Losing Battle Against Hormones
Charles sank into the steaming bath prepared by Diana's alchemical staff—an herbal-infused, qi-synchronized, aromatherapy soak that probably cost more than most noble banquets.
Lavender clouded the air, mingling with crushed moonrose and mellow fire-lotus oil. The bath team outside whispered prayers that the concoction would calm his soul, or at the very least, sedate him into a less murdery version of himself.
He leaned back, silver hair damp against the carved obsidian rim. Muscles unclenched one by one, like exhausted soldiers retreating after a war they didn't win, just survived.
Inhale slowly… hold… exhale longer…
The kind of cleansing breath taught in temples and overpriced meditation scrolls. The kind that supposedly expelled bad spirits—or in his case, the emotional equivalent of inhaling a soul-crushing war crime and trying to cough it out politely.
For a moment, it worked.
The water embraced him. Silence reigned for an hour in a blank mind meditative state. Peace flirted with him like a shy lover.
Then he blinked.
And Malfor's face surfaced again, uninvited. That smug, oily smirk. Those rat-slick eyes that screamed betrayal. Charles could almost smell the stench of treachery on him—a mix of blood and cheap perfume, the kind that tried to hide the rot underneath.
Then came the faces of the assassins he'd cut down earlier. The twitch in their fingers before death. The way their blood had steamed on marble. The suite—his suite—had become a grave. He knew more would come. There were always more.
His killing intent flared before he realized it, rippling the bathwater. The steam recoiled as if it too feared him.
Charles clenched his jaw. "Not now," he muttered through his teeth, his voice low and dangerous. The water around him stilled, but his pulse did not.
He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Controlled.
Push the darkness back.
Think of something else.
Something—innocent.
And then, of course, his treacherous mind gave him her.
Micah.
Her face bloomed behind his closed lids. Not the bloodstained warrior who had stood shaking in the wreckage of his violence, but the version of her he couldn't stop remembering—the one with fire in her eyes and warmth in her smile. Brave. Stubborn. Too good for this world, and certainly too good for him.
Charming and innocent. So terribly unaware of just how deep his demons went.
Then came the memory of her lips. Soft. Warm. A taste of defiance laced with regret. He could still feel her palm pressed against his chest, her breath against his throat.
The scent of her skin—heavens, that scent. Almond honey and froststeel. His memory betrayed him with perfect clarity: her supple neck, that slender waist, the way her body fit against his when anger and desire blurred together.
His body reacted before his brain caught up.
A low growl escaped him as he sank lower into the steaming water. That damn kiss haunted him like a curse looping on replay—one he didn't want to break.
He wanted more. Gods, he wanted more than he had any right to.
Not that he'd ever admit it. Not to her. Not to anyone.
Especially not to himself.
A very specific warmth surged below his waist, harder and less subtle than his emotional trauma. Hormones surged - unapologetic, inconvenient, and definitely not strategic. His breath hitched, the sound somewhere between a snarl and a sigh. Desire warred with shame.
His hand twitched in rhythm over his manhood under the water as he reimagined her. And for a horrifying, stupid moment, he realized exactly what he was doing.
"Fuck," he hissed, eyes snapping open as the bathwater splashed around him.
He slapped a wet hand over his face. "I messed up. So bad."
There it was—proof that despite everything, despite blood, death, and trauma—his libido was alive and well. Great. Fantastic. Just what every guilt-ridden warlord needed.
He sank deeper into the tub, mortified. "I should've been gentler," he muttered, his voice muffled by his palm.
"Maybe I could've actually scored more and—gods, no. No, stop thinking."
The moment his brain replayed how close he'd been to losing control, he shot upright, water cascading off him in a pathetic display of panic.
"Damn it! What the hell am I even imagining?"
He scrambled out of the bath like it had personally betrayed him. Water splattered across the marble floor, and there went the terrifying, composed lord of Ziglar—replaced by a dripping, cursing mess who looked like he'd just fought a losing battle with his own hormones.
No dignity. No grace. Just a freshly traumatized emperor-in-the-making, muttering curses like a sailor.
He reached for a towel and found an excuse for his denial, "Hormones. Just hormones. Stupid teenage body. That's all this is."
It wasn't.
Throwing on a dark robe, he padded barefoot to the bed—a massive, velvet-lined monstrosity that screamed power and money. To him, it just looked like a coffin padded with guilt, repressed hormones, and frustration.
He collapsed onto it, glaring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.
Sleep?
Ha. As if.
But he laid there anyway, eyes tracing the shadows that crawled along the walls.
"It's better this way," he whispered to the dark.
He thought of Baylen's blade pressed to Micah's throat.
"Fear me. Hate me, little girl. Fly far away from me, so they won't get to you…"
His voice cracked.
"…like they did to her."
And in that quiet, Charles Alden Vale—Lord Charlemagne Ziglar, warrior, heir, killer, would-be emperor—closed his eyes.
And failed, yet again, to outrun the ghosts that found him anyway.
He exhaled, long and shaky. "To hell with it," he muttered.
For once, he stopped fighting it—the storm, the ache, the maddening pull she'd left behind. His thoughts dragged him down, past restraint and reason, to where memory blurred into forbidden carnal fantasy. The sound of her voice, the warmth of her skin, the taste of her.
He gave in, his hand skillfully maneuvering below his waist where his pride faltered.
His breathing grew uneven. Muscles tensed. The world narrowed to pulse and heat and the echo of her name in his head. For a moment, there was no throne, no blood, no guilt—only want.
And when the tension finally broke with a great release, he sank back against the sheets, chest heaving, mind emptied by exhaustion and shame alike. The darkness no longer felt so heavy. Just quiet.
