Lynn's POV
As I emerged after changing my clothes, I noticed Marilyn seated on a small stool. She had set her umbrella and bag aside and was leaning over, examining her ankles. In profile, her golden locks were elegantly fastened at the back of her head with a black wooden hairpin, and the fine strands cascaded like the softest silk, revealing a slender and graceful neck.
Her long skirt embraced her curves, accentuating her slim waist and the gentle contour of her side. I could almost envision the delicate outline of her hipbones beneath the fabric. With the slightest movement, the pale blue hem of her skirt swayed, resembling the tranquil undulations of the sea around her ankles.
Sunlight streamed into the room, delicately illuminating her form. Marilyn's attire and demeanor reminded me that she stood apart from the rest, and even more distinctly from me.
I discreetly withdrew my gaze, yet found myself unable to resist stealing another glance. Watching her furrow her slender brows for a moment, I hesitated before softly asking, "What's the matter?"
Upon hearing my voice, Marilyn turned her head toward me. Having just taken a cold shower, my body exuded a coolness, and my wet hair, hastily wiped, was still damp and occasionally dripping water.
Marilyn's gaze lingered on my ear for a few seconds before gradually shifting away. She responded, "I got bitten by a mosquito."
She focused her attention on the swollen, inflamed welt just above her ankle, appearing somewhat uncertain. Marilyn contemplated scratching it yet hesitated, fearful of aggravating the irritation.
I looked at her slender leg for a moment, pausing briefly. Then I entered the room and fetched a bottle of anti-itch cream. With purposeful strides, I approached Marilyn and knelt down beside her.
Lowering my head, I revealed my damp, dark hairline to her. I twisted open the cap of the anti-itch cream and deftly dispensed a small amount into my palm, rubbing it between my hands.
As I crouched down, I hadn't initially thought about any implications, but as my hand pressed onto Marilyn's fair and delicate skin, I suddenly realized that the person before me wasn't the familiar elderly grandparents I was used to caring for, but someone I wasn't yet acquainted with—a young woman.
A jolt of realization coursed through me, and I swiftly retracted my hand, stumbling slightly in the process.
Instinctively, I raised my gaze, intending to gauge Marilyn's reaction, only to be caught off guard by the glimpse of the alluring contours of her bosom, discreetly concealed beneath her clothing.
My face instantly flushed, the deep crimson spreading across my cheeks, the warmth even reaching my neck and ears. My dark eyes widened in surprise.
Marilyn bent down, seemingly oblivious to any discomfort in our positioning, her exquisitely made-up face coming remarkably close to mine. I could even catch the delicate fragrance of her perfume lingering in the air.
She was stunning—the kind of beauty that made it difficult for me to meet her gaze directly. Her eyes carried a captivating and uninhibited allure, exuding an intense, unrestrained charm.
As our eyes met, I quickly looked away, her long and lush eyelashes trembling slightly, unsure of where to focus. In my barren eighteen-year-old existence, this was the first time I had been in such close proximity to a young woman's body. My lips moved, wanting to apologize, but Marilyn seemed completely unperturbed.
She sat up straight, furrowing her brow as she glanced at the green ointment in my hand. Extending her leg toward me, the blue earring hanging from her earlobe swayed gently within my peripheral vision.
Softly, she said, "Thank you for your help, but I'm not particularly fond of having the scent of the ointment on my hands."
Marilyn's requests carried a natural sense of entitlement, her tone as gentle as when she had offered to take me away. It sounded soothing, yet she left no room for refusal.
Leaning forward, she settled herself on the small wooden stool and stared directly at me. Her irises were light, concealing a barely perceptible touch of green.
It was a faint hue, as if a thin layer of curved glass, almost imperceptible, veiled her eyes. Her long, perfectly curled eyelashes accentuated her gaze, leaving me incapable of uttering a single word of protest.
The ointment in my palm gradually dried, and I vividly remembered the sensation from just half a minute ago when my hand had touched Marilyn's leg. Her slender legs, which I could easily encompass with my hand, felt warm and delicate to the touch. Her skin was fair and smooth, a stark contrast to my rough, dry hands—a testament to her privileged upbringing.
My chest trembled as my heart beat fast and fierce. I pressed my pale lips tightly together, my face void of expression, avoiding Marilyn's gaze. My eyes blinked nervously, unsure where to look.
The sun was setting, casting a slanted beam of warm light into the room. The tall and slender young man blushed, crouching before the woman. The orange-yellow glow illuminated my straight and resilient back, framed within the aged, dark brown wooden door. It appeared as a warm-toned oil painting when viewed from outside.
Ever since catching sight of that plump whiteness, the redness at the base of my ears hadn't subsided. Marilyn asked for my help with applying the anti-itch cream, and I didn't know how to refuse. A faint "Mmm" escaped my throat.
This time, instead of covering her leg with my entire palm, I poured a drop of the cream onto my fingertip and delicately pressed it onto the swollen mosquito bite.
Marilyn wore high-heeled shoes, revealing a fair expanse of her foot's instep, with slender, slightly protruding metatarsal bones. With my head lowered, I easily observed the red veins and delicate green veins beneath her thin skin.
Apart from the swollen mosquito bite, her exposed skin showed no signs of even the tiniest blemish.
I handled her as delicately as one would care for a precious gem, cautious not to apply too much pressure, fearing it might cause her pain. However, the cream contained alcohol, and despite my care, a slight stinging sensation accompanied the liquid seeping into the swollen bite.
Marilyn hissed and instinctively pulled her leg back. I immediately withdrew my hand, feeling like a guilty child. Wide-eyed, I looked up at her and awkwardly asked, "Did... I apply too much pressure?"
Marilyn shook her head, lifting her skirt slightly and extending her leg back toward my hand. Frowning, she gazed at the patch of skin tinted green by the cream and softly replied, "No."
I bent my head again and continued to rub the mosquito bite until the skin felt warm, then pulled my hand back. Despite my efforts to be gentle, when I removed my hand, the area of skin on Marilyn's leg had turned red.
After applying the cream, I quickly stood up, realizing for the first time, with my head raised, that my face was flushed with embarrassment.
Marilyn thanked me, and I replied with a curt "You're welcome," without meeting her gaze. I added, "I'll go pack my things," and headed toward another room.
I packed my belongings swiftly, finishing in less than twenty minutes. During that time, I intercepted a nearby rogue and gave her half a basket of corn.
Marilyn, engrossed in texting on her phone, looked up in surprise when she saw me emerge with a large bag. She inquired, "What did you pack?"
Lifting the oversized cloth bag, I placed it on a bench and replied, "Books, clothes, and some essential items."
Marilyn glanced at it briefly before averting her eyes. She showed no sign of disagreement and simply stated, "You have too much stuff. Take the books and just one set of clothes. Remove everything else that can be replaced."
Without giving me an opportunity to object, Marilyn calmly added, "We have those things at home. They're already prepared." Marilyn's maternal grandmother was the Luna of the Red Moon Pack. Although her mother hadn't married an alpha from another pack, their household's financial strength was more than sufficient.
"I... okay," I conceded with a sigh.
In the end, I managed to fit everything into a single backpack, with a significant portion of it being books.
Since making the decision to leave, an extraordinary sense of tranquility enveloped me. I didn't resemble someone bidding farewell to a place I had called home for years. There was no anticipation for the new life etched on my face, nor any lingering hesitation or doubt before departing. It was as if I were an itinerant wanderer, drifting from one place to another without a fixed destination.