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Earlier, I’d noticed it too—how the child’s cheeks were even firmer and more elastic than glutinous rice cakes. There was something oddly satisfying about touching them. I gave one another tug. His soft, pliant cheek stretched with a bounce that was almost addictive.
“Why did you come out here?”
The boy said nothing. His wide eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but not a single sound escaped his lips. If I hadn’t known any better, I might’ve assumed he was mute.
Lant Beonne Eliont.
That was his name.
As the saying goes, “Blood will out.” Except for his dark brown eyes, Lant was the spitting image of the Marquess—so much so, it was like looking at a miniature version of him.
The Marquess had brought Lant into the estate not long after the death of the Marchioness. At the time, I hadn’t even known he existed until well after he’d arrived. The nanny had flown into a fit of rage, sobbing for days, wailing that the late Marchioness didn’t deserve such a betrayal.
I hated Lant.
It bruised my pride—the belief that I was the Marquess’s only child shattered like thin glass. Worse still, Lant bore such an uncanny resemblance to the Marquess that no one could possibly doubt his parentage. It infuriated me that the Marquess had prepared separate quarters for Lant in the annex; to me, it was proof that he cared.
Until the day I entered the imperial palace as the Crown Princess, I tormented Lant.
I had the maids tamper with his food. I picked fights over trivial things and ordered the servants to beat him mercilessly. No one tried to stop me.
I was publicly recognized as the Crown Prince’s fiancée. No one dared cross me. On the contrary, people tried to curry favor by bullying Lant themselves.
The only person who could’ve stopped me was the Marquess, and even he said nothing. He must have known what I was doing. Yet, as always, he met everything with silence. That silence only emboldened me.
Lant endured my malice without protest. Not a scream, not a single cry escaped his lips, even when he was beaten with sticks. And that only made me angrier. He reminded me too much of the Marquess—unmoving, indifferent, unflinching no matter how much affection I begged for.
Lant’s body never had a chance to heal. Some wounds were so deep they would leave scars for life. Once, he even came close to dying.
And still—no one stopped me.
Thinking back, it was strange, wasn’t it?
Lant was the only heir to House Eliont.
The Marquess had never once spoken of succession, but it was obvious—there was no one else. The Eliont line had always been sparse. The former Marquess was an only child, and the current one had just two children: me and Lant. I’d heard he once had a younger brother, but he’d died long ago.
I was a girl—I couldn’t inherit. My husband could have, had there been no male heirs left. But my husband was the Crown Prince, and Lant… Lant was the only viable heir unless the Marquess remarried or adopted.
Yet the Marquess never acknowledged Lant as his son. Never spoke of his mother. He simply installed him in the annex and arranged for the necessary noble education. But silence wasn’t concealment. One look at Lant was enough. No one dared to question it.
I hated him then.
Now? When I looked at him, I thought only of my old dog, Ddorong.
I poked the redness blooming on his cheek—courtesy of my own hand.
“You know,” I said, “if this were the old me, it wouldn’t have ended with just this. Didn’t the maids say they weren’t even supposed to let you near me?”
Still, Lant said nothing.
Like father, like son. Not a flicker of a reaction. Damn uncanny.
I grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. He didn’t resist. I brushed the dirt from his clothes, though it didn’t make much difference—he was such a mess it barely helped. I slapped the dust off him hard enough to make a popping sound.
“Ugh…”
Finally, a reaction. Not that I’d intended to provoke one—but the sound he made gave me a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Am I really awakening to the world of sadism here? This can’t be good…
“Ahem. First things first, we need to treat your wounds.”
Looking closely, they were worse than I’d thought. The thorns must’ve been sharper than they looked. Why he’d crawled into a bramble patch to hide from the maids, I had no idea—but medical attention came first.
I took his hand and started toward my room, but then I hesitated. If we went there, I could have the maids treat him… but Nanny was there too.
What now…
Nanny hated Lant just as much as I once had. She seemed to believe the Marchioness’s death was his fault. She’d raise hell the moment she saw him. Bringing him into my room was out of the question. I had to find another way to treat him—without Nanny finding out. Even I dreaded one of her lectures these days.
But who else could help?
If I turned to the maids, word would get to Nanny for sure. I wracked my brain. Who else in this household wasn’t afraid of her?
Not many.
It didn’t take long to decide.
“Come on.”
I grabbed Lant’s hand again, and this time, he followed without hesitation. His large brown eyes stayed fixed on me.
…This feels weird.
He really did feel like Ddorong. My dog, who used to wag his tail with such earnest joy, eyes full of trust, never leaving my side.
Ugh, I can’t let myself soften. Not now…
I squeezed his little hand tightly.
As far as I remembered, Lant was four years younger than me. I’d just turned eleven not long ago—so he was seven this year. But as I looked at him, he didn’t seem a day over four or five.
The Lant I remembered as a young man had been tall—taller even than the Marquess—with broad shoulders and a swordsman’s body sculpted by years of training. He’d grown into his face, inheriting the Marquess’s striking features and adding a masculine allure of his own. Among noble daughters, he’d been quite the heartthrob.
No one ever said it out loud, not while I was around—but everyone assumed he would one day become the next Marquess.
