Chapter 20 ❖ ❖ ❖
For Edmund Colt, having Vivienne was far from the simple pleasure one might imagine. His life was already saturated with constant stimuli, leaving little room for reason to escape into mere lust. He had lived every day walking on multiple overlapping tightropes, yet endured a monotonous, colorless routine that never broke him.
There were days when his rival would kneel before him, begging for mercy. What seemed obvious and invisible to ordinary people—such as the flow of money—was completely clear to him, and his predictions were always flawless.
Not everything went according to his desires. Yet, it was normal for Rex, who saw the world as laughable, to take the life of some government lackey, then drink whiskey the next morning while reading in the newspaper that a scandalous public figure had committed suicide.
It was a life run entirely on his convenience. Some days, that seemed natural; on others, utterly dull. Life’s colors would fade, then flood with the bloody hues of brutal killings, only to fade again.
The smell of blood, the thrill of triumph in any game, all became numb. It was almost the perfect word for it.
Even sex with women who had irritated him no longer jolted his dulled nerves. Fantasies, sparks flying, the heart-thumping madness—they were all trivial, predictable tales told by males who always won.
Yet when it was over, when he curled up with a woman seemingly afraid of returning to reality and pulled her close, a comfort like nothing he had ever known washed over him. Yes—that was the sensation.
As he slowly ran his hands over her body, still faintly marked with bruises, the sense that this woman was real hit him fully. Seeing her delicate shoulders flinch reassured him that she was safe, that she wasn’t hurt somewhere in the world.
This small, fragile body felt like the weak half of himself he had never noticed. And once he knew she was safe, a primal sense of relief welled up.
The first winter he met Vivienne Mergoville, even a scratch on her cheek seemed out of place. He could see how easily her great pride could have been broken by Cynthia Eastwell’s petty provocations. Her frailty—like a shoulder trembling at talk of her fiancé—was visible without effort.
Now, unlike back then, she masked her fear of the world with a composed exterior, placing herself within the new order under the media’s gaze, yet she was still seeing him. Or rather, she was seeing the man from a year ago and trembling with guilt.
Exploiting that, while softly tasting her tears as he kissed her, was maddening.
The intensity of reality that she brought him into was overwhelming, like being crushed by a gravity he had never experienced.
For so long, he had never felt reality so sharply—only after meeting her did the world’s weight return, suffocating him. People had always been mere tools or points of judgment, and he had never cared for such fleeting things.
Yet as he kissed the nape of her neck and bit gently where he pleased, and she responded with tears while pressing into him, a secret possessiveness ignited within him.
He wished these moments could be eternal, that no power could ever take her from him, that she could never find him again…
That she would never see him with disappointment in her eyes, that she could never find him again like the first time they met…
Yet, he hoped her sensitive instincts would not betray her.
Her perceptiveness, noticing the slight dark undertones in his speech, her sharpness in calling out the agent’s name to find him a year ago—these instincts always responded faithfully, always letting her find him. The reasons that should have justified killing her gradually became a secret pleasure.
Edmund.
Every trembling, choked, tear-streaked moment she called his name pierced his heart. So he could be cruel and push her further, yet hold her more deeply.
Breaking the hope that she had found her agent, he still held her tenderly, stroking her with the same hands that could harm.
Could this be love? The sensation that cut through his chest so vividly—it felt like fear, something he had never known. Holding her now, frail as she had become since a year ago, pressing his lips to her forehead, his heart throbbed, and the feeling of being alive spread through him.
If love is not a textbook definition of emotion, this was the most grotesque and complete affection he could muster.
Yet, seeing her heart race and the insane feelings she felt every time she looked at him, it almost felt innocent.
This sensitive and proud young lady would leave him once the truth was revealed.
So, before she melted into the gray sameness of this world like all others, he had to desire her, hold her, and possess her as fully as possible.
Holding her didn’t just mean sex—it meant cradling her, taking her breath, tasting her tears, all discovered through the warmth of her body in the cold.
Degrading himself as a beast, he knew that if she ever left him, he could not endure and would ruin her life with what he had today.
Vivienne dreamed for the first time in a long while. In the dream, she returned a year earlier, sitting on a bench overlooking the drawbridge just before parting from the agent.
