“You sound like you were pretty satisfied last night.”
I glared at him, frowning. A smug look spread across his face.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“I’m in a great mood—ow!”
I bit his chattering lips hard. Despite the bite, he chuckled. I considered asking him seriously, abandoning the teasing, when his large hand slowly stroked my back.
“All that practice paid off, huh? Feeling good?”
“Practice?”
My voice sharpened. He didn’t seem to notice, still laughing.
“They say it hurts for a woman’s first time, so you have no idea how much I practiced—”
“With who?”
“What?”
I pulled my hands off him and sat up. Sensing the shift in my mood, he sat up too.
“Who was this practice partner?”
“Partner?”
He echoed my words, clueless. His obliviousness only fueled my anger.
“Should I find out myself?”
I stood, moving to leave the bed, but he grabbed my wrist with a frantic look.
“There’s no one!”
“I said I’m not joking.”
“I swear, there’s no one!”
He shook his head, gripping my wrist tightly. I scanned his face, searching for lies. He didn’t seem to be lying. When I stayed silent, he rushed to explain.
“Why would I do that with anyone but you?”
“Then how did you practice?”
His face flushed red.
“Do I have to say?”
“Yes, tell me.”
His eyes darted nervously. I twisted my wrist to pull free.
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell!”
Embarrassed, he covered his face with one hand, still clutching my wrist with the other.
“…I imagined it.”
“What?”
“I said I imagined it!”
He dropped his hand and shouted, his face now beet red.
“Every night, I imagined all sorts of things with you. Happy now?”
His entire body was flushed, as if painted with dye.
“But you—you’re awfully skilled yourself. How do you know whether I’m good or not?”
Caught off guard, I faltered.
Sensing my unease, he tightened his grip on my wrist. Before I could pull away, he yanked me down, and I collapsed onto him. He bared his teeth, growling.
“Spill.”
“I practiced too.”
“What? Who? Who did you practice with?”
His voice dropped menacingly, his jealousy evident. Seeing him mirror my earlier reaction made me stifle a laugh.
I burrowed into his chest. He flinched at my sudden move.
“Who else but you, Sys?”
I lifted my head and kissed his lips. A satisfied smile spread across his face.
It wasn’t exactly as he thought, but he was indeed my partner. That, I’d keep secret.
Forever.
Epilogue
Sigh…
Sys’s heavy sigh made Isnal, standing by his side, flinch.
Huff…
As Sys’s sighs grew heavier with worry, Isnal’s face darkened.
Ughhh…
Feeling a crisis with each prolonged sigh, Isnal closed his eyes, muttering to himself.
I hear nothing.
“Hey, Count Lionel.”
I hear nothing, nothing.
Isnal pretended not to hear, edging away from Sys.
Experience taught him that getting caught by a dejected Sys meant days of mental exhaustion.
“Hey, Count Lionel, where are you going? Come here and listen.”
Damn it!
One step from the door, and he was caught. Isnal cursed inwardly. Swearing aloud might ease his frustration, but his opponent was the Emperor, known for his foul temper and grudges—except with one person.
Since Isnal wasn’t that person, avoiding that temper was the wisest move.
He’d once let a curse slip and paid dearly for it. Determined not to repeat that mistake, he scanned the room for allies.
Misery loves company, and sharing hardship felt less unfair than suffering alone. This rigid knight was learning to be cunning.
Damn it all!
The office was empty except for him and Sys. The sharp-witted palace staff had already fled, sensing the ominous mood.
Isnal despaired, staring at the deserted room.
“Come here!”
Sys beckoned with a finger.
Isnal longed to bolt, but it was too late. Defiance crossed his mind, but rank was absolute, and as a knight, he was bound by obedience.
His only rebellion was dragging his feet, showing his reluctance as he answered.
“…Yes, Your Majesty.”
His boots stuck to the marble floor like glue. Like a cow led to slaughter, Isnal shuffled to Sys’s side.
Sys wasted no time, launching into his complaints.
“Listen, does this make sense to you?”
His raised voice drew a heavy sigh from Isnal.
The famously composed Emperor only bared his emotions like this in one case—when it involved the Empress, Bijonne Lotta Elient Freeston.
“You know I can’t sleep deeply without holding Bee. And she, knowing that better than anyone—”
Sys trembled with indignation.
“She told me I’m annoying and to go away! Does that make sense? Does it?”
Last night, as usual, Sys had nestled into her embrace. Her body, softened by pregnancy, was warm and pliant.
Her slightly feverish warmth and silky skin were addictive, calming his mind and body. Without touching her, he couldn’t sleep.
Recalling how she’d brushed off his hand, Sys muttered glumly.
“Are all women like that when pregnant? Do they find their husbands annoying? Is that it?”
“How would I know?!”
Isnal barely restrained himself from grabbing Sys by the collar.
Lately, Sys’s emotions swung wildly. After observing him, the court physician cautiously diagnosed it as pregnancy-related hysteria.
Isnal couldn’t fathom why Sys, not the pregnant Empress, exhibited such symptoms.
He’d interrogated the physician, demanding if it made sense, but the physician stood firm, saying some husbands even experience morning sickness for their wives, so hysteria was no big deal.
Knights, who carried sharp blades, were no strangers to injuries. Isnal could stitch wounds and set bones, but this bizarre “wife’s illness” was beyond him.
