Chapter 19
Written by Bayzo Albion
Curiosity won, as it always did. I slipped my hand through the barrier, expecting resistance, but it passed through easily, the chill meeting my skin in a way that was pleasantly invigorating, like a winter breeze brushing my palm with a lover's touch. The sensation was so strange, so perfectly crafted, that I didn't know whether to admire it, fear it, or immediately start writing a book about it—a treatise on the wonders of enchanted refrigeration in a world of magic.
Suddenly, one of the locked doors creaked open on its own—slow, deliberate, as if the house itself had sensed my presence and decided to reveal a secret. I froze, my hand still hovering near the snowman, my heart quickening with a mix of excitement and caution.
From the darkness stepped a girl—no, not just a girl. *The* girl, the kind you secretly imagine in the quiet corners of your mind and then spend a lifetime pretending you don't, a vision so vivid it feels like a betrayal of reality. She was so impossibly perfect that for a heartbeat, I thought my mind had betrayed me, sculpting her from pure fantasy to taunt me with unattainable desire.
"Not the Baronessa — someone younger, sharper, carrying her scent but not her softness."
Sure, every woman in this world had a touch of the unreal—beauty here was almost a rule, not an exception, a baseline of perfection that made Earth's standards seem like crude sketches. But she was something else entirely, a singular presence that transcended the village's radiant norm. She was *the one*—the kind of person you don't just want for a night, but for a lifetime… or at least for a few hours, depending on what the plot of this strange world allowed.
She wore a tight crimson sweater with a high collar, hugging her form in a way that made my thoughts melt faster than snow on a forge, accentuating every curve with deliberate elegance. Dark thigh-highs deepened the contrast—black silk against pale skin, a balance of elegance and temptation that seemed designed to unravel resolve. Every motion she made felt deliberate, confident, as if she knew the laws of physics themselves would bend to keep my eyes on her, each step a silent command to watch, to want, to wonder.
"I'm on fire…" I thought, barely keeping a straight face as heat surged through me, my pulse hammering in my ears. "Proof that patience really does pay off. You just have to wait for your cosmic reward instead of chasing every fleeting temptation that moves."
"You're just a starving mutt who hasn't had a proper meal in a week," my inner demon snorted, its voice slithering back with venomous glee. "In this state, you'd probably serenade a frog and call her your soulmate, drooling over anything that sparkles."
"Oh, shut up," I muttered internally, clamping down on the voice with a mental effort that felt like wrestling a serpent. Annoyance tangled with arousal, a chaotic dance in my chest, and for a moment I honestly couldn't tell which one was winning. My composure was slipping—melting like candle wax under her gaze, her presence a flame that threatened to consume the barriers I'd so carefully erected.
The red turtleneck hugged her figure like a second skin, its vibrant hue a bold declaration against the muted tones of the room, warmth clashing deliciously against the dark void of her thigh-highs that sheathed her legs like shadows given form. She moved like gravity had been reprogrammed just for her—each step a quiet rebellion against reason, fluid and hypnotic, drawing the eye inexorably along the lines of her silhouette.
"—The Baroness took me in. You… you know that, right?" I forced the words out, trying to sound casual, nonchalant even, but my voice came out frayed at the edges, betraying the turmoil churning within.
"Not in the least surprised," she answered, and her voice was crafted—no, engineered—to drive men mad, a silken timbre that enveloped the senses, laced with a predator's undercurrent that hinted at depths unexplored. "She pities everyone. Regardless of gender, race, lack of coin, curses, sickness, or past sins. A real saint, that one, with a heart as vast as the oceans she claims to have crossed." She stepped closer, and a warm, faintly spicy scent reached me—cinnamon and something wild, like a campfire seen through a veil of night-blooming flowers, exotic and elusive, stirring memories I didn't know I had.
"But don't forget," she continued, stopping a breath away so that I could feel the heat radiating from her without ever touching, a tantalizing proximity that set my nerves alight, "the Baroness is a professional killer. Too kind is only a mask, a veneer polished to perfection over years of necessity. If you lose your guard for even a second…" She leaned in, her breath whispering against my ear like a cool blade pressed to heated skin, sending shivers cascading down my spine: "…you might not wake up, lost in the dreams she weaves or the shadows she commands."
She wasn't doing anything deliberate—just speaking, just looking, her presence a force of nature—but that was exactly the danger, the subtle power that required no effort to ensnare. I fought the urge to move closer, to surrender to the primitive call roaring beneath my ribs, a primal instinct that warred with the rational mind I'd cultivated. Inside, I cursed myself for losing control, silently damning my own desire that threatened to undermine every barrier I'd built.
*That's why men should be taught from youth to handle their hunger,* I thought bitterly, the reflection a bitter pill amid the storm. *If not, they grow into fools and predators, driven by impulses that blind them to consequence. Especially the foolish ones—like me now, losing my sanity from a single glance, teetering on the edge of surrender.*
"Are you scared?" she asked, her voice carrying a faint trace of mockery, her red lips curving into a soft, teasing smile that danced on the border of invitation and challenge.
"Well, I turned my Willpower up to max for a reason," I replied, doing my best to sound calm—maybe even a little mysterious, as if I'd planned this entire encounter instead of barely surviving it. Then I hesitated, catching myself before I could overthink it. "And what about you?" I asked. "What kind of men do you like? The ones who crumble, or the ones who stand firm?"
The question slipped out smoother than I expected, like a coin tossed into a wishing well, carrying with it a hope for insight into this captivating enigma. The system flickered at the edge of my vision, its notifications a silent commentary on the unfolding drama.
> SYSTEM:
> Affection: +6% → 10%
> Interest: +10% → 52%
Her lips curved a little higher, her expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, more intrigued, as if my boldness had piqued her interest in ways she hadn't anticipated. "You're bolder than you look," she murmured, her voice dropping to a velvet whisper that sent a thrill through me. "But to answer your question… I like men who surprise me, who see beyond the surface and dare to dive deeper."
We continued the dance of words, each exchange building a bridge between us, fragile yet intriguing. But beneath it all, the system's notifications pulsed like a heartbeat, reminding me that in this world, every interaction was a game, every glance a move on an invisible board.
As the conversation flowed, I felt the pull strengthening, her presence a magnet drawing me in. Yet I held back, my willpower a anchor in the storm. This was paradise, after all—where desire was both gift and curse, and every choice carried the weight of eternity.
What happened next didn't need words.
The distance between us vanished, replaced by warmth, breath, and a pulse that felt almost divine.
It wasn't just desire — it was a quiet surrender, a merging of intent and energy, something deeper than touch.
When it was over, the room seemed different — quieter, lighter — as if the world itself had taken a slow breath and exhaled.