[Location: Morningstar Manor, New York]
Grayfia entered my room, with in tow, head down with sha.
No, not sha from a battlefield defeat. Not sha from losing to a rival. Not even sha from being toyed with by one of my yandere wives-to-be.
No, it was worse.
Grayfia had caught almost collapsing from a damn training routine.
That... That was my reality now.
My pride as a Morningstar was bleeding out sowhere in the carpet fibres of my absurdly luxurious bedroom.
The mont we stepped inside, Grayfia snapped her fingers and the gothic chandelier above us flickered to life, bathing the room in silvery luminescence. The polished blackwood floor glead. Crimson drapes shifted slightly despite no open windows. The entire chamber looked more fit for an immortal emperor than... well... a guy who had just nearly broken his back touching his toes.
I groaned and slumped into the nearest velvet-cushioned armchair like a sack of spoiled potatoes.
Grayfia didn’t say anything imdiately. She stood there, her tall, elegant figure frad by the glow, silver hair cascading like frozen moonlight. Her crimson eyes were calm — too calm — the kind of calm that told she was internally deciding whether to scold like a child or strip down and tuck into bed.
Neither option sounded particularly rciful.
"Master Dominic," she finally said, voice low, smooth, and deliberate. "You have only just awakened from your millennia of stasis. Pushing your body recklessly is... unwise."
I dragged a hand down my face. "Unwise is one word for it. Catastrophic ego death is another."
Her lips twitched. A flicker. Was that almost—almost—a smile? Or maybe I was hallucinating.
"You should have called for ." She stepped closer, her heels silent against the floor. "I would have assisted in your rehabilitation."
"Yeah," I muttered, "nothing says ’independent prince’ like needing my maid to help stretch my hamstrings."
She stopped right before , leaning ever so slightly forward, her perfu — a cold, crisp scent like snow over steel — filling my senses.
"You are my prince," Grayfia said softly, as if that justified everything. "Your pride ans nothing if your body shatters."
My chest tightened despite myself. Damn her. She knew how to slip the knife in just right — with loyalty so absolute it hurt worse than mockery.
"...Fine," I exhaled, slumping deeper into the chair. "Do what you want. Clearly I’m useless on my own."
Her eyes glimred faintly. "Then, I shall."
Before I could protest, she gestured, and with a whisper of demonic magic the armchair elongated, reshaping itself into a padded recliner. She snapped again, and an assortnt of oils and salves materialized on a tray beside us, each bottle etched with sigils that shimred faintly.
Oh. Oh no.
"You can’t be serious," I said quickly, sitting up straighter. "Grayfia. Tell you’re not planning—"
Her hands were already on my shoulders, firm but cool to the touch. "You are tense, Master. The strain of your... valiant training has left you knotted. A massage will help restore circulation and accelerate healing."
I stared at her. She stared back, completely unflinching, as if the most natural course of action in the world was to knead her prince into submission.
"...This is entrapnt," I whispered.
Her thumbs pressed into the base of my neck, and a shiver jolted down my spine. "Breathe, Master."
Oh, hell.
...
Ten Minutes Later
I wanted to say I resisted. That I fought valiantly against the indignity of being pampered like so fragile porcelain doll.
But...
"Ooooh god," I groaned, eyes half-lidded as Grayfia’s fingers worked like enchanted steel into my shoulder blades. "Okay. Okay. I take it back. Never stop. I’ll sign whatever cult contract you want."
She tilted her head, expression serene as always, but there was a glimr of satisfaction in her gaze. "You were trembling earlier. Your muscles are far weaker than you realise."
"You’re weaker than I realise," I mumbled into the chair, words slurring from bliss.
"...That makes no sense."
"Neither does how good this feels."
The scent of her cooling oils filled the air, mixed with sothing faintly floral. Her touch was precise — too precise — not just a maid, not just a warrior, but soone who had morised every joint, every scar, every flaw of my body over a thousand years of vigil.
Every press of her fingers wasn’t just chanical. It was personal.
And that realisation was sohow more terrifying than any demon scout or looming Satan daughter.
"Grayfia, I might marry you at this rate," I blabbled out as grunts filled the room, my voice halfway between delirium and moans.
Her hands didn’t stop. Not for a second. Her fingers dug deep into the layers of tension running down my back like they were peeling apart the sins of my past life.
"I would not object," she said calmly.
...
I froze.
Not because she stopped the massage—no, hell no, she was still pressing just the right spot along my spine—but because she had just casually dropped that.
I twisted my head slightly, one eye peeking back at her. "Excuse , what?"
Grayfia’s expression didn’t waver. Calm. Serene. Eternal winter incarnate. "If it pleases you, I would not object to marriage."
I blinked. My brain short-circuited. A thousand sarcastic cobacks lined up, but none made it past my lips.
Instead, all I managed was: "You—you can’t just say that while you’re elbow-deep in my vertebrae, woman."
"I fail to see why not."
Her tone was flat. Neutral. But her eyes... oh, those eyes glimred faintly, like ruby embers caught under a sheen of frost.
