Damon staggered into his bedroom without waiting for the maid to be announced. The door shut behind them with a muted thud, sealing the silence inside. The room was dim, lit only by the pale spill of moonlight filtering through tall windows draped in navy velvet.
He did not look at her immediately.
Instead, he moved toward the window opposite the door, boots scraping slightly against polished marble as his steps wavered just enough to betray the alcohol in his blood. One shoulder dipped lower than the other. His grip on the bottle was loose, careless.
He tilted it back again.
A long swallow.
Wine slid down his throat, some of it spilling at the corner of his mouth before he wiped it away with the back of his hand in an impatient motion.
His posture was wrong for someone of noble birth—spine not fully straight, head angled slightly forward as though the weight of the day pressed between his shoulders. The faint sway of his stance betrayed imbalance, yet there was tension beneath it, like a coiled wire refusing to snap.
He exhaled through his nose.
Then he turned.
His golden eyes widened slightly.
"W—what are you doing?"
His words were thick at the edges, not fully slurred, but softened by alcohol. His gaze traveled downward before snapping back up.
The maid stood several paces away, already having removed her outer garments. Fabric pooled at her feet. She remained in her innerwear, hands slightly clenched at her sides, shoulders drawn in as though bracing for impact.
Her light brown eyes flickered between fear and uncertainty.
"Ah… I-isn't this what Young Master wanted?" she asked, her voice small, careful, almost apologetic.
For a second, Damon simply stared at her.
Then he let out a breath—half laugh, half scoff.
"YOU—"
The word came louder than intended, roughened by drink. He blinked hard, as if forcing his vision to focus.
"What do you think of me?" he demanded, his voice uneven, syllables dragging slightly. "I—I said I wanted to talk."
He took a step forward, misjudged the distance, and his balance faltered.
His foot caught against the edge of the carpet.
The world tilted.
He lurched forward and collided into her, the momentum carrying both of them down.
They hit the floor together in a tangled fall, the impact forcing a small startled sound from her lips.
"Y–Young Master!"
The bottle slipped from his grasp but did not shatter; instead, it rolled to the side, spilling dark red wine across the polished floor and onto the white fabric of her bra. The stain spread slowly, blooming outward like ink in water.
For a moment, neither moved.
Damon lay partially braced over her, one arm planted beside her shoulder to keep his weight from fully crushing her. His breathing was heavy, warm with alcohol.
He looked down at her.
She looked up at him.
Their faces were far too close.
The wine scent mingled with the faint fragrance of soap and fabric.
His voice came lower now, rough, breath brushing against her cheek.
"You…" he murmured, blinking once as though steadying himself. "You tell me… what do you think of me?"
The maid swallowed, her pulse still racing beneath him. For a brief second, she seemed to consider what she should say…
"H–handsome…" she said weakly, forcing the word out as though it were the safest answer available.
Damon blinked slowly.
"YOU…" he muttered, the sharpness returning despite the thickness in his voice. His gaze steadied, boring into her. "Tell me the truth. What do you think of me… as a person?"
His breathing was uneven, but his eyes were searching now.
"Why is every butler, guard… maid so afraid of me?"
The question hung between them.
She hesitated.
Her fingers trembled slightly where they rested against his shoulder.
"Young Master…" she began carefully, her voice small but no longer rehearsed. "Whenever His Grace scolded you… you would… take it out on guards and butlers."
Damon's brow furrowed faintly.
She swallowed and continued, words spilling faster now, as though holding them back would only make things worse.
"There was a guard—two months ago. He tried to stop you from leaving the estate past curfew. You broke his nose. He was dismissed the next day."
Her eyes flickered away from his.
"And the junior butler… he spoke too slowly when answering you. You struck him twice and his wrist was fractured."
Damon's jaw tightened.
"When the Master reprimanded you… you would come to the servants' quarters. You said it was our fault for not preparing things properly. Or for looking at you wrong."
Her voice trembled again.
"In the whole of the Duke's manor… only His Grace can stop you."
She paused before adding, barely above a whisper,
"The Youngest Master and Young Mistress… they avoid you. They do not even dare to appear in front of you unless summoned."
Silence settled heavily in the room.
Damon listened without interrupting.
He exhaled through his nose.
"A–and you—?" he began, his voice quieter now.
"Ah… Young Master," she interrupted hurriedly, her cheeks flushing faintly as she shifted beneath him. "C–can you get off me now? I–I am not exactly young."
For a moment he simply stared at her, then tilted his head slightly, as if processing her meaning through a haze.
He pushed himself up clumsily and rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling instead.
The maid rose carefully to her feet, smoothing down what remained of her dignity. She glanced down at her bra, now stained a deep crimson where the wine had soaked through, and at the patch of skin along her torso marked by it.
She looked back at him cautiously.
"Young Master… c–can I use your bathroom?"
She gestured awkwardly to the stain.
