First Kiss in Blood
Charles gripped Micah's chin—firm, unyielding—like he clung to the only answer that could damn or save him. His thumb pressed into her skin, forcing her to meet his eyes. For a second, the world fell silent, tension coiling like lightning about to strike.
Then he moved without warning. He kissed her.
Not gently. Not hesitantly.
It was raw, fierce, and devastating.
His mouth slammed into hers. It wasn't a kiss—it was a collision. Savage. Frantic. A clash of rage, guilt, and something too mangled to name. His hand locked to the back of her neck, hauling her closer as if the contact alone could scorch away everything he despised about himself.
His lips were rough, tongue demanding, breath feverish. It wasn't love. Not tenderness. His tongue forced past her resistance, claiming the space with fire more like punishment than passion.
It was punishment for both of them.
It wasn't a lover's kiss.
It was a storm—one that had waited far too long to break.
His lips were cold—too cold. A kiss like winter steel. Like silence after mourning.
The taste of blood filled her mouth, metallic and bitter. She couldn't tell whose it was. His? Hers? It didn't matter.
The cold of him sank deep into her bones, and for a moment, she felt like she was kissing the ghost of a man who'd already died. The one she used to believe could still be saved.
She gasped, torn between panic and disbelief, struggling against him, palms pushing at his chest to say STOP.
It was like shoving a wall. He didn't move. His grip only tightened, dragging her closer. His arm locked around her waist, holding her as if she were prey caught in the teeth of something primal.
Then came another kiss—longer, harsher. His hunger was unrelenting, driven by something that wasn't lust but survival. His breath tore through hers, ragged and fast, the sound of two people caught between wanting and ruin.
She tried to pull free, her qi flaring, but he didn't yield.
So she bit him.
The sharp tang of blood hit her tongue. He jerked back, surprise flaring through his controlled mask, his anger momentarily dissolving into confusion.
His lips glistened crimson as he met her gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched, not with amusement, but with something darker—something hollow.
"Is this what you wanted?"
His voice was low, rough, the words cutting through the silence like steel dragged across glass.
"A kiss from the broken prince? A souvenir before I drown in the abyss?"
The cruelty in his tone hit harder than any blow. Something inside her cracked, pain rising into anger so sharp she didn't think—she moved.
Her hand flew before she realized it.
SLAP.
The sound snapped through the room. Sharp as a whip. His head turned with the force of it, silver-blue hair falling across his face. His jaw flexed. A faint tremor of breath left him.
For a moment, everything froze.
He didn't move. Didn't retaliate. Didn't even speak. The air between them felt like shattered glass—dangerous to breathe, impossible to step through.
He just stood there, staring past her with that same look—the look of a man who wasn't sure if he deserved forgiveness, or if he even wanted it.
And Micah, chest heaving, hand trembling, felt a confusion of anger, grief, and relief. She realized she wasn't sure either.
A faint sound broke the tension.
"Ahhhmm…"
Borris stepped through the doorway, his voice low and cautious. "We finished scrubbing the arrays. Rob took the surviving assassin to the secured chamber. He's gagged. Healing spell's been used—just enough to keep him breathing."
Behind him, Wendy appeared. Her expression landed somewhere between concern and irritation. "You okay, Boss?"
Charles gave a slight nod, nothing more.
Wendy's eyes narrowed. "Micah saved your life," she said quietly. "Don't forget that."
Micah froze. Her breath hitched before she could stop it. Heat crept up her neck, and then she turned, fleeing before anyone could see her face. Out the door, down the hall—running from the room, from the blood, from him.
Tears cut silent paths down her cheeks before she even realized they'd fallen. She didn't feel them. Only the hollow ache twisting beneath her ribs.
The room sank into an uneasy quiet. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Then Diana entered, her arms crossed, faint light still shimmering from the divine aura clinging to her skin. "If you pull another suicidal blackout, I'm sewing a divine tracker into your spleen."
From the hallway, Geo's dry voice followed, "And I second that. The spleen's a great location."
A heavy pause lingered until Borris cleared his throat. "Well, that got dark fast."
Charles exhaled slowly, sinking back into his chair. "You're all terrible at bedside manners."
Wendy smirked and crossed her arms. "You're terrible at being a patient."
For a heartbeat, something flickered across Charles's face—a faint curve of his lips. It wasn't much, but it was real.
Wendy dropped into the seat beside him. "Next time you decide to nap through an assassination attempt, I'm stabbing you myself."
"Fair," Charles muttered.
Borris arched an eyebrow. "That sounded vaguely romantic."
"Shut up, Borris," Wendy and Charles said at once.
The room softened. The tension didn't vanish, but it shifted—like a storm breaking just enough for light to push through.
"Let's move to the West Hill Manor," Charles snapped, voice sharp enough to file steel.
Wendy and Diana exchanged a long, silent glance—the kind of telepathic communication women mastered when the men around them were being especially dramatic.
Charles didn't wait for a response.