"Or are you backing out, my prince~"
Grayfia’s words were soft, but the undertone... oh no. That undertone was lethal.
The kind of tone that could turn into an execution order if I so much as breathed wrong.
And there I was—face mashed into a pillow, half-drunk on endorphins, while my demonic maid basically proposed marriage mid-massage.
System? Hello? Any chance of an ergency teleport option? A fake phone call? A lightning strike?
Nothing. Of course. Traitor.
I cleared my throat. Or at least tried to—what ca out sounded more like a dying toad. "Grayfia, I, uh... I appreciate the enthusiasm but—"
Her hands pressed down harder along my spine. Not painful. Not threatening. Just... controlling. Reminding.
"You are hesitating."
"I’m not hesitating. I’m... clarifying." My voice cracked like a pubescent bard. Perfect. Just what I needed. "Marriage proposals usually co with, I don’t know, rings? Flowers? Dramatic confessions under a blood moon? Not—" I groaned as her fingers found a knot in my lower back and reduced to mush. "—not with deep-tissue spinal corrections."
Her voice was even, smooth as flowing ice. "If my lord prefers the blood moon, I can arrange that too~"
I give up.
"Co. Here."
My voice oozed with sothing between command and desperation. A weird cocktail of princely authority, raw exhaustion, and the kind of lust for survival only a man pinned between a sadistic System and a possibly-yandere maid could feel.
Grayfia did not hesitate. She leaned closer, her hands pressing down one final ti on my back before she glided around the recliner. Her silver hair swept across my vision like a curtain of moonlight, her crimson eyes locking onto mine.
Too close. Way, way too close.
Her face hovered inches above , unreadable. Her scent—sharp, clean, cold like fresh snow—seeped into my senses, suffocating .
"...Master?" she whispered, tone deceptively soft.
My throat went dry. The word I had wanted to throw at her—so witty retort, so sarcastic deflection—died before it even reached my tongue. Instead, all I managed was:
"You... are terrifying."
Her brows arched ever so slightly. Then, to my horror, she leaned even closer, until her lips were nearly brushing my ear.
"That is acceptable."
...Oh, fantastic. Not only did I have seven psychotic wives-to-be waiting in the wings, now my maid had just unofficially volunteered herself as candidate number eight—no it’s nine, if I count my own mother.
"If you don’t act professionally, I’m warning you, I will kiss you stupid."
The words slipped out before I could throttle them back into my throat.
And as soon as they did, silence fell.
Heavy silence.
The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you just signed a peace treaty or a death warrant.
Grayfia didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Her crimson eyes burned into mine, steady as a blade pressed against my jugular.
"Then you would be the unprofessional one," she murmured, lips brushing dangerously close to my ear.
...Well. Touché.
I opened my mouth to retort, but nothing ca out. My pride and my tongue had officially filed for divorce. My brain decided to skip straight past words and instead offered a few choice survival instincts:
1. Faint dramatically.
2. Run away and hope she respected cardio.
3. Pretend to be asleep.
None of which were particularly dignified for a Morningstar prince.
"Y-You’re impossible," I muttered finally, retreating into sarcasm as my last line of defence. "Do you have a manual for this? ’How to Undress Your Master’s Soul While Giving Him a Back Massage’?"
Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile. A promise. "I wrote the manual."
My heart did an uncomfortable sorsault. Great. Wonderful. Kill now.
But who am I kidding? I want to kiss this bewitching nace of a maid.
Except, you know, nope. Bad idea. Catastrophic idea. If I leaned in right now, she’d probably file it away under "Mission Complete" and then casually shackle my soul to her for eternity.
"Master," she said again, softer now. Not whispering. Not commanding. Just... saying it. The word rolled through the room like smoke, wrapping around my throat.
My heart thudded once, twice. My brain scread at to deflect. To joke. To summon a damn distraction.
So I did the only thing a sane Morningstar could.
I sneezed.
"Ah-CHOO!"
The timing was divine. Her silver hair whipped back an inch, her crimson eyes narrowing with all the frozen displeasure of an ice goddess denied her offering.
"Really," she said flatly.
"Hey," I sniffled, waving a lazy hand. "Not my fault. You’re intoxicating. My immune system panicked."
The silence that followed could have been carved into a tombstone. But—miracle of miracles—she stepped back. Just a fraction. Just enough for to breathe again.
"Rest," Grayfia said, voice neutral once more, though I swore I saw the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips. "Your body is not yet prepared for extended strain."
"Neither is my heart," I muttered under my breath.
Her eyes flicked to . Caught. Again. Damn it.
"Sleep," she repeated. This ti, it was an order. Then she glided to the door, her silhouette frad by the silver glow of the chandelier. "I shall return later to check on you."
And with that, she was gone.
Leaving slumped in the recliner, slling like a snowstorm, with my spine feeling like it had been rebuilt by an ancient chiropractor goddess.
***
Stone , I can take it!
Goal: 100 Power Stones for an EXTRA Chapter tomorrow.
Reviews
All reviews (0)