Damon waved his hand dismissively, not even looking at her.
"Go… do whatever," he muttered.
She did not need further encouragement. Gathering what composure she could, she hurried toward the adjoining bathroom. A moment later, the door closed, and the faint sound of running water filled the room.
Damon remained still for several seconds after the shower started.
Then the change came.
The dull haze in his golden eyes receded, replaced by sharp clarity. His breathing evened out. The faint sway in his posture disappeared as he rolled his shoulders back and rose smoothly to his feet.
He stretched once, slow and deliberate, the tension in his muscles releasing as his back straightened fully. A quiet crack followed as he tilted his head from side to side, loosening the stiffness in his neck. Another shift of his shoulders, a subtle twist of his spine—
"At least drinking continuously at those pretentious galas had some use," he muttered under his breath, voice steady now, free of the earlier thickness.
He glanced toward the scattered garments on the floor and crouched to pick them up. The maid's dress and underlayers were simple but well-stitched—durable fabric, no embellishments, no hidden weight to the hems.
He inspected them carefully.
His fingers moved along the seams, pressing lightly.
Breaking that glass was enough to calm my frustration and nerves.
He folded the fabric once, thoughtfully.
If all of those assassination attempts did anything, it was forcing survival instinct into my bones. If you want me to die….I will survive no matter what..
His gaze darkened slightly.
Taking anger out on underlings… bullying… violent.
The murmurs in the corridor resurfaced in memory.
Worst reputation in his own family.
His father's disgust.
So this body has two younger siblings. A brother and a sister.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Father has already given up on him.
He dropped the clothes back onto the floor.
"No hidden weapon or anything," he murmured.
The estate might fear Damon Valecrest, but the maid had not entered armed.
Then, quieter, almost to himself:
"So what if it's a game."
His jaw tightened, but not in anger ,in resolve.
"I will survive it. No matter what."
The sound of running water ceased.
Instantly, his eyes shifted toward the bathroom door.
He straightened, posture composed but unreadable.
Clk..
The door opened.
Steam drifted outward first, carrying warmth and the faint scent of soap.
Then she stepped out.
Damon's breath stalled for a fraction of a second.
His mind, for once, failed to finish the thought fully formed in it.
T–this woman…
Steam drifted into the room before she did.
She stepped out slowly, skin still damp from the shower, droplets tracing faint paths along her collarbone and shoulders. Strands of wet hair clung to the side of her neck, darker now from moisture. There was no cloth around her, no attempt to hide herself.
"T–there was no towel…" she said softly, eyes lowering for a moment. "And… Young Master has already seen it…"
A faint blush crept across her cheeks, deepened by the lingering heat of the bath. The combination of embarrassment and vulnerability softened her expression in a way that felt almost dangerous.
For a fraction of a second, Damon did not move.
Then something instinctive—primal, physical—rose faster than thought.
In one fluid step, he closed the distance between them.
His hand came up to her waist, fingers firm as he pulled her toward him. His other hand cradled the back of her neck as his lips pressed against hers—decisive, heated, silencing whatever she had meant to say next.
"Young Mas—" "MMm.."
The word dissolved into a muffled sound against his mouth.
Her hands instinctively found his shoulders, uncertain at first, then gripping tighter as his kiss deepened. His breath was warm, the faint scent of wine still lingering, though his movements were far steadier than before.
He lifted her without hesitation, her body light in his grasp.
A few quick steps carried them to the bed.
He lowered her onto it, not gently but not carelessly either.
For a suspended heartbeat, there was only the weight of him above her and the faint rise and fall of their breathing.
....Then restraint gave way.
Fabric shifted. Sheets rustled.
"Ahhhhh….YoUng MasTER..!"
The faint sound of movement filled the room, followed by the quiet rhythm of breath growing uneven.
A soft moan slipped from her lips, swallowed partially by his shoulder.
"MMmm…ahh, ahh, ahhhaaah!"
The bed creaked faintly beneath their shifting weight.
Krkk, krerk!
Outside the tall windows, the estate remained silent.
Inside, the room filled only with the muted sounds of closeness and the steady cadence of bodies drawing nearer in the dim blue glow of night.
***
The carriage wheels rolled steadily over stone as the towering silhouette of a huge building rose into view.
Inside the carriage, a woman leaned toward the window.
Her brown hair was tied into its usual messy bun, though a few strands had escaped during the journey. She pressed her palm lightly against the glass, eyes widening as she took in the scale of the place.
"So… this is Crownspire Academy!?"
She turned back inside the carriage.
Across from her sat a white-haired young man, posture straight despite the slight fatigue shadowing his features. His golden eyes were open—very open.
She studied him for a moment.
"Hm?" she tilted her head. "Why does it look like you didn't sleep yesterday, Young Master?"
He did not immediately respond.
She blinked, then coughed lightly and looked away toward the window again, cheeks warming faintly.
"…We didn't do it all night," she muttered under her breath