CHAPTER 31: INDECENT PROPOSAL (1)

With incredible composure, the spectators leave the stands in neat lines—a level of discipline I am absolutely not used to.

Back when I played soccer, the bleachers would empty in pure chaos, like the frenzied rush of Pamplona when the crowd ran from charging bulls.

Even Priscilla leaves the Volkom family’s reserved seat, irritation clearly written on her face—I can’t tell if it’s because of me or because she couldn’t keep up with a fight between mere humans.

Under her breath, she mutters something about the need to adopt serious measures to restrain the growing strength of familiars.

When the last of the spectators disappears, only Sasha and I remain, still sitting in our seats.

She is the one who breaks the silence.

«So my dear big sister really told you to sit tight and wait for me, huh... who would’ve thought?»

Her voice drips with sadism, almost malicious—basically no different from usual.

Just hearing her talk sends icy shivers crawling down my spine.

«Y-Yeah...» I try to sound calm, but my voice betrays me—I even stutter. «She said... you wanted to talk to me about something...»

The faint screech of her chair sliding back tells me she’s standing up.

A second later, her hand lands on my shoulder.

The instant her fingers touch me, a violent shiver runs down my back—I can’t stop trembling with fear.

«Why are you afraid of me, Lyon? Have I ever given you a reason to be?»

Sasha’s voice is soft, almost comforting.

But the effect is the opposite of what she probably intended—the knot of fear in my stomach tightens until I can hardly breathe.

Sure, she’s never hurt me directly, but the stories about her—cruel, humiliating tortures inflicted on poor Dorje, Daphne’s dark warnings about her manipulative nature—are more than enough to justify my terror.

In the blink of an eye, the world around me changes.

Suddenly, I’m standing in what is unmistakably... a bedroom?

Wait—could this be Sasha’s room?

Ayra’s chamber has a gothic style, filled with lavish furniture and dominated by deep blacks that evoke the solemn majesty of a medieval fortress.

But Sasha’s... doesn’t feel like the room of a noble vampire at all.

It looks more like the messy, twisted bedroom of a teenager... a very perverse teenager.

The walls are plastered with a chaotic collage of posters, all depicting male vampires—recognizable by their scarlet eyes—completely naked and caught in explicit acts of submission or with each other.

Scattered across her massive bed and the floor are dozens of sex toys, some shaped so bizarrely I can’t even imagine how they’re supposed to be used.

At first, all I feel is deep embarrassment.

But that awkwardness quickly turns into something darker when my gaze drifts toward the darkest corner of the oversized room—easily twice the size of Ayra’s.

Lined up on the wall like grotesque keychains are countless instruments of torture—some traditional, once used in our world in past centuries, others so twisted and depraved no human mind could have invented them.

Worst of all, most are stained with blood, and I doubt it belongs to Sasha or any other vampire.

The sight alone makes me nauseous, and I barely manage to swallow back the urge to vomit.

Through it all, Sasha stands still, lost in silent contemplation in front of an immense wardrobe overflowing with clothes.

The suffocating perversion of this room clouds my thoughts so much that it takes me a moment too long to notice what I should have realized immediately—Sasha is no longer wearing the short, revealing red dress from earlier.

Instead, she now wears only lingerie so sheer it’s practically not there at all.

The sight—her almost naked body exposed before me—hits me harder than I want to admit.

No matter how desperately I try to look away, my eyes are drawn to the firm curves of her ass and her massive breasts.

Damn teenage hormones... they won’t leave me alone, not even in a situation this nerve-racking!

«Lyon, back when you were still in the human world... you had sex with lots of girls, didn’t you?»

Sasha throws the question at me so casually that for a second I think I misheard.

But no—her tone is dead serious, a sharp contrast to how intimate and personal the question itself is.

«Y-Yeah... well, I... I did it a few times...»

My voice trembles with shame—not so much because of the question, but because of who asked it and how.

I’m not lying; as captain of the soccer team, with decent looks and a naturally social personality, I’ve always had some success with girls.

Sure, I’m only sixteen, so it’s not like I’ve had wild or unforgettable experiences... but yeah, it’s happened a few times.

«I figured as much. It’d be strange if a tasty morsel like you had never felt the pleasure of sliding your cock between a woman’s thighs.»

Sasha’s comment is crude, completely unworthy of a princess, yet she speaks with total nonchalance while rummaging through her wardrobe.

«That means you know a little something about women. Good. Tonight, there’s going to be a very important ceremony in the castle’s grand hall. Among the many events, there will also be a kind of beauty contest... and I refuse to lose to Daphne again!»

«A ceremony?» I echo, blinking in confusion. «I didn’t know anything about that...»

«Of course you didn’t—humans aren’t invited!» she snaps, pulling out two dresses with an irritated sigh. «Every year, there’s a ball to commemorate the founding of the kingdom of Mildelar by our glorious ancestor, Drakhul Volkom. At the end of the event, the most beautiful noble vampire is crowned. For years, that bitch Daphne has been winning... and it drives me insane! How can those brainless troglodytes always pick her as the most beautiful in the realm and not me?! I’m obviously more attractive, yet I never win—not even considered a contender!»

It’s hardly a surprise that Daphne’s elegance and refinement have always outshined Sasha’s blatant vulgarity... but I’d be an idiot to say that out loud, unless I have a death wish.

Sasha suddenly turns toward me, her expression far too irritated for something this trivial.

But any indignation I expect from her is instantly overshadowed when my brain short-circuits at the sight of her outrageously large breasts, barely contained by a practically nonexistent bra.

She holds up two dresses, waving them impatiently like flags.

One is a delicate white gown with intricate lace, the other sparkles with golden sequins.

«Since apparently no one appreciates my exquisite sense of style—which, by the way, perfectly highlights my flawless body—I’ll let you decide!»

This has to be a joke.

Is this really the all-important matter she wanted to discuss with me?

To make me her fashion consultant?