I wanted to bury myself alive.
Truly—dig a hole with my bare hands, crawl into it, and cover myself with dirt until the world forgot I ever existed.
Because when I opened my eyes that morning... I found myself curled up in Cassel’s arms like a helpless infant.
My face was pressed against his chest, his scent woven into every breath I took, and his arms were wrapped around so securely it felt as if he had sworn to protect in his sleep.
I nearly stopped breathing from the sheer humiliation.
My brain short-circuited. My body froze. And my dignity? It evaporated into the air like smoke.
I couldn’t even look at the others in the car. My burning face stayed buried against Cassel’s shirt, my hands shaking as I tried to process what in God’s na was happening.
I knew—I knew—we were supposed to head out on a long-term mission this morning. A serious one.
One that required preparation, alertness, and responsibility.
Instead, I had spent the entire night tossing and turning in Cassel’s bed, unable to sleep because of... well, him.
And all his shaless warmth. All his infuriating closeness.
Every ti I drifted off, he sohow got closer, or I did, or both of us ended up tangled together without aning to.
I barely slept until dawn.
So, of course, I couldn’t wake up in the morning.
I vaguely rembered hands lifting , soone dressing , soone carrying , soone whispering in my ear... but in my half-asleep mind, I had assud it was the maids.
Never—not even in my wildest imagination—did I think Cassel would have the audacity to scoop up into his arms, hold against him, and let continue sleeping on his lap the entire ride.
My dignity... gone. Completely, utterly gone.
And then—because fate has a twisted sense of humor—the mont my eyelashes fluttered the tiniest bit, Cassel noticed.
He always noticed.
"Awake?"
His voice slid into my ears as velvet dipped in heat.
I wanted to die.
Right there.
In his arms.
Die and resurrect after at least two hundred years had passed.
Of course, he noticed I was awake—my eyelashes had been trembling nonstop. My breath caught every ti I tried to pretend I was still asleep.
And I’d been wiggling around like a guilty idiot, thinking I was being subtle.
But Cassel’s arms were strong.
His body was solid.
Every movent I made was probably as loud as a scream against his chest.
Dear.
God.
This was officially the most embarrassing mont of my entire life.
"If you’re awake," Cassel murmured, a deep warmth vibrating through his chest, "then get up and eat sothing."
And even worse—he chuckled. A low, warm, maddening chuckle that made want to punch him straight into the next century.
He was DEFINITELY laughing at .
I wanted to hit him. I wanted to yell. I wanted to lt into liquid embarrassnt and slide into the floorboards.
But all I could manage was sitting still like a stunned doll, eyes barely open, face burning red enough to boil water.
"Put down," I whispered, my voice so tiny and pathetic it made my soul crumble.
For once, Cassel didn’t tease. He didn’t tighten his hold, didn’t whisper sothing embarrassing, didn’t make the mont any worse.
He lowered onto the seat beside him—gently, carefully, as if I were made of glass.
And when I finally dared to look up, still half-hiding behind my hair, I spotted food—already prepared, already opened, placed within reach.
Milk. Bread. Sothing warm in a sealed container.
Cassel held the items in his hands and extended them toward .
"Here. Eat a little," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You must be hungry."
"...Thank you."
Fine. Since he rembered to feed , like an attentive... sothing, I would forgive his overly familiar behavior last night.
For now.
I quietly ate after replying to the cheerful morning greetings from the others.
Henry, however, looked at as if I had stabbed his pride, burned his wallet, and kicked his dog all at once. The expression on his face scread: You owe . You owe several lifetis.
I chose to ignore him completely.
My mood improved once I’d eaten. Food always made happier. I even smiled—genuinely smiled—in relief.
But the smile didn’t last.
Because the mont our car approached the massive outer gate of the base, a deep, instinctive irritation settled into my chest like a storm cloud.
"What the hell are these people doing here?"
The words slipped out before I could swallow them back.
Just as the vehicle slowed to a stop, the full scene unfolded before :
A massive iron gate towers overhead.
Crowds of people swarming everywhere—so in patched-up armor, others in mismatched clothes that looked like they had survived a thousand battles.
n and won with strange abilities crackling faintly around their hands.
Rough, chaotic, loud energy fills the air like static.
Dust swirling, boots stomping, voices shouting.
A dangerous, unstable mixture of personalities and powers.
And then—
Standing at the very center of the chaos, as the world revolved around them and everyone else was just scenery—
The two people I despise seeing the most.
The original heroes of this world.
Mary.
And Cecil.
My stomach dropped.
Mary—of course—was dressed in white.
White.
In this filthy, smoky, dust-choked world, even breathing made your clothes dirty.
Yet hers were spotless.
Her entire being glowed with pristine protagonist energy. Her hair was smooth, her skin seed to emit light, and her expression carried that gentle innocence that fooled everyone but .
Scientifically impossible.
Annoyingly unfair.
Cecil stood beside her, wearing luxurious clothes as if the apocalypse had been tailored specifically to accommodate his fashion sense.
His chin lifted high, as if he were the king, and everyone else was a peasant, granted the privilege of breathing the sa air as him.
He radiated arrogance so thick I could practically taste it.
And judging by the number of vehicles and people gathered around them—
A horrifying thought struck .
No.
No, no, no, no—
NO.
Don’t tell these people...
these protagonists...
these walking disasters...
They are coming with us.
Do not tell I have to spend the entire mission near them.
Do not tell I cannot escape them.
Ever.
Not in this world.
Not in any world.
Not even in death.
Do I really have to keep guarding Cassel from them all the ti?
Keep thinking about them?
Keep fearing what their plot armor could do?
Why?
Why are they here?
Why do they have to co with us?
My chest tightened painfully. My thoughts darkened.
A wave of rejection, dread, disgust, fear, and anxious hatred crashed over all at once, suffocating.
I hated them.
Not because they were heroes.
Not because they were powerful.
Not because they stood out.
But because they were dangerous to Cassel.
Because they were the reason, in the original story, that Cassel—the person I loved—had been destroyed, ruined, and used until he had nothing left.
My breath shook.
My fingers curled.
My heart throbbed painfully, violently—
"Rosalia. Rosalia."
A voice called back—warm, familiar, grounding.
And then an embrace enveloped .
Not forceful.
Just enough to remind I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t powerless.
I looked up.
Cassel’s gaze t mine—intense, burning, protective.
His eyes searched my face with a depth that made the world fade into silence.
As if he saw everything I was thinking.
Everything I feared.
Everything that threatened to crush from the inside.
His deep, gravelly voice slid through the tension like thunder wrapped in velvet.
"Rosalia... don’t be scared."
His thumb brushed the corner of my eye—slow, gentle, deliberate.
And then he leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.
"Your lover isn’t soone who can be bullied easily."
His tone shifted—still calm, but carrying a storm beneath it. Rage. Confidence. A warning.
"Did you forget," he murmured, eyes glinting with dangerous certainty, "how strong I am?"
No.
I hadn’t forgotten.
How could I?
I lowered my eyes, mories flooding in—mories of all the battles he’d won, all the enemies he’d crushed, all the tis he stood between and danger.
The Cassel before was not the dood villain from the original novel—the tragic, manipulated puppet who t a miserable end.
No.
This Cassel was stronger.
Sharper.
More ruthless.
More alive.
He hadn’t fallen for Mary.
He hadn’t bowed to his father or brother.
He didn’t let anyone push him around.
He was rewriting destiny with his own hands.
And I...
I needed to trust him.
Not the story.
Not fate.
Not the world’s original script.
Him.
Yes.
I must trust him.
I will.
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