CHAPTER 37: THE MARKS THAT MADE HIM

[Evelina’s POV—Abandoned Cabin, Deep Forest—Night]

The glowing shard hummed beneath my fingertips.

Soft.

Cold.

Unnatural.

Like moonlight crystallized into a heartbeat.

The system window flickered again, pale and sharp:

[System: RARE ITEM DISCOVERED—Memory Fragment: Type ???[Warning: This fragment contains DATA.]

Data.

Not magic. Not emotion. Not a story.

Information? The kind that changes routes? Or the kind the game doesn’t want me to have?

My hand hovered over the fragment—but Rowan’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Miss."

His footsteps crossed the wooden floor—silent but fast. Too fast. The fire crackled behind him, throwing gold light across his soaked shirt and shadow-carved jaw.

He stopped beside me.

Not touching.

Not breathing.

Just watching the shard in my hand with eyes that sharpened like drawn steel.

"...What is that?" he murmured.

"It’s mine." A cold glare cut the air between us.

He blinked—slow, confused—before letting out a quiet exhale. "You do not need to glare at me for simply asking—"

He stopped.

Then sighed, defeated.

"...Alright. It’s yours." His tone softened into something firm but gentle. "Now please warm yourself up."

I nodded once—sharp—and stepped behind him toward the fire, sinking down onto the chair in front of the crackling flames. Heat licked at my frozen skin, thawing the river’s grip.

Rowan stared at me a moment longer.

Then—he said something he really shouldn’t have said. "You should remove your clothes so that you—"

WHOOSH!!!

A dried log flew through the air like a missile. Rowan tilted his head just one inch—dodging with unnatural reflex. The wooden projectile slammed into the cabin wall behind him.

I pointed at him, seething: "YOU—YOU PERVERT!!!"

Silence.

A loud, echoing silence.

Rowan stood perfectly still, water dripping from his eyelashes, looking at me with the exhausted patience of a man wrongly accused in HD resolution.

"...Miss," he said slowly, "I am very

offended."

I folded my arms, still glaring. "Then don’t say disturbing things like that!"

He exhaled again, long and restrained, as if counting the exact number of brain cells he needed to tolerate me.

"I only meant," he said, articulation painfully controlled, "that you cannot stay in wet clothes for longer. You will catch a cold. So for that you need to remove your clothes."

My face heated.

Warm.

Too warm.

I immediately looked away, burying half my head in the oversized coat he threw over my shoulders earlier.

"Y-You should phrase it better," I muttered, mortified. "Don’t just say ’remove your clothes’ with that dead expression—anyone would misunderstand!"

Rowan stared at me.

Truly stared.

Expression blank.

Eyes calm.

Voice level.

"...How else am I supposed to say it?"

My soul left my body.

He continued, unbothered: "It is a matter of health. You almost drowned. Your temperature is dropping. Removing cold, wet fabric is the logical first step to prevent hypothermia."

"I KNOW THE LOGIC—IT’S THE PRESENTATION THAT WAS WRONG!"

He blinked once, and flatly he said, "Oh."

Then—He added, perfectly serious: "Would it be less alarming if I turned around while you remove them?"

"ROWAN!!!!"

Another log narrowly missed his shoulder.

He didn’t even flinch.

His voice remained calm, almost gentle—dangerously gentle:

"Miss, please. I meant no disrespect. You are trembling. Your lips are pale. This is not about modesty. It is about survival."

I froze.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

My clothes were heavy with river water. My limbs are numb. My teeth had been chattering for minutes now.

But still—being told to remove my dress by Rowan Arcturus, of all people—that was psychically violating.

He must have sensed the storm inside me, because his expression shifted minutely—less soldier, more... careful.

"I will gather dry cloth," he said quietly, stepping back. "And I will not look. You have my word."

He bowed his head slightly—an oath more sincere than any dramatic romantic confession.

My cheeks betrayed me again, flushing warmer.

"Fine..." I muttered, tugging the coat tighter around myself. "Just... phrase things properly next time."

"Yes, Miss."

"And stop suggesting things like you’re reading off an anatomy textbook!"

"...Understood, Miss."

He moved toward the corner of the cabin, searching quietly for old blankets, leaving me staring into the fire—face hot, body cold, and irritation simmering like boiling water.

I stared into the fire, trying to gather myself—trying to forget the river, the cold, the drowning, the CPR—started taking off my top, and then he spoke.

"Miss. I found a blanket."

I turned my head. He also turned his head.

At the exact moment I had my top halfway off.

