Chapter 83

After measuring for the tailoring and sharing a snack in easy camaraderie with Odelliana, Matthias returned to his quarters. He loosened his cravat and slipped open two of the buttons that fastened tight at his throat, yet the constriction did not abate. The sensation of being choked from within lingered.

“…So this is the limit,” he muttered under his breath.

With a grimace he lowered his trousers.

That same tepid heat unfurled across his body, enveloping him like a suffocating shroud. It had been present since the first month of deployment, a steady reminder that he had entered rut. He was not ignorant of it. He had lived long enough to recognize the signs.

Beastmen, by their nature, were few in number, and their urge to reproduce was correspondingly strong. Matthias’s cycles were not frequent, but they came irregularly, unpredictable as storms. Yet his body was never normal from the day it was created, twisted from birth, and unlike others of his kind he had always carried a mind that did not easily bow to hunger. He had weathered rut time and again without succumbing, endured it without trouble.

But this time was different. The object of desire was close enough to touch, and her nearness tore apart the fragile partition between discipline and instinct. A faint brush of her hand, the mingling of her skin with the scent of soap—such trifles had undone him completely.

Senses that had never before awakened were burning now with savage clarity. Could it be that months apart had left his body starved enough to react this violently? That a mere accidental touch could stir him to rut so easily? The thought alone made his breath shudder.

“…Haa.”

Obscene visions surged unbidden, battering the walls of restraint. His hand slid downward almost against his will, seizing the hardness that demanded attention.

He pictured her small, fragile body pressed beneath him, wrists bound, chest heaving as she struggled for breath under the oppressive weight of his frame. Her face flushed, gasping in torment, would look all the more intoxicating. The image alone made him swell painfully, his reflection in the mirror staring back with a face twisted in base pleasure and shame.

His gaze drifted to the empty bed. His imagination carried him seamlessly from the sight of its barren sheets to the thought of dragging her there, of spreading her slender ankles wide, plunging his head between her thighs until she sobbed. The urge to spring to his feet and seize his prey was so violent he had to force his legs to remain still, digging his heels into the floor as his hand worked himself in steady strokes.

The hardness did not abate. It pressed and pulsed with unbearable heat, like stone heated to a searing red, pain and pleasure tangled into one. His breath grew ragged, his face contorted, as though fever consumed him. The fantasy sharpened further until her form emerged clearly, almost tangible before him.

He imagined tearing away her clothes, clutching her naked body to his chest with both arms, hands sinking into the soft curves of her bre*st while his tongue traced her collarbone, her throat, her ribs. Every lick, every bite steeped him deeper in her imagined scent, until his chest shook with laughter and desire alike. He spread her in his mind, grasped her thighs, and drove himself into her warmth. The rhythm escalated, wild, until at the brink—

He stopped.

Consciousness came crashing back, cold and merciless.

“Damn it.”

The curse slipped with his breath. He looked down at the sticky fluid on his hand and barked a hollow laugh. So this was it—the day his legendary self-control had broken. A rut had bested him at last. Even now, satisfaction eluded him, for the weight of unslaked hunger remained, dragging heavy within him. Yet it was not unbearable. He could still endure.

The absurdity struck him. Nearly the whole of his life—decades upon decades—had been nothing but endurance. He had lived by patience, had survived by waiting, had tethered his existence to a single figure he had sought across unending years. And now, after all of that, he had faltered to something as banal as a rut. He shook his head, a bitter smile tugging his mouth.

He wiped himself clean and tallied the years in his head.

Three more.

Three years until that accursed shell she wore would be counted an adult in the eyes of the law. A daunting span if seen from the shallow lives of others, yet to him, who had borne eternity, it was a brief wait. Three years was nothing. He could bide that time.

And when that hour came, the leash would be in his hand. He would no longer content himself with silent prayers for her happiness. The fool’s self-denial would end. He would claim her, and no power would pry her away.

***

“Do you feel any better inside?”

Odelliana’s voice was light, but it carried the faintest undercurrent of worry. Matthias remembered at once the excuse he had given her that morning—that he was unwell, and needed to withdraw. A coward’s flight.

“After some air and rest, I feel much improved,” he answered evenly.

“You’re certain it isn’t an illness? Can beastmen fall ill?” she asked curiously.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never been sick myself.”

“If you’re not well, perhaps you should forgo the banquet.”

He considered this briefly, then asked, “And you, Master?”

