CHAPTER 39: CHAPTER 39: BLASPHEMY

Aiden winced in pain as he cut himself again.

He looked at his arm—the deep cut he had made on the balcony that night, the thumb he had bitten to draw more blood. His hands were full of wounds, wounds he had carved into himself.

"A healer would be nice right now..." he thought again.

He didn’t know the herbs and sugar would coat the scent and taste of his blood, but he wanted to take the risk.

These were the rare times he could affect the nobles. Peasants, servants, butlers, maids—they were easy. But nobles... oh, how rare it was to infect them with his blood. And even then, it might not take effect—their bloodlines were that much thicker, that much stronger.

"This pain is getting unbearable..." he complained as he raised his hand above the teapot. From the cut, his blood—thick with essence—dripped out.

Drop!

Drop!

Drop!

"But... grooming is always fun ...." he murmured, his inner desires laid bare for a moment.

.

.

.

After the mixing,The air shifted as he entered the gardens.

Perfume clung to the breeze—sweet, floral, intoxicating. Roses bled fragrance into the sunlight, the trimmed hedges bowing to the weight of summer’s heat. Laughter trickled like champagne over marble fountains, smooth and practiced, trained into elegance.

Aiden stepped forward, sunlight spilling across his white hair, each strand catching like silver wire. His golden eyes—those quiet, glowing gems—carved through the shade, neither loud nor desperate, but undeniable.

They already saw him from afar. Their necks stiffened. Their laughter faltered for a second too long, but they corrected, as noblewomen always corrected. Pretending not to notice servants was not arrogance—it was ritual. The rich devoured all light in a room, and the rest were meant to disappear.

But Aiden did not vanish.

Sabrina felt it first—his look, his presence. It was like an invisible finger pressing under her chin, coaxing her face to tilt, her eyes to wander, her pride to fracture. She caught herself, stopped her neck halfway, forced her gaze back toward Catherine. Her pride—damned pride—anchored her to her empty teacup.

Still, she felt it. The weight of him. The hush of his shadow.

And then—closer.

Footsteps over gravel. Crisp, slow, steady. Each one intruded, folding the sound of their gossip into silence. Their conversation ebbed, thinner and thinner, like a candle’s last smoke. They hadn’t meant to quiet for him. Neither woman admitted it. But the hush came anyway.

Not their husband. Not a noble. Not a guest.

A servant. A pretty-faced servant.

"Tea," Aiden said at last, his voice soft, gliding, but sunk in a low timbre that made it linger on their skin, "for the gorgeous viscountess... and another one for the wonderful duchess."

He said it like he was about to sing—a tone made for worship, not service.

Sabrina’s thoughts flickered. Why wonderful for her? Why gorgeous for Catherine? A stupid, childish question, and yet it pierced her.

The words nibbled at her pride. She wanted the word gorgeous. She dismissed it quickly, but the sting clung like nettles.

"Aiden... your service has always been lovely," Sabrina said, her tone cool, but her chest tight.

"Yes, you are following Gerald’s teachings very well..." Catherine added.

He moved closer. The clink of porcelain. The steam rising. His arm brushed past Catherine as he poured the tea. Muscles flexed faintly beneath rolled sleeves, veins snaking with unstudied grace. She noticed. She shouldn’t have.

She hated him. She wanted to hate him. This boy had tainted her daughter, ripped the veil of her household’s purity. Catherine had sworn—sworn—she’d see him executed. She’d prayed to God for the chance.

But that night...

She remembered it. The medic room. Aurora gasping. That obscene rhythm of flesh, his white hair sticking to sweat, the monstrous size of his...pounding flora, like there was no tomorrow, she was angry then, but now, as he remembered that rough satisfying pounding —no, no, stop. Catherine blinked hard, her nails biting into her palms beneath the table.

’Improper thoughts..... Blasphemy. You have a husband. Forgive me, Lord,’ she begged silently, her lips pressing into the rim of her teacup like a prayer.

But his scent...

Not cologne. Something deeper. Something warm, metallic, faintly sweet. Her nose twitched, and her chest rose quicker, greedier.

For some reason, this morning, Aiden looked sharpened, heightened—like an artist had chiseled him since dawn. Even Sabrina’s eyes betrayed her. Catherine caught her stealing glances, though Sabrina masked it with idle bites of cookies.

"...It’s done," Aiden whispered, the words floating like velvet. "Please enjoy your tea."

He turned as if to leave.

"Ahem..." Catherine coughed suddenly, her voice too sharp. "Sabrina, you don’t even thank your servants? We have a tradition here. We do not dismiss them so casually."

Why had she said that? She never said that. She never cared. But the words crawled out of her throat, clinging to him, demanding he stay.

Sabrina’s brows arched. Catherine—cold, disciplined Catherine—defending a servant? Her instincts churned, whispering. Something was wrong. Something deliciously wrong.

"Oh, I didn’t know..." Sabrina’s voice softened, her lips curving with new curiosity. "I apologize. Thank you. Thank you for this oh so wonderful tea."

Her eyes slipped to Catherine, reading her. Catherine’s mask did not crack, but Sabrina had lived too long among liars. She felt it. A stir of something beneath the duchess’ skin.

"Aiden... as an apology," Sabrina breathed, "please.... join us for tea."

He paused. The air seemed to pause with him. Then he smiled, sunlight catching on his lips.

Rare. Nobles did not speak with servants. Rare to be seen. Rare to sit. Rare to share. But rare was his playground.

"Can I?" he asked softly, voice a whisper of obedience, but his eyes daring them to refuse.

Catherine flushed. She nodded first. Sabrina followed.

Now he sat before them. A view. The garden pale compared to him. The fountains hushed. His presence drank sound.

"Aiden... how old are you exactly ?" Sabrina asked, her red hair falling forward like blood over ivory.

"Going to be nineteen this end of the year," he said simply.

"So young..." she murmured. "So young and capable. Capable enough to notice a woman’s problem with a single look..." Her cheeks warmed at the memory—that night he had caught her irritation, soothed her with words no boy should know.

"Catherine," she turned, almost playful, "why don’t I take Aiden for a few weeks? Give him more... proper training."

"No." Catherine’s answer was too quick, too sharp.

Both Sabrina and Aiden blinked. Catherine inhaled, caught herself. "I mean... we lack servants. We need Aiden’s talents here, especially when the lord is here."

Her lips met the tea. She sipped. Too sweet. Almost cloying. But her throat craved it.

"Ah..." Sabrina nodded slowly. "I see..."

She sipped as well. Sweet. Too sweet. And underneath—something else. Something that warmed the chest, flushed the neck.

[Aura of Allure skill activated.]

[Target acquired within range...]

[Target Sabrina... FAILED.]

[Target Catherine... SUCCESS.]

Inside, Aiden’s grin sharpened. You shouldn’t have let me stay. Shouldn’t have let me come so close. So close that would force him to act.....Sinful..