CHAPTER 85: EMBARRASSING MOMENT

I wanted to bury myself alive.

Truly—dig a hole with my bare hands, crawl into it, and cover myself with dirt until the world forgot I ever existed.

Because when I opened my eyes that morning... I found myself curled up in Cassel’s arms like a helpless infant.

My face was pressed against his chest, his scent woven into every breath I took, and his arms were wrapped around me so securely it felt as if he had sworn to protect me in his sleep.

I nearly stopped breathing from the sheer humiliation.

My brain short-circuited. My body froze. And my dignity? It evaporated into the air like smoke.

I couldn’t even look at the others in the car. My burning face stayed buried against Cassel’s shirt, my hands shaking as I tried to process what in God’s name was happening.

I knew—I knew—we were supposed to head out on a long-term mission this morning. A serious one.

One that required preparation, alertness, and responsibility.

Instead, I had spent the entire night tossing and turning in Cassel’s bed, unable to sleep because of... well, him.

And all his shameless warmth. All his infuriating closeness.

Every time I drifted off, he somehow got closer, or I did, or both of us ended up tangled together without meaning to.

I barely slept until dawn.

So, of course, I couldn’t wake up in the morning.

I vaguely remembered hands lifting me, someone dressing me, someone carrying me, someone whispering in my ear... but in my half-asleep mind, I had assumed it was the maids.

Never—not even in my wildest imagination—did I think Cassel would have the audacity to scoop me up into his arms, hold me against him, and let me continue sleeping on his lap the entire ride.

My dignity... gone. Completely, utterly gone.

And then—because fate has a twisted sense of humor—the moment my eyelashes fluttered the tiniest bit, Cassel noticed.

He always noticed.

"Awake?"

His voice slid into my ears as velvet dipped in heat.

I wanted to die.

Right there.

In his arms.

Die and resurrect after at least two hundred years had passed.

Of course, he noticed I was awake—my eyelashes had been trembling nonstop. My breath caught every time I tried to pretend I was still asleep.

And I’d been wiggling around like a guilty idiot, thinking I was being subtle.

But Cassel’s arms were strong.

His body was solid.

Every movement I made was probably as loud as a scream against his chest.

Dear.

God.

This was officially the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.

"If you’re awake," Cassel murmured, a deep warmth vibrating through his chest, "then get up and eat something."

And even worse—he chuckled. A low, warm, maddening chuckle that made me want to punch him straight into the next century.

He was DEFINITELY laughing at me.

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to yell. I wanted to melt into liquid embarrassment and slide into the floorboards.

But all I could manage was sitting still like a stunned doll, eyes barely open, face burning red enough to boil water.

"Put me down," I whispered, my voice so tiny and pathetic it made my soul crumble.

For once, Cassel didn’t tease. He didn’t tighten his hold, didn’t whisper something embarrassing, didn’t make the moment any worse.

He lowered me onto the seat beside him—gently, carefully, as if I were made of glass.

And when I finally dared to look up, still half-hiding behind my hair, I spotted food—already prepared, already opened, placed within reach.

Milk. Bread. Something warm in a sealed container.

Cassel held the items in his hands and extended them toward me.

"Here. Eat a little," he said, his voice soft but firm. "You must be hungry."

"...Thank you."

Fine. Since he remembered to feed me, like an attentive... something, I would forgive his overly familiar behavior last night.

For now.

I quietly ate after replying to the cheerful morning greetings from the others.

Henry, however, looked at me as if I had stabbed his pride, burned his wallet, and kicked his dog all at once. The expression on his face screamed: You owe me. You owe me several lifetimes.

I chose to ignore him completely.

My mood improved once I’d eaten. Food always made me happier. I even smiled—genuinely smiled—in relief.

But the smile didn’t last.

Because the moment our car approached the massive outer gate of the base, a deep, instinctive irritation settled into my chest like a storm cloud.

