Chapter 44
Schleiman quietly watched Ishtar, who had pulled the blanket up to her chin, her cheeks flushed red.
‘…Adorable.’
Her unusually pale skin, now tinted pink from the feverish heat of a hangover, made her look strangely enchanting.
As she tried desperately to avoid his gaze with a wet towel laid across her neat forehead, Schleiman couldn’t help but smile.
Was taking care of someone who’s sick always this heartwarming?
Born a royal and raised without a single inconvenience, he had never once nursed anyone before.
Kissing the head of his hungover “cat” before reluctantly leaving for the palace that morning—he remembered just how heavy his heart had felt.
He hadn’t been able to concentrate on work at all, and after rushing through only the most urgent matters, he’d hurried back to his quarters.
It was only after personally feeding her porridge and giving her medicine that he’d finally felt some measure of relief.
Now, as he replaced the lukewarm towel on her forehead, he brushed aside the damp strands of her silver hair.
“Ah…”
Startled by his touch, Ishtar flinched and instinctively retreated a little, her expression wary.
The movement reminded him so much of her cat-like self that Schleiman laughed again.
“…Why do you keep smiling at me like that? It’s unsettling when you act differently.”
Well, how could he not smile at something so lovely?
But Schleiman, who had only recently realized his feelings for her, decided to keep that secret for now.
“I’m just amused to learn that you can’t handle alcohol at all.”
At that, Ishtar’s face crumpled into a sulky frown.
Suppressing the urge to pinch her puffed-up cheeks, Schleiman kept his lips tightly pressed to hide his smile.
“I’ll be going now. Get some rest. Sleep it off, and you’ll feel better, my drunken little lady.”
“D-Drunken?! That’s too harsh! I just don’t have a strong tolerance, that’s all!”
When she tried to sit up indignantly, he gently pressed her shoulder back down.
“You still need to lie down, Ishtar.”
He leaned close and whispered softly near her ear.
At the faint brush of his breath, she visibly trembled.
Even that small contact made his innocent kitten quiver all over.
Though she wore a human form, Schleiman didn’t see her any differently.
‘How twisted am I, to take pleasure in watching the woman I love squirm?’
Something dark and unfamiliar stirred deep within him, fed by the sight of her flustered confusion.
He wanted to tease her more… to be closer.
To wipe away the beads of sweat from her brow, to press a kiss to her blushing cheek and trembling eyelids.
‘But I can’t.’
If he did, his frightened little cat would surely bare her claws and flee.
Even yesterday, he’d barely restrained himself under the pretense of wanting to have dinner together.
When she bit her lip nervously, his eyes automatically followed. Her lips were slightly swollen, glistening faintly.
He remembered the feel of them through the veil the previous night—so soft that he’d nearly melted on the spot.
It had only been a fleeting brush, hardly even a kiss, yet it had been enough to leave him reeling.
That was why he’d run from the library in a daze, afraid he might grab her and bite that lower lip right then.
Though Schleiman appeared cold and disciplined, inside him burned a fierce, untamed passion.
It showed when he worked, when he fought—but when he stood before Ishtar, the woman he had named himself, he became someone unrecognizable.
Something dark and coiled had taken root within him, something he hadn’t known existed before.
If she ever caught a glimpse of that side of him, she might even fear sharing a bed with him again.
His throat went dry; he swallowed hard, the movement of his Adam’s apple visible.
“…Ugh.”
Perhaps mistaking that sound for the growl of a predator, his little cat let out a soft whimper and burrowed deeper into the blankets.
Overcome by the urge to devour her then and there, Schleiman abruptly stood up.
If he stayed in that room any longer, he was certain he’d lose control.
“I should go. If your fever rises again or you feel unwell, call for the physician immediately, understood?”
“…Okay.”
Ishtar’s small voice came muffled from under the blanket as she peeked at him with her eyes only.
Schleiman steadied his expression, hiding every trace of his inner turmoil, and left the room.
Behind his retreating back, Ishtar’s gaze lingered long and strangely.
