Free Web NovelChapter 6: Keeping Her Forever
The dressing room was chaotic. Maids dashed between racks of gowns and trays of jewellery like frightened birds. Their movements were frantic and uncoordinated.
Esme stood in the center of the room with her arms crossed, watching them with the look of someone who had asked for coffee but had recieved lukewarm water instead.
The head maid approached her, holding a gown with trembling hands.
"Please, Your Grace," she whispered. "The Duke prefers muted colors in banquets. This dress will keep you safe and hidden."
Esme examined the soft blue dress is her hands. It had a high collar and full sleeves. It was the kind of dress a woman wore when she wanted to disappear in the ground.
She glanced at the other gowns on the racks. Each color was soft, chosen to blend her into the crowd.
"Burn it," she ordered.
The head maid flinched.
"Your Grace?"
"Burn all the dresses," Esme said as she uncrossed her arms and walked towards the unopened wardrobe.
The maids stared at her in horror. Esme reached the wardrobe and pulled the doors open. The dresses inside were different. They were in deeper colors but still had high necklines, long sleeves, and modest cuts. At the very back, pushed behind the others, was a red dress.
She pulled it out. It was blood red and the fabric was exquisite. The neckline plunged low, revealing the hollow between her collarbones and the tops of her breasts. The back was cut so deep that it would leave her entire spine exposed.
Who brought this here? The original Esme? Or did someone else...
"Your Grace, please," the head maid’s voice cracked.
She was on the verge of tears.
"You might not know...but red colour triggers something terrible in him. No one can wear red in his presence. The last person who..."
"The last person who what?"
The maid’s mouth snapped shut.
Esme sighed and turned to the full-length mirror. She held the gown up against herself. The red looked striking against her pale skin.
"Help me into this."
"Your Grace, I cannot..."
"You absolutely can," Esme said calmly. "Or do you want me to tell His Grace that the head maid refused to dress me for the imperial banquet? What reaction do you think he’ll have?"
Colour drained from the maid’s face. Slowly, she reached for the gown. The other maids joined her reluctantly.
They laced the gown tightly against her body until it fit her like a second skin. The deep neckline framed her collarbones and the hollow of her throat. The back dipped so low that she could feel the cold air on her spine.
When they were done, Esme picked up the dark red lipstick from the vanity and applied two coats on her lips. The colour made her lips look like a fresh wound. She pressed her lips together and examined the result in the mirror. She looked lethal.
Perfect!
The maids had were staring at her with wide eyes wide and frozen hands. One of the younger maids stepped forward.
"Your Grace... he’ll kill someone," she whispered.
"Probably," Esme replied, examining her nails. "But it won’t be me."
"Please..."
"Leave us." A voice echoed from the door.
Every maid in the room froze. The young one let out a small squeak and scrambled backward so fast that she tripped over her own hem. Then they scattered like leaves in a storm with their heads bowed and feet stumbling over each other as they fled, shutting the door behind them in a flurry.
Eveyr stood at door. He wore military regalia— black armour and silver epaulets that caught the candlelight like ice. His hair was pulled back, revealing his sharp forehead.
His eyes were locked on her dress that clung to every curve of her body. The temperature in the room suddenly spiked.
Esme recalled the lore from the novel. Red wasn’t just a colour to him. It was indeed a trigger, as the maid had said. The red didn’t make him angry. Rather, it unlocked a part of him that was hungry. She had skimmed the reasoning while reading but felt satisfied with the little information she had.
Here we go!
He moved quickly, appearing behind her in two strides. Without a word, he touched her bare lower back with both hands. His palms were so warm that they almost burned, making her inhale sharply.
Slowly, his thumbs moved up to her spine, tracing her bones one by one with deliberate possessiveness. She could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. But surprisingly, his fingers were shaking slightly.
He is fighting it. He is trying to hold back the hunger.
They stood in front of the full-length mirror. The reflection was devastatingly beautiful. His eyes met hers in the mirror.
"You are trying to drive me insane," he murmured.
His grip tightened around her waist and his hands slid from her spine to her hips, gripping hard enough that the silk creak.
"You know what this colour does to me. But you put it on anyway," he leaned down, his lips brushing her bare shoulder tenderly.
"You want them to look at you," his lips moved against her shoulder as he spoke. "You want every man in the banquet to see you in this dress and lose their minds. Then you want me to kill them for it."
Esme stared at their reflection.
You are right. That’s exactly what I want. But not the actual killing. Jealousy will be enough.
Esme reached back without breaking eye contact with him in the mirror. Her fingers slid into his hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to meet her gaze in the mirror’s reflection.
His breath hitched. She smiled wickedly.
"Then you better keep a tight grip on me tonight, husband," she leaned back against his chest, feeling his arms tighten around her waist even more.
"Because if you blink, someone else might realize I’m the most dangerous thing in that room."
The silence that followed was deafening. His arms locked around her waist like iron this time. His chest heaved against her back. His breath came in short, ragged bursts against her temple. She could feel his fast and erratic heartbeat against her spine.
Then suddenly the red light tore through her vision.
[SYSTEM ALERT: THREAT LEVEL UPGRADED TO ’CATASTROPHIC’.]
Obsession Meter: 30% → 40%
Target State: FERAL FIXATION.
CRITICAL WARNING: Target’s sanity is completely tethered to the host.
Completely tethered? So...his sanity is completely tied to me now.
Eveyr’s hand came up and rested against her throat. His palm curved around her neck, thumb resting just below her jaw where he could feel her pulse.
"You have no idea what you are doing to me."
"Then tell me."
"I have killed men for less than what you just did with by pulling my hair. I have buried people for looking at me the wrong way. I have erased villages because the messengers brought me news I didn’t like."
His forehead lowered to her shoulder again. His lips touched the same spot he had touched before.
"And you...you pull my hair. You slap my hand. You call me boring. You wear the colour that makes me want to tear the world apart," his breath shuddered against her shoulder. "And I don’t want to kill you. I want to..."
He stopped.
"You want to what?" Esme asked, curious
"I want to keep you," he whispered. "Forever. In this room...in this dress. Where no one can see you and touch you."
"No," Esme said coldly.
Eveyr froze.
"No," Esme repeated, placing her hand over his where it rested on her throat. "That’s not keeping me, Eveyr. That’s burying me. I didn’t survive my wedding night to be buried in a dressing room."
She felt his control almost snapping. Slowly, his grip loosened, allowing her to breathe again. He lifted his head from her shoulder and met her gaze in the mirror once more.
"You’re playing a very dangerous game, Esme."
"I know," she replied, pulling away from him. "But I’m very good at games."
She looked at her reflection one last time. And adjusted a strand of hair, tapped the corner of her lips and smiled. The woman looking back at her was someone she didn’t recognize. She was sharper and bolder than the woman who had died with rice on her face.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the original Esme had to die for this one to exist.
She walked to the door and paused with her hand on the knob.
"Are you coming, Your Grace?" she asked without turning around. "The Emperor doesn’t like to be kept waiting."
Behind her, Eveyr laughed. It was a short, broken sound but it was genuine. Then his boots thudded on the floor and he stood beside her, placing his hand on her waist.