"What the hell are these people doing here?"

The words slipped out before I could swallow them back.

Just as the vehicle slowed to a stop, the full scene unfolded before me:

A massive iron gate towers overhead.

Crowds of people swarming everywhere—some in patched-up armor, others in mismatched clothes that looked like they had survived a thousand battles.

Men and women with strange abilities crackling faintly around their hands.

Rough, chaotic, loud energy fills the air like static.

Dust swirling, boots stomping, voices shouting.

A dangerous, unstable mixture of personalities and powers.

And then—

Standing at the very center of the chaos, as the world revolved around them and everyone else was just scenery—

The two people I despise seeing the most.

The original heroes of this world.

Mary.

And Cecil.

My stomach dropped.

Mary—of course—was dressed in white.

White.

In this filthy, smoky, dust-choked world, even breathing made your clothes dirty.

Yet hers were spotless.

Her entire being glowed with pristine protagonist energy. Her hair was smooth, her skin seemed to emit light, and her expression carried that gentle innocence that fooled everyone but me.

Scientifically impossible.

Annoyingly unfair.

Cecil stood beside her, wearing luxurious clothes as if the apocalypse had been tailored specifically to accommodate his fashion sense.

His chin lifted high, as if he were the king, and everyone else was a peasant, granted the privilege of breathing the same air as him.

He radiated arrogance so thick I could practically taste it.

And judging by the number of vehicles and people gathered around them—

A horrifying thought struck me.

No.

No, no, no, no—

NO.

Don’t tell me these people...

these protagonists...

these walking disasters...

They are coming with us.

Do not tell me I have to spend the entire mission near them.

Do not tell me I cannot escape them.

Ever.

Not in this world.

Not in any world.

Not even in death.

Do I really have to keep guarding Cassel from them all the time?

Keep thinking about them?

Keep fearing what their plot armor could do?

Why?

Why are they here?

Why do they have to come with us?

My chest tightened painfully. My thoughts darkened.

A wave of rejection, dread, disgust, fear, and anxious hatred crashed over me all at once, suffocating.

I hated them.

Not because they were heroes.

Not because they were powerful.

Not because they stood out.

But because they were dangerous to Cassel.

Because they were the reason, in the original story, that Cassel—the person I loved—had been destroyed, ruined, and used until he had nothing left.

My breath shook.

My fingers curled.

My heart throbbed painfully, violently—

"Rosalia. Rosalia."

A voice called me back—warm, familiar, grounding.

And then an embrace enveloped me.

Not forceful.

Just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone.

I wasn’t powerless.

I looked up.

Cassel’s gaze met mine—intense, burning, protective.

His eyes searched my face with a depth that made the world fade into silence.

As if he saw everything I was thinking.

Everything I feared.

Everything that threatened to crush me from the inside.

His deep, gravelly voice slid through the tension like thunder wrapped in velvet.

"Rosalia... don’t be scared."

His thumb brushed the corner of my eye—slow, gentle, deliberate.

And then he leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear.

"Your lover isn’t someone who can be bullied easily."

His tone shifted—still calm, but carrying a storm beneath it. Rage. Confidence. A warning.

"Did you forget," he murmured, eyes glinting with dangerous certainty, "how strong I am?"

No.

I hadn’t forgotten.

How could I?

I lowered my eyes, memories flooding in—memories of all the battles he’d won, all the enemies he’d crushed, all the times he stood between me and danger.

The Cassel before me was not the doomed villain from the original novel—the tragic, manipulated puppet who met a miserable end.

No.

This Cassel was stronger.

Sharper.

More ruthless.

More alive.

He hadn’t fallen for Mary.

He hadn’t bowed to his father or brother.

He didn’t let anyone push him around.

He was rewriting destiny with his own hands.

And I...

I needed to trust him.

Not the story.

Not fate.

Not the world’s original script.

Him.

Yes.

I must trust him.

I will.