“I must attend. I am the host of the gathering. At least for the opening and the closing night, my place is in the hall.”

“Then I will be there as well.”

“Are you sure? You don’t need to push yourself.”

Matthias smiled with perfect composure, his features drawn as though with a brush. “Truly, I am fine.”

He thought it ironic. When she had learned he was chosen for the beast-subjugation corps, placed at the vanguard as a combatant, she had shown no flicker of concern. Yet at a mere excuse of indigestion she fretted over him like this. It was laughable.

She should have been worrying about herself. She stood on the edge of being devoured whole, though she did not know it.

His gaze on her steadied, cool and deep. His long fingers tapped his arm, betraying his restless hunger for only a moment before he stilled them again. Not yet, he told himself. It cannot be yet.

While he smothered the urge clawing up inside him, Odelliana busied herself with glances to the window and the clock in turn.

“The banquet begins at dusk,” she murmured. “I’m due to meet Madame Lang soon. I wonder if she’ll manage the sewing in time… At least when she arrives, you should choose the design you like.”

“As you wish,” he said. Then, with a trace of mischief: “But before that, I’d like to see the dress you’ll wear, Master.”

“My dress?”

“I’m curious.”

“Are you? Very well, come with me. It should be in the toalette room.”

She led him, unbothered by propriety. The toalette was meant to be a sanctum of women, a forbidden space to men, but Odelliana gave no thought to such rules, nor did Matthias, nor even the maids who followed their steps with faint smiles.

“This one,” she said, holding it out.

She had chosen a gown of black, plain at first glance but elegant in cut. Silver thread embroidered subtle patterns across its length, dignified and serene. It covered her body from chest to floor, leaving only the shoulders bare. It was modest, appropriate, a dress meant to blend without vanishing—a balance of restraint and formality.

“How do you find it?” she asked.

“It suits you perfectly,” Matthias replied.

Had it been the royal court, every detail would have been agonized over weeks in advance—cut, color, jewels, headpiece, all matched in painful calculation, lest the wearer appear provincial. But here, in this provincial estate, no such burdens applied.

“Lady, Madame Lang has arrived,” a maid announced.

“Show her in.”

Madame Lang entered with her seamstresses in tow. They stopped short at the sight of Matthias. Despite their swift attempt to compose themselves, awe glittered openly in their eyes at meeting the famed knight in the flesh.

He paid them no mind. When invited to choose, he pointed without hesitation to the design he preferred. Madame Lang clapped her hands in delight.

“Sir Knight, your taste is impeccable! You’ve chosen a set that matches perfectly with the young lady’s gown. In fact, they were designed as a pair.”

Indeed, Matthias had insisted on seeing Odelliana’s dress first. He now selected a tie embroidered with the same silver thread, the match unmistakable. Together, the two garments spoke of intimacy, of deliberate harmony—a pair made for lovers.

Odelliana’s mouth fell open. He reached out and gently closed it for her, smiling in amusement.

“The second fitting won’t take long,” Madame Lang assured them. “The gentleman’s frame is excellent, hardly any alteration needed.”

“Will it be finished before the banquet?” Odelliana asked.

“Easily.”

“Then I trust it to you.”

She excused herself with Matthias, allowing the seamstresses to work undisturbed. Once in the corridor, she glanced at him with narrowed eyes.

“You asked to see my dress on purpose,” she accused.

“I thought it better that we match,” he said mildly.

Her lips pressed thin. “And what of all my efforts to avoid notice? You’ve undone them in an instant.”

“Today,” he said with quiet certainty, “the one who draws all eyes will be you. I will be beside you throughout.”

Before she could retort, another voice cut in. Malena had appeared unnoticed, grinning like a cat who had found cream.

“Everyone will be whispering,” she said, eyes sparkling. “About the betrothed couple, of course.”

“Malena!” Odelliana snapped.

“What else can you do? You’ll simply have to endure. By now you should be used to it. Why not enjoy it?”

“Enjoy? Hardly.” Odelliana shook her head firmly, turning back to her student. “Matthias, many young ladies of Eisenwald will be at the banquet tonight. If any catch your eye, tell me. I’ll see the introductions are made.”

Matthias looked at her without a flicker of expression. Then he sighed, short and soft, and turned his gaze away.

She did not realize. She did not hear how the casual remark, tossed so easily, had upended the boy who once devoted himself solely to her happiness.