He tucked a still-shivering Nimbus into his beast ring with the gentleness of a warlord handling a kitten. Then he stalked into the hallway like a blood-drenched monarch who'd just fired half the court.
Rob followed like a seasoned butler in a battlefield opera, muttering about preparing the carriage before someone got stabbed out of spite.
Behind them, silence reigned.
Until Borris finally voiced the question they'd all been too stunned to ask.
"…Did the Boss just get slapped after a kiss?"
Wendy turned her head so slowly it creaked. Her glare could've made a thunderhoof stallion retreat.
Geo blinked innocently. "Wait. Did they just… break up? Were they even dating? Was I supposed to know?"
SMACK.
Diana didn't answer—she just slapped the back of Geo's head with the precision of a divine judgment.
"Don't ask questions your face can't afford," she muttered, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him toward the exit like a delinquent puppy.
The door closed behind them.
Wendy and Borris were left standing amidst the wreckage of the suite, both still processing the same thought.
That was either the most violent first kiss in history… or the most romantic assassination attempt ever thwarted by bad timing.
Homecoming With Blood Trail
It was dawn when Lord Charlemagne Ziglar finally arrived at the newly acquired West Hill Manor.
The timing couldn't have been worse—or more theatrical.
Most of the newly recruited private army had been roused moments earlier by urgent knocks, divine sense alerts, or the haunting suspicion that they had just enlisted under a lunatic masquerading as nobility.
Still rubbing sleep from their eyes and fumbling with armor, they scrambled into formation across the marble courtyard like underpaid extras in a parade.
One poor guard saluted while still wearing one slipper and a bathrobe.
Despite their disarray, all five hundred newly sworn elite guards managed to line up in semi-disciplined rows. Some stood stiff-backed, others leaned slightly, trying to appear posh and professional while sneakily stealing glances at the young lord they had only heard whispered about in taverns and recruiting scrolls.
And then… the first carriage door opened.
Out stepped a man.
No, not a man.
A shirtless, barefoot, blood-streaked young warlord. His silver-blue hair glimmered under the fading moonlight like a cursed royal artifact.
His pants were torn at the knee. Soot smeared his cheek. His left arm faintly glowed with residual qi. He crossed the courtyard without a word, leaving crimson footprints on the pristine white stone like it was just another Tuesday.
He nodded once at the entire formation.
And that was it.
Ceremony? Speech? A majestic wave?
Nope. Just a blood-soaked stroll and a single nod, as if the parade was the inconvenience and not the bloodbath he'd clearly walked out of.
Somewhere in the third row, one bewildered guard pinched his own cheek hard enough to leave a mark.
"Still dreaming," he muttered, trying not to cry. Or vomit.
Silence clung to the courtyard like fog.
This was not the radiant, charming young noble romanticized in gossip columns and whispered in late-night dorm chats. There were no flowing robes, no fanfare, no lovers' poetry written in calligraphy on his sleeves.
This was no Casanova with a crest.
This was a war god in recovery. Fresh off a massacre. Probably just got slapped by someone he kissed. Maybe cursed an empire. Possibly both.
Servants peeked from behind archways like stagehands waiting for their cue. Charles didn't pause—he swept through the main hall as chaos erupted behind him.
The kitchen burst into a flurry of fire, knives, and frantic chopping.
Bath attendants nearly fell over each other as they heated enchanted water with shaking hands.
A maid fainted just from catching a glimpse of the bloodied young lord.
She had to be dragged aside by her friend whispering, "Don't die now! This is how legends are born!"
No one dared to speak to him directly. Not yet.
Meanwhile, behind the formation line, the underground betting economy flourished instantly.
"Fifty gold he killed ten."
"Ten? You think that much blood came from ten people? Bro, that's at least twenty. Minimum."
"I heard he fought in a towel."
"Shut up, you heard nothing."
Diana, arriving shortly after in the second carriage, stepped out, took one look at the stunned rows, and muttered under her breath, "Well, this'll do wonders for morale."
Borris, limping slightly and still sweaty from carrying a gagged prisoner into the manor's underground chamber, added flatly, "Pretty sure half of them just swore eternal loyalty out of fear. The other half just needs therapy."
Wendy brushed a strand of hair from her face and said, "At least no one screamed this time."
Rob, holding a clipboard now for some reason, whispered to Diana, "Should we prepare an official welcome speech?"
Diana blinked at him. "Did you see him? That man just murdered a squad of assassins barefoot and is now casually bleeding on antique flooring. He doesn't need a speech. He needs a mop. And maybe a nap."
And so it was, in the pale glow of morning, that House Ziglar's newly forged forces witnessed the first public appearance of their mythic young master.
They had expected silk robes, scented oils, maybe a poetic quote about honor.
What they got instead… was barefoot carnage in slow motion.
And somewhere, quietly in their hearts, every last one of them thought the same thing:
We have no idea what we just signed up for.
But gods help them… it felt glorious.