Consciousness returned slowly, like floating up through warm honey.
Consciousness returned slowly, like floating up through warm honey.
The first thing I noticed wasn't pain – which was weird, considering I'd died with a knife sticking out of my ribs. Instead, it was softness. Incredible, impossible softness beneath , around , everywhere. Silk sheets that felt like liquid moonlight against my skin, pillows so perfect they might have been crafted by angels.
I opened my eyes to sunlight streaming through tall windows draped in rich velvet curtains.
The room around was enormous, easily three tis the size of our entire apartnt back ho. Modern luxury blended seamlessly with classical elegance – smart glass windows that adjusted their tint automatically, crystal chandeliers with LED lights that cast rainbow patterns on marble floors, furniture that looked like it belonged in a billionaire's penthouse.
But it was the mirror across the room that made freeze.
The person staring back at wasn't Marcus Bellweather. This was... this was what angels probably looked like if they decided to incarnate as teenage boys. My face had that perfect symtry you only see in magazine models, but softer, more ethereal. Platinum blonde hair that seed to shimr with its own light, falling in waves that would make shampoo comrcials weep with envy. My skin was flawless porcelain, with a subtle luminescence that made look like I was lit from within.
But it was my eyes that were really stunning – large, expressive, and the most unusual violet color I'd ever seen. They were the kind of eyes that poets wrote sonnets about, frad by long lashes that were almost criminally beautiful.
I looked like soone's wet dream co to life. The kind of beauty that was almost feminine but undeniably male, delicate but not weak. I was gorgeous in a way that would make people stop and stare, the kind of face that launched a thousand fantasies.
"Master Marcus?" A soft voice made spin around.
A young woman stood in the doorway, and my teenage brain imdiately went into overdrive. She was like sothing straight out of my most embarrassing late-night fantasies – curves in all the right places, glossy black hair pulled back to show off a graceful neck, and wearing a maid outfit that was sohow both modest and incredibly sexy. The way the fabric hugged her figure, the way she moved with that confident grace...
This was literally a wet dream scenario. Hot maid, beautiful mansion, apparently being so kind of prince. My old life felt like a nightmare I'd finally woken up from.
"You're awake," she said, stepping into the room with movents that made my mouth go dry. "Her Grace will be so relieved. She's been worried sick about you."
"Her Grace?" I managed to croak out.
"Your mother, of course. Duchess Selena." She moved to a wardrobe and began pulling out clothes that looked like they cost more than my old house. "She's been at your bedside for three days, waiting for you to wake from your fever. Shall I help you dress? The family is eager to see you."
I hesitated, my face heating up. Part of – okay, most of – desperately wanted her help. But so lingering embarrassnt from my old life made stamr;
"I can... I can dress myself."
She tilted her head with an amused smile that made my heart skip. "Master Marcus, you've been unconscious for days. You shouldn't strain yourself." She stepped closer, close enough that I caught her scent – sothing like vanilla and roses that made my head spin. "It's my duty to take care of you. Please, let help."
The way she said it, so gentle but insistent, made resistance crumble. This was happening. This was actually happening.
"I... okay," I whispered.
Her smile brightened, and she approached with clothes that were sohow both masculine and elegant, rich fabrics that would have cost a fortune back ho. As she began helping , her fingers gentle and sure, I realized one thing with crystal clarity:
Whatever was happening, wherever I was, this wasn't just a different world.
This was paradise.
And I was apparently the most beautiful thing in it.
The maid's hands were gentle but efficient as she helped out of the silk nightgown I'd been wearing. I should have been embarrassed – hell, I should have been mortified – but there was sothing so natural about the way she moved, so professional, that it felt almost normal.
Until I caught sight of myself in the mirror again.
Holy shit.
If my face was angelic, my body was... well, it was like soone had taken every teenage fantasy about being ripped and turned it into reality. Lean muscle definition that looked sculpted rather than bulky, abs that belonged on a fitness magazine cover, and between my legs...
"Jesus Christ," I breathed, staring down at myself in shock.
My cock was huge. Not just big—huge. Thick and long even completely soft, the kind of size that would make porn stars jealous. I'd gone from completely average to absolutely massive, and I couldn't stop staring.
The maid didn't even blink at my appearance, moving with practiced efficiency like she'd done this countless tis before. But I caught the subtle gulp she tried to hide, the way her eyes lingered for just a fraction of a second longer than purely professional. Even for soone who was apparently used to seeing naked, it still had an effect.
"The blue silk brings out your eyes, Master Marcus," she said conversationally, though there was a slight huskiness in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Her Grace specifically requested it for breakfast."
I was still processing the fact that apparently I'd been upgraded in every possible way when she began helping into the clothes. The way she moved around was graceful and fluid, her uniform doing nothing to hide her incredible figure—full curves that swayed hypnotically as she walked, a narrow waist that emphasized her generous hips and chest. I found myself watching every step, every gesture, completely srized.
God, she was beautiful. The way her hair caught the light, how the fabric of her uniform stretched across her curves as she reached for different pieces of clothing. I couldn't help but stare as she bent to pick up my shoes, the way her body moved making my mouth go dry.
When she reached up to adjust my collar, suddenly she was right there, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Her soft curves pressed briefly against my chest as she worked, and my heart started hamring so hard I was sure she could hear it. This was more female attention than I'd gotten in my entire previous life, and my teenage brain was going haywire. The brief contact when her hands brushed my shoulders, the way her body felt against mine even through our clothes, sent electricity through that I tried desperately to hide.
Stay cool, Marcus, I told myself. You're supposed to be used to this.
But I wasn't used to this. I'd never been used to anything like this.
The clothes fit perfectly, tailored to my new body like they'd been made for specifically. The fabric felt incredible against my skin, and when I caught my reflection, I looked like I'd stepped out of so high-end fashion shoot.
"There," she said with satisfaction, stepping back to admire her work. "Perfect as always. Shall we go? The family is waiting."
Perfect as always. That phrase stuck with as she led out. How many tis had she done this? How many mornings had she dressed while I remained completely oblivious to how good I apparently had it?
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