Back at the governor’s residence, Schleiman spent the afternoon buried in a mountain of paperwork.
During his tour, urgent matters had been handled through messengers, but most required his personal review.
He even took his lunch at his desk, finally pausing for a brief breath when a knock sounded.
Eblan entered.
“Lord Schleiman, the forensic team has completed their analysis.”
“Good. Whose handiwork is it?”
Eblan drew a small object wrapped in cloth from his breast pocket and placed it on the desk—a broken arrowhead.
It was corroded and cracked, as if coated with poison.
“Most of the attackers used ordinary arrows, but this one was different.”
“What’s different about it?”
“It was made of a special alloy resistant to highly corrosive toxins. The point was extended and sharpened so that even a graze would cause a severe wound.”
“If it had struck true, it would have been fatal.”
Schleiman gave a dry laugh and glanced down at his bandaged forearm.
Two nights ago, on his way back to the capital after the inspection tour, his convoy had been ambushed.
Even with the kingdom’s elite guards escorting him, the battle had been fierce.
Fortunately, the attackers weren’t many—but the archers had been deadly.
Shooting from a pitch-black canyon at night, they had rained arrows down from above.
While his guards fought the swordsmen on the ground, Schleiman and a few close aides, including Eblan, had climbed up to flank the archers.
The slope was too steep for horses, but Schleiman’s skill in horsemanship and combat made it possible.
Catching the archers off guard, they dispatched them swiftly.
The wound on his arm came from barely dodging a shot by what must have been their best marksman.
“What about the poison’s composition? Do we have results?”
“Yes, sir. It was identified as a toxin extracted from the aconite flower—lethal enough to kill a bear with a single dose. You were incredibly lucky.”
“Aconite, huh… a plant-based poison. Not exactly common.”
“No, sir. Unlike snake or reptile venom, it requires special cultivation.”
“Which means there are only a few who could get their hands on it.”
Schleiman’s eyes hardened as he stared at the corroded arrowhead.
If he hadn’t deflected that arrow mid-flight, this tiny thing could have ended his life.
Though his body had long been trained to resist most toxins, the lingering numbness proved just how deadly this one was.
“Find its source. Are any of the attackers still alive?”
“Most took poison on the spot, but two are still breathing.”
“I’ll interrogate them myself. Summon a priest and stabilize them first.”
“Yes, sir.”
After bowing deeply, Eblan left the room.
Alone, Schleiman clenched his teeth, struggling to contain his fury.
Just like the previous assassination attempt in his bedchamber, the attackers had bitten down on hidden poison to avoid capture.
In the kingdom, warriors considered poison a disgrace; even assassins usually chose to die by their own blade.
“…No matter how I think about it, the culprits have to be them.”
Images of Roxellana and Theron flashed through his mind.
Since taking office, Schleiman had devoted himself to uncovering their conspiracy.
Perhaps this ambush would finally lead him to those pulling the strings behind it all.
He rose and walked to the wardrobe in the corner of his office.
Undoing the buttons at his neck, he removed his shirt, revealing a torso covered in lean, hard muscle.
Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, powerful thighs—the marks of a lifetime of martial training.
Scars crisscrossed his bronzed skin, evidence of countless battles.
‘The poison still hasn’t subsided.’
Dark, swollen veins bulged from his arm to his shoulder. He decided to wrap the bandages more thoroughly this time.
“This should do.”
He chose a high-collared outfit made of dense fabric—one that wouldn’t soak up blood easily.
If he reeked of blood again, his little cat might be frightened the next time they shared a bed.
When she was in feline form, her instincts and senses seemed sharper than ever.
He couldn’t risk letting her catch even the faintest glimpse of his true self.
With a soft thud, his uniform fell to the floor.
Donning the stiff, specially treated garment and pulling on black gloves, Schleiman finally stepped out of his office.
“…This time, I’ll make them talk.”
On his face as he descended toward the underground prison, a rare and chilling cruelty appeared.