We both froze.

For one excruciating heartbeat, silence detonated between us. He didn’t blink. I didn’t breathe.

Then—His gaze flicked downward.

My stomach.

My ribs.

Bare skin revealed by the firelight.

His eyes did not widen. Did not dart away. But for the first time since I met him—Rowan Arcturus stopped breathing.

"...You—" I shrieked, scandalized, mortified, homicidal— "TURN YOUR DAMN HEAD!!!"

Rowan exhaled a breath that sounded like a man losing the will to live.

He stepped forward, wrapped the blanket around me with military precision, and said in a voice flat enough to bury me alive:

"Miss. You are cold. Nothing more."

"DON’T SAY IT LIKE YOU’RE IDENTIFYING A MEDICAL SPECIMEN!"

He didn’t answer. Just met my eyes—steady, unwavering, too close—and murmured:

"Now... please dry yourself."

The way he said "please" felt like a command disguised as courtesy. He turned around instantly, posture stiff with discipline.

"Ugh—fine!" I muttered, pulling the blanket tighter. My anger simmered—but beneath it, heat curled under my skin in ways I refused to acknowledge.

Once wrapped and dried enough to stop shivering, I looked at his back.

He was still in his wet clothes.

Completely drenched.

"Rowan," I said coldly.

"Yes, Miss."

"You need to take yours off too."

He didn’t hesitate.

"You won’t be able to bear it, Miss."

My mouth fell open.

...Excuse me?

Did he just—

Does he think he’s some Greek god sent to torment me?!

I scowled. "I’m not made of glass. And I’m not going to faint like a Victorian lady if you take off a shirt. Just warm up. You’re dripping everywhere."

He turned slightly—just enough that his dark eyes caught mine. "Then... as you say."

He lifted his hands.

Fingers on buttons.

Fabric sliding.

And as the shirt peeled away from his skin, I forgot to breathe.

Not because of muscle. Not because of physique. Not because he looked like a weapon carved into human shape.

No.

Because—His chest. His back. His ribs. All of it—covered in lashes.

Long. Raised.Demonic.Very old, yet could bite you every day, with scars that no human should have survived.

He stood there silently, shirt discarded on the floor, the firelight painting the marks across his skin like a constellation of violence.

My eyes widened. My heart stopped.

"...What," I whispered, stepping forward despite myself, "what is—"

He didn’t look at me.

"I told you," he said quietly, voice stripped bare, "you wouldn’t be able to look."

"No," I said sharply—too sharply—voice cracking into something raw and furious. I took another step, then another.

"NO."

My hand trembled as I reached toward one of the scars on his shoulder, hesitating just before touching.

"Who..." my voice shook, rage building like a storm, "who harmed you? Who did this—?!"

Rowan stayed still.

Perfectly still.

Eyes forward. Jaw locked. Breathe shallowly.

He did not flinch. He did not retreat.

He simply said— "Miss. It is irrelevant."

"IRRELEVANT?!" My voice rose, echoing through the cabin.

My fists clenched at my sides.My blood boiled so violently I could taste iron.

"How—how DARE you say that these are irrelevant?! Who hurt you? Who marked you like this? Tell me—NOW! I WILL KILL THAT DAMN PERSON RIGHT NOW!!!"

Rowan slowly turned his head, and I saw a fraction of expression. Shocked, like he never expected to hear this.

He looked at me enough to meet my eyes.

His voice was low.Measured.Deadly quiet.

"These scars," he said, "are the reason I exist."

My breath hitched.

He continued, "And the reason I serve."

I didn’t speak.I couldn’t.

His gaze lowered briefly—to my trembling hand. To the fury burning in my eyes. To the emotion he didn’t understand.

Then, very softly—

"Do not concern yourself with my past, Miss."

His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, controlled breath.

"But," he added, something flickering beneath his voice—so faint I almost missed it— "If you command me to tell you one day... I will, but not now."

Those words settled between us.

Heavy.

Electric.

Intimate.

My anger did not fade.

It sharpened.

Because Rowan Arcturus—Quiet. Loyal. Unbreakable—Was carrying wounds someone else carved into him.

And suddenly, my chest felt like it was caving in.

"Rowan," I whispered, voice trembling with something I hated—something too close to emotion—"Whoever did this—"

"—is already dead," he finished flatly.

The fire crackled.

My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

My fingers curled into fists.

Because scars like those did not come from just one person. Not one moment. Not one sin.

And whoever made them—if they weren’t dead already—I would have killed them myself.