Steam curled through the air as the dim candlelight flickered, casting a hazy glow.
Inside the tub, the man’s toned figure was half-hidden by rising mist. His features weren’t clear, but the outline of his face was strikingly refined—like it had been sculpted inch by inch. Loose black hair floated on the surface, sleek like spilled ink, shimmery with the water’s light.
Suddenly, a gust of wind whipped overhead. Before the man could react, a loud crash echoed as tiles from the glazed rooftop gave way, sending water splashing everywhere.
"Who's there?!"
Charging in with a sword drawn, Liam Night kicked the door open. More water splashed as his blade cut through the air.
Amelia Murphy rose from the tub, her eyes—like springtime rivers in March—locked with the man’s. His thin lips held a hint of purple, and a perfect red dot between his brows made him seem more otherworldly than human. Almost too beautiful to be real.
She froze. In all her years, she'd never seen a man this good-looking. Her hand, almost of its own will, reached toward his cheek in a daze.
"Swish, swish." The demon-banishing sword hummed with a crisp sound. Snapping out of it, Amelia blinked, her mind still foggy and confused about how she’d ended up here.
"A command. Return!"
She raised her right hand, and a streak of golden light drew through the air, the sword promptly returning to her grasp like a well-trained pet.
Her short hair clung wetly to her face, but her cool deer-like eyes never left his.
Melvyn Rudd didn’t flinch either. He just gave her a calm look and didn’t shy away from sharing the bath. His pale fingers gently lifted Amelia’s chin, curiosity flickering in his gaze. "Who are you?"
He scanned her from head to toe. Her features weren’t particularly unusual—though the short hair made her stand out—but her eyes were something else. Clear, cold, peaceful—like a still lake. Add in her delicate outline, and it was easy to imagine her as a startled fawn, disarming without even trying.
Frowning, Amelia slapped his hand away, a red mark blooming on his skin. "Pervert."
As she tried to get up, his hands suddenly clamped around her waist and kept her in place. His voice was cold, lips barely parted, an icy chill in the words: "Not talking?"
His peach blossom eyes sharpened, voice edged with warning. "Who sent you?"
She struggled, surprised at how strong he was despite that pretty-boy face. Her hand reached for her waist, and a purple talisman appeared, glowing faintly with the same golden light her sword had shown.
"By decree—"
Before she could finish, a sharp pain exploded at the back of her neck. Her eyes widened as she pointed the talisman at him. "You coward…!"
Too late. She blacked out, the last thought in her head: She’d really fallen for the oldest trick—distracted by a pretty face, forgetting someone else might be behind her.
"What should we do with her, my lord?"
Liam withdrew his hand. He was the one who'd knocked her out, and his face, ever stoic, hadn’t flinched once.
"Not a rookie. Interrogate her. Figure out who sent her."
Melvyn calmly stepped out of the water and accepted a towel from Liam like everything was normal. It was as if the unconscious woman in the tub simply didn’t exist.
He pulled on a robe and twisted up his wet hair without thinking. His shoulders hunched a little, and his back drooped slightly. The commanding aura he had before vanished in a heartbeat. He looked... sick, his gaze dull and lifeless.
If Amelia had been awake, she’d probably give it up for him with a slow clap and a mutter: “Oscar-worthy.”
