Warning: The content of the following chapter has visual descriptions that might not suit certain readers, I request readers below 18 years of age to skip it.
Magda stumbled back to her room with Micheal, her drunken haze blurring the edges of the world around her. Yet, even through her muddled thoughts, she was acutely aware of the tall man supporting her.
The rough fabric of his thick winter jacket brushed against her cheek as she leaned in. Though it pricked her skin, she found comfort in its texture—a reassurance that Micheal was truly there and not just a dream.
"You're too warm for someone so icy," Magda mumbled, her words slurred but tinged with playfulness.
Micheal tightened his grip slightly to keep her from stumbling. "Careful," he replied softly, his voice steady. "You're about to fall over."
The firmness in his hold sent shivers down her spine. Magda's heart raced as she realized they were alone. Her retainers were nowhere to be seen. For the first time, it was just her and Micheal.
A reckless thought formed in her mind. What if I seduce him tonight? They were married, and this was what married couples did.
Emboldened by the absence of her retainers and the hazy tips from scandalous gossip magazines, she decided to act. Better to try and fail than to never try at all, she resolved.
As soon as Micheal helped her into her room, Magda threw a childish tantrum. "I need help getting ready for bed!" she declared, her crimson eyes wide with feigned innocence.
Micheal sighed, his tone exasperated. "I'll call for someone else to help you."
"No strangers," she insisted, pouting. "Just you."
After a brief back-and-forth, Micheal reluctantly agreed.
He tightened his winter jacket around himself as if it could shield him from temptation.
As he began working on her gown, he quickly realized it was tied too tightly. Struggling with the knots, he muttered under his breath, "Who ties these so tightly?"
"Maybe you're just bad at it," Magda teased, her drunken giggle making his ears flush.
When he finally undid the laces, she slipped out of the gown with a flourish, landing in his arms wearing only her underclothes.
Micheal froze. His heart pounded as he fought to keep a neutral expression. Magda, however, noticed his silence and frowned. "Why so serious?" she murmured. "Am I not beautiful?"
"You're drunk," Micheal said evenly, though his voice was strained. He loved her and seeing her like this tested every ounce of his self-control.
Magda, unsatisfied with his response, let her hair down. Dark locks cascaded over her bare shoulders as she looked up at him with a sultry smile.
"Micheal," she whispered, "you're supposed to react."
Micheal's breath hitched, his composure teetering on the edge.
Beneath his thick winter jacket, his body betrayed him, heat pooling low and throbbing insistently. His mind screamed for control, but his physical strain was impossible to ignore.
Keep it together, he told himself, clenching his jaw. "Magda," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "you're drunk. You should rest."
Magda wasn't deterred. She leaned closer, her crimson eyes glinting with drunken determination.
"I'm drunk," she admitted, her tone laced with sultry defiance, "but that doesn't mean I'm blind. Or stupid."
Her fingers lightly grazed his forearm where his sleeve was missing. "Why won't you look at me properly, Micheal?"
He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Because if I do, I won't stop. His pulse pounded in his ears, and he felt his resolve cracking under the weight of her proximity.
Without answering, he stepped back, muttering, "I'll get a towel and water." The excuse felt flimsy even to him, but he needed space—desperately.
As Micheal left the room, his steps were hurried, his mind an agonizing battlefield of restraint and longing.
She's my wife. This isn't wrong. But the thought of losing her—the shadow of her death flag from the novel—kept his desire shackled.
By the time he returned, he had managed to compose his expression, though his body still rebelled against him.
Magda was curled in the corner of the bed when he entered.
Relief washed over him, thinking she had fallen asleep, but her half-lidded gaze said otherwise. As he approached, she shifted, the blanket slipping enough to reveal she had removed her underclothes.
Micheal's throat tightened, his breath catching at the sight.
"I'm ready," she murmured, her voice soft and teasing, a dangerous mix of innocence and seduction.
Micheal's hands clenched at his sides of the water basin. Don't lose control.
"Magda…" he began, his voice hoarse, but the words caught in his throat. Her crimson eyes, daring and expectant, pierced through his restraint like a blade.
With a deep breath, he began wiping her back, his hands trembling as they traced the curve of her shoulders and the narrowing of her waist, emphasizing the perfect balance of her hourglass figure.
Each touch felt like fire against his palms, burning away his restraint. Micheal tried to summon mundane thoughts—castle logistics, the next day's military strategies—anything to distract himself from the softness of her skin beneath his fingers.
But her perfection shattered every defense. The elegant flare of her hips, the warmth radiating from her body, all pulled him relentlessly into the present.
How does she not realize what she's doing to me? he thought, his throat tightening as he swallowed hard, each moment eroding his resolve further.
When she turned onto her back, Micheal faltered. Her bare form was breathtaking—a vision of delicate curves and pale, flawless skin that seemed to glow in the soft lamplight. Her shapely breasts rose and fell with her steady breaths, and every inch of her form seemed to invite him closer.
Micheal clenched his jaw, forcing himself to avert his gaze. Instead, his eyes landed on the little pouch of her stomach, and the familiar pang of fear and guilt gripped his heart.
I can't lose her, he thought. The vision of her death loomed over him, an oppressive shadow he couldn't escape.
With painstaking care, he quickly finished wiping her, his hands steadying only through sheer willpower. He tucked her into bed, his movements gentle, as though afraid she might break.
Without a word, he turned and left the room, his steps quick, each one an effort to distance himself from the temptation he had barely controlled.
Magda's crimson eyes followed him, her heart sinking further with each step he took away from her.
She replayed the night in her mind, the subtle ways she had thrown herself at him, the desperate attempts to catch his attention.
The shame of having exposed herself so openly, only to be met with his restraint, stung like a fresh wound. I gave him everything, and he didn't even want me, she thought bitterly.
She had noticed his brief glance at her stomach, and her mind twisted it into disgust. He must hate my imperfect body, she reasoned, picturing the flawless, confident women often featured in gossip magazines.
The stark comparison between herself and them gnawed at her, filling her chest with a suffocating blend of self-loathing and despair.
I'm not enough for him, she thought, tears brimming in her eyes. She clutched the blanket tightly, as though it could shield her from the vulnerability that now felt unbearable.
Her mind spiraled further, the weight of rejection pressing heavily on her. With a trembling sigh, she turned her face to the pillow, closing her eyes against the tears that slipped free.
Micheal felt more distant now than he ever had before, and she feared she would never bridge the gap between them.