "I thought Gerald had brought me baggage. A boy who did little but fold clothes, scrub stains, and steal books from the library, reading alone in your quarters."

Aiden winced inwardly. The truth of her words cut deeper than insult. His golden eyes flicked downward, a bit of rage painted across his features.

"...And then... my daughter."

The words slammed into him like a hammer. His breath caught, lungs refusing to expand. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs, every nerve screaming.

"My daughter, who was stressed, lonely, drawn to you despite your laziness. She took you in. At first, perhaps she forced your hand... but eventually..."

Her voice sharpened.

"You fucked her. Enjoyed her."

The last two words dripped like venom.

Sweat gathered at Aiden’s temple, sliding slowly down his cheek. His every instinct screamed to run from her sudden rage, to leap from the balcony and vanish into the night. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not here.

It was just her aura, forcing him to feel that way, how all nobels use it to tame their people and servants.

’Control yourself .....you are not here to cower in fear.....Think, Aiden. Think.’

There was always a way. There had to be.

His pulse roared, his palms damp against the armrests. Catherine’s aura pinned him like prey beneath a hawk’s shadow.

And in that silence, the only sound was the clock’s steady ticking. Each second dragging him closer to either salvation... or execution.