Hard to believe this tiny child will become that giant.
It struck me all over again how astonishing growth could be. If he managed to grow that much even after everything I did to him, maybe he’d get even bigger if I fed him properly.
“Still haven’t found him?”
“What do we do? If the butler finds out, we’re dead.”
“Where the hell did that damn kid run off to?”
Lant flinched. I paused, puzzled, then caught the distant murmur of voices—maids, chattering somewhere far off. They sounded quite a distance away, but somehow, Lant had sensed them before I did. Just like earlier.
Why was he so desperate to avoid them?
I hadn’t laid a finger on him.
Well…
A glance at his still-pink cheek made my conscience twinge.
Correction: aside from that one pinch, I haven’t done anything.
Neither the maids nor Nanny knew I’d even met Lant. Right now, there was no one in the household who had any reason to torment him.
“Search again. I’ll check over there.”
“What if the Marquess or the butler finds out?”
“Then we’re doomed, obviously! So find him before they do!”
“We have to. If the young lady hears about this, it’ll be even worse.”
“That damn brat! If I catch him, he’s dead!”
Their voices faded. Lant stood perfectly still, head bowed, shoulders rigid. I tightened my grip on his hand and tugged him forward. To my relief, he didn’t resist—just followed me without a word.
And suddenly, I understood.
The maids’ words hadn’t been harmless gossip. There was no warmth in the way they spoke of him. Lant was unmistakably the Marquess’s son—anyone could see it. No one should dare treat him carelessly.
Yet they did. They spoke like he was a nuisance, a pest to be cleaned up. And Lant? He wasn’t wild, or reckless, or defiant. He was one of the most obedient children I’d ever seen.
There’s something happening in this house that I don’t know about.
The household had long since fallen into the hands of the butler and Nanny. The Marquess had little interest in domestic matters. And the maids were under Nanny’s thumb. I would have to start paying more attention. Something wasn’t right.
Careful to avoid the maids’ usual paths, I led Lant into the main building. Inside, all was still—so different from the bustle outside. No one seemed to suspect Lant had come this far in. Even if they had, this part of the manor was the Marquess’s domain. The butler’s. Mine.
They wouldn’t dare search here.
My destination lay on the second floor. The grand spiral staircase split into two wings—each leading in opposite directions.
The right led to the hallway with my room and the late Marchioness’s quarters.
The left—to the Marquess’s study and his private chamber.
The wings weren’t connected. To get from one to the other, one had to descend and circle around. Holding Lant’s hand, I turned left.
The corridor was empty, just like the first floor. We walked to the study without encountering a soul. The guards who once stood posted outside—placed there to keep the Marchioness away—were gone now. With her death, their purpose had vanished.
I knocked.
A moment passed. Then the door opened.
“Young Lady?” The butler blinked, surprised.
I brushed past him.
Inside, the Marquess was reading documents at his desk. I didn’t spare him a glance—I simply led Lant to the sofa and sat him down.
“What’s going on?” the butler asked, eyes darting between the two of us.
I ignored the question. “Bring some medicine,” I said.
“Right away.”
He gave Lant’s disheveled appearance a once-over and nodded grimly, then slipped out.
Lant sat quietly on the couch, small and still, hands folded in his lap. Leaves clung to his messy navy hair. I knelt and began picking them out, gently, one by one.
I was still at it when I felt a gaze on me. I looked up.
The Marquess was watching.
Strange…
He’d changed. Back when I was tormenting Lant mercilessly, he hadn’t lifted a finger. Hadn’t even blinked. But now… now he was not only watching—he was asking.
“What’s this about?”
Before I could answer, the butler returned.
“I’ve brought the supplies.”
He carried not just ointment, but water, cloth, and clean bandages. Setting them down on the table, he turned to examine Lant.
“These are scratches from something sharp,” he diagnosed immediately, voice calm, efficient.
He wet the cloth and carefully wiped Lant’s face, neck, and arms, working in silence.
“His cheek is swollen. Did someone hit him?”
I froze.
The butler leaned in, studying the red mark.
This wasn’t just a bruise—it was a scandal. Lant was Eliont blood. If word got out that someone had struck him under this roof…
His eyes slowly turned toward me.
I looked away.
Shit.
I turned my head—only to lock eyes with the Marquess. His cool blue gaze was fixed on mine, unwavering. There was no escaping it.
I sighed. “It was me.”
“Pardon?”
“I just… I pinched him. His skin was soft and it felt funny. I didn’t mean to leave a mark.”
The butler stared at me, incredulous.
I met his look with absolute composure.
“Seems like the kid’s got really sensitive skin. You should take better care of him.”
It was bold. Brazen. But there it was.
That expression on the butler’s face? I’d never seen it before.
—
Soft click.
The sound was almost imperceptible, but it was there—the near-audible roll of Lant’s eyes. His big, dark irises shifted conspicuously.
Click.
He stared, utterly expressionless, but unable to tear his gaze from the cake in front of him.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
The cake was beautiful—white cream piled high on a fluffy sponge, glistening fruits soaked in honey arranged in jewel-like colors.
Just to tease him, I nudged the plate a little farther away.
His eyes rolled after it again, round and unblinking.