Everything unfolded exactly as she remembered. The agent did not stop her, so she begged him not to leave, explaining she had seen a future where he was killed by the head of the underworld. He looked at her as though she were a strange person.
She rushed to explain everything: the photos she saw at the central police office showing him murdered, the underworld head trying to destroy the car she was in, and that she had been handed to a count resembling him… up to that point, she stopped and held the agent, whispering that it was okay now. He silently comforted her sobbing back.
Vivienne felt guilty for a moment, wishing he had been her first. Yet knowing he was now by her side reassured her that he would not meet a terrible fate. She could protect him now.
Her heart, pounding with hope, slowly sank as she realized it had all been a dream.
The room was dark but alive with sound: the fire crackled, warming the winter room, and a radio played quietly.
“Amid growing outrage over Ludvik Rex, accused of murdering a follower of Carolina Russella but released due to lack of evidence, attention also turns to Ms. Watkins, once entangled with him. Some claim she was Rex’s ‘secret’ lover, while others say the actress who committed suicide was also a victim like Watkins. Ms. Watkins has expressed the following regret:
‘There is little I can say here. But to the women listening: believing a dangerous person will be gentle with you is poison. Such love carries a cost.’
This concludes the news. The time is now 11 o’clock.”
Vivienne awoke in darkness at 11. Her body ached as if she had the flu, fingers too weak to move. She gasped for air, overwhelmed by an unknown nostalgia.
“Ah…”
Clutching her bloated stomach, tears streamed as pain surged through her waist, and for a moment she wished to go home. But she remembered her home had never been warm, and returning in such a state was indulgent.
Realizing she was naked in a stranger’s bed, she barely managed to sit up, letting out a small cry before collapsing back. Her throat was dry, and she was parched.
Would the count let her go? Or would he seduce her again, proposing engagement?
As she blinked helplessly, the door opened. She recognized the silhouette—Count Colt—by his shape alone.
Awkward, she turned away, unwilling to show her swollen eyes or risk his demands again. Despite her discomfort, she knew that if he attacked, she would respond to his kiss. No matter how cruel, he was still her herbal remedy, unchanging.
A rustling at the door revealed a trolley, moved by the woman who had brought her here. Colt entered, removing his jacket and gloves. Vivienne wondered why he wore gloves so often despite the cold.
He washed his hands in a basin on the trolley, then perched on the bed.
“Vivienne.”
She instinctively shrank, lips parting only slightly.
After a moment, his thumb parted her lips, exploring her tongue, entwining with every ridge. She tasted faint iron, opening her mouth and silently meeting his gaze.
He carefully lifted her to lean against piled pillows and poured warm honey tea from the trolley into her mouth, the taste of honey, tangerine, and cinnamon soothing her stomach.
Embarrassed to take the tea naked, she covered herself with long hair but opened her lips when the spoon approached.
When the teapot emptied, he removed the spoon and uncovered her, revealing not him but a warm cloth. He gently massaged her tired muscles, brushing aside her long hair.
Repeatedly, he refreshed the warm cloth and carefully washed her whole body. When she shivered, he helped her into a bathrobe, sliding each arm in before placing her back on the bed.
When he rose to leave, she traced his departing lips, wanting to ask: Would he abandon her? Were his engagement words sincere? Only silhouettes were visible in the dark.
The scent of tobacco and his fragrance reminded her of the agent, causing bittersweet pain. She wondered how long he would remain gentle, noting he did the work himself rather than delegating it.
As she released her hand, he explored her mouth, instinctively checking for traces of another man. Her legs entwined around his waist; lips met, breath mingled, and she clung to him fiercely.
He continued, testing limits and filling her emptiness. Finally, entwined, she rested against his chest, feeling his warmth and drifting to sleep, her thoughts no longer on family, the future, or broken engagement—but on the agent from her dream.
Even if this man had the agent’s face, he desired her more intensely than the agent ever could, making her fearless resolve to confront the underworld leader waver.
Though some attraction to the count remained, she sighed at her lingering attachment to the agent. Even with her happiness at hand, these thoughts persisted, and she struggled with the difficult choice.
Soon, the soft sound of her breathing filled the room.