He let his eyes close, muttering something that was half a curse and half a confession.
"Still just a man, after all. Freudian libido and Maslow's Hierarchy of Basic Needs be damned."
And with that reluctant surrender, Charles, the monster, the savior, the storm—finally slept.
Tre Sorelle Velmora, 4th Floor Executive Office. Mid Morning.
Micah stormed through the corridor like a caffeinated war goddess on the verge of incinerating the next poor soul who dared to breathe near her. Every step echoed like a declaration of war.
She hadn't slept.
She hadn't healed.
And she definitely hadn't stopped replaying that stupid kiss or the bloodbath before that.
A third espresso—because the first two had clearly failed—was clenched in her hand like a weapon of divine vengeance. With the other, she gestured sharply toward Danica.
"Light the incense. The strongest blend we've got."
Danica, ever the sharp-eyed assistant with the self-preservation instincts of a stunt performer, arched a brow.
"Yes, my Lady. Burning the Soothing Lavender of Eternal Calm and Deep Internal Suppression—again. At this point, we might as well rename it Emergency Mood Stabilizer for Unwilling Virgin Executives."
Micah didn't dignify that with an answer. She just sipped her espresso, as if it were vengeance in liquid form.
Danica lit the incense anyway, then kept talking because no one had ever successfully stopped her.
"Young Lady, you're still in your young adult years, and already your moods have the drama arc of someone mid-menopause. Hot flashes, cold fury, emotional collapse—textbook symptoms."
Micah muttered, "Textbook homicide is coming next."
Danica just chuckled. "You know what would really balance your yin? A boyfriend. Maybe say yes to one of the thirty-seven marriage proposals I sorted from the last mail drop?"
Micah's fingers twitched. She grabbed her empty mug, intent unreadable but violent in nature. Thankfully, fate intervened.
Marlon appeared out of thin air and caught the mug midair like a superhero in loafers. "No need to throw objects at your staff again, my Lady. We're on your side, remember?"
Danica raised her brows but finally zipped it. "She's definitely in a fouler mood than last week's tax audit."
Before things could escalate into mug-based violence, a knock interrupted.
A Tre Sorelle messenger nervously stepped in. "Lady Alina of the Vermillion Grace Hotel is here… requesting immediate audience."
Micah's eye twitched. That hotel. That night. That bed.
"Let her in," she said, straightening her spine and slapping on a mask of lethal professionalism.
Lady Alina entered with all the grace of a perfectly perfumed guillotine. Radiant, polished, and criminally cheerful for someone who had witnessed a corpse buffet in her own lobby mere hours ago.
"Good morning, Lady Micah," Alina said sweetly. "I heard you were injured during the... incident. And... well... it shows."
Micah's brow twitched so hard it nearly filed for emancipation.
Unbothered—or suicidally unaware—Alina opened a jade-inlaid chest like a priest unveiling holy relics. Inside lay immaculate recovery salves and a vial of Moonshadow Dew and Sunroot Flame.
"I thought these might help your recovery," she said with a smile too polished to be genuine.
"Also... I hope the lovers' reconciliation went well."
Micah froze.
Was that shade? Was Lady Alina being smug or just clinically insane?
Was Lady Alina being coy or fabulously stupid?
Micah forced a corporate smile so sharp it could file legal documents. "Thank you. How may I help you?"
Alina beamed, missing—or ignoring—the venom in the air. "Lady Karina, owner of the Vermillion Grace Hotel, has come out of cultivation seclusion upon hearing of the incident. She requests a meeting with Lord Charlemagne Ziglar."
Micah's entire body language turned to stone.
Alina, clearly done with self-preservation, added brightly, "Do you happen to know where he went after... checking out?"
That did it.
Micah slammed her palm into the desk. The oak table exploded. Splinters and papers flew into the air like rebellious confetti.
A slow, devilish smile curled on her lips as she spoke with terrifying calm.
"Do I look like someone who keeps that bastard in her closet? What am I, his butler? His mother? His wife?!"
Her tone dropped from soprano to demonic alto.
Alina blinked. A pause. Then a visible spark of enlightenment. "Oh! You're not together. I see now. I'll just... go."
She fled like a squirrel from a cataclysm.
Micah barked, "Danica. Marlon."
"Yes, my Lady!" Both snapped to attention like soldiers under siege.
"Close the books. Endorse what's necessary. I'm leaving Velmora. This city has officially entered my 'do-not-return-without-a-flamethrower' list. Prepare the carriage."
Then she stormed off like a one-woman apocalypse.
Meanwhile, at West Hill Manor
SIGMA's voice chimed through the quiet halls, too cheerful for its own survival.
[Alert: Elevated hostile emotional discharge detected at Tre Sorelle Velmora, Executive Office Suite 4F. Source identified: Micah].
Charles raised a brow. "That's not a spy?"
SIGMA replied, [Negative. It was triggered at the mention of your name.]
Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So, the surveillance arrays work too well. Noted."
A flick of his hand summoned the playback: Micah's espresso-fueled meltdown, Alina's verbal suicide attempt, the table-killing palm strike.
He stared for a long, silent moment. Then said, flatly, "I really need to stop traumatizing women."
After a pause: "Wendy."
"Yes, Boss?"
"Send an official escort to fetch Lady Karina and Lady Alina from Vermillion Grace. Tell them I'm ready to complete the acquisition proposal."
He stood, rolling his shoulders like someone about to walk into another disaster.
"It's time we open our first hotel," he muttered. "And maybe get sued for emotional damage while we're at it."