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chapter 9
Sylvester quietly watched Velita. Seeing her wings yesterday had left him half in doubt, but now, it was clear—demons are indeed demons.
Velita’s irises, once crystal-like, now flashed brighter than the eyes of any night creature.
Her grip was far stronger than when she had grabbed his neck at their first meeting. And above all, the words that came from Velita’s lips…
“…….”
…were absolutely not human.
“I…”
Sylvester was certain the language Velita spoke belonged to a demon.
He had never heard it before, yet somehow understood it perfectly.
“…want to know what happiness is.”
He clasped Velita’s hands firmly.
“I want to know what true happiness is—the kind everyone talks about.”
Her voice resonated not in his ears but in his mind, chillingly echoing in his chest. It could not have been human.
“Bring it to me, Velita.”
The crimson color, fiery yet strangely cold, drew Sylvester in like a trance.
[Good. Then you must be ready, right?]
“Yes.”
Velita’s hand reached toward the edge of the table. She grabbed the dagger Sylvester had set aside. Its small, sharp blade was aimed at his palm.
‘…Ah.’
Without warning, Velita cut his hand.
Blood flowed along the long wound with a delayed rhythm. Sylvester realized that a weapon moving too fast could numb the pain.
Velita pressed her lips to the wound.
“Ah… what…”
The cut seemed deeper than he expected. Her hot tongue traced the wound. A wet, strange sound lingered, and he could feel his blood being drawn in real time.
His hand tingled, burned, itched, and throbbed. Sylvester’s fingers trembled.
…slurp.
After drawing her fill of blood, Velita pulled her lips away.
[Haa…]
When he lifted his head, strands of hair that had been pinned by his ear fell softly. Her lips glistened with a mixture of saliva and blood.
Sylvester wiped her mouth with the opposite sleeve.
A metallic scent of blood lingered. Velita parted her lips slightly.
[Sylvester Rigel.]
“…….”
[From today, you will be my contractor.]
Velita’s eyelashes drooped downward. Sylvester followed her gaze.
Blood trickled along her wrists into her palm as she sucked.
[The contract lasts as long as you live.]
Her mottled hand cupped his chin. Sylvester looked up at Velita again.
Their eyes met—so beautifully curved it was almost chilling.
Then…
Clatter!
Velita suddenly sprang up. The sharp scent of blood hit him immediately. The chair toppled with a loud crash from the recoil.
“……!!”
Their lips collided instantly. Her hot tongue pressed against his upper lip, almost forcefully flooding into his mouth.
It felt as if fire was being branded on his tongue. A sudden scorching pain swept through his throat.
Frowning, Sylvester grabbed Velita’s collar. He bit her tongue.
“Ugh…”
Velita frowned.
Sylvester’s lips curled into a slight smile. His golden irises gleamed, relishing the shared pain.
Burns formed across the protruding ridges in her mouth, the metallic taste spreading throughout.
Pain dulled.
As it seemed the contact might end soon, Sylvester pulled Velita closer rather than letting her ease away.
Clutching the collar until his hands turned white, he silently pleaded with his eyes: Don’t let go. Keep going.
Saliva dripped.
Velita smiled, intrigued. She had no intention of parting yet; the contract’s mark was not complete.
“…….”
Their long, lingering kiss continued.
Sylvester would not break the kiss until Velita did, no matter what.
“Mm…”
Still, the exchange of tongues gradually made breathing difficult.
‘We’ve been at this for quite some time.’
Just as his vision began to blur…
“Haah…!”
A sharp pain gripped his mind. Velita grabbed his hair and pulled.
Finally, their lips parted.
“…Cough! Haa, haa…”
Sylvester gasped for air, coughing violently. He wiped his mouth and weakly smiled.
Velita parted her lips, revealing the flesh Sylvester had bitten.
[…The price,]
The demon’s deep voice sent chills down his spine. Sylvester gasped, overwhelmed by the strange pleasure, and looked up at her.
The mark she had left on his tongue glimmered briefly and then vanished.
[Is that you remember me until your death.]
That was enough. A gentle voice whispered in his ear and faded.
He continued coughing lightly, leaning back to catch his breath.
Velita fetched water from the sink to help him recover. The process of inscribing the mark must have been unbearable for a human.
He sat with eyes closed.
Slowly, Sylvester regained his breath, and the sound of swallowing water echoed, gradually fading.
“…….”
In the quiet, Velita thought:
If I open my eyes now, I might see a world like this—
Countless hands reaching out for me, desiring, wishing, even lusting for me…
…everyone remembering me, and at their side, the specter of Kesis. A distorted past.
‘I don’t want to be remembered anymore.’
Velita heard Sylvester rustling.
‘I don’t want to remember either.’
And faint noises that didn’t belong to the house.
“…Velita.”
Sylvester’s voice woke her.
“…Yeah.”
Velita, now back in her light form, looked out the window.
“Someone’s coming.”
The sound of hooves and wheels approached.
Low footsteps echoed through the narrow house. One step near the sketches, another near last month’s pond painting.
One step near the watercolor she painted on a clear day, another step near the stacked canvases.
Clack, clack. The man spun around.
“Did you really paint all this?”
“Yes.”
It was awkward. A nobleman had brought a carriage into this shabby place.
‘Velita…’
Sylvester glanced at the back door, which led to an old warehouse.
“Velita, hide for now.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know who’s coming.”
“Do we really need to hide?”
“No one comes to such wallpapered places by carriage. Must be a noble, maybe…”
“…I see. Something troublesome might happen, huh?”
“Something like that. There’s an old warehouse out back. I’ll give you the key.”
Tap, tap. The man knocked on the corner of a frame, smiling contentedly.
“No wonder Gale got so angry.”
Gale.
“….”
At the name, Sylvester’s eyebrows twitched. Not a pleasant one. He shifted his gaze to the front door.
A servant ready to escort the master at any time, a coachman smoking outside the window.
‘No other strange people.’
“That’s him? The commoner who refused Gale’s commission?”
“Word must’ve gotten around.”
“A little? He was quite disappointed. Why doesn’t he paint people with such skill?”
Sylvester smirked. Just a little? To nobles, that was merely ‘a bit disappointing.’
“Yet he came to find me.”
“Yes. It’s interesting. Besides, the commission isn’t a portrait.”
Sylvester eyed the man warily. Ultimately, he had come for a commission.
Honestly, it didn’t sound rational. He seemed familiar with Gale, but why come to him after seeing that mess?
“….”
He didn’t understand what was so amusing. Sylvester disliked the man’s smiling face.
“Don’t be so tense. Our estate has beautiful scenery, perfect for work.”
The man introduced himself as Roman—Roman Moore von Barsen.
Some nobles had names indicating their lineage or territory.
‘Von Barsen… not too far, then.’
Roman didn’t seem like Gale. At least, if he came despite knowing Gale’s chaos…
‘…No, he might be worse.’
Sylvester sighed. Funds were running low.
The baron had cut off indirect commissions, and he had no noble patronage.
“…I don’t have confidence.”
“Come on. Then why did you show me all these paintings? Easy to organize in the estate.”
Could a noble be this petty?
Sylvester gave Roman a cold glare. He hadn’t even shown them voluntarily; they wandered in freely.
Then, another voice cut into the conversation.
“Yes, Sylvester. It’s about time to pick up the brush.”
Sylvester’s eyes sharpened. His gaze shifted to the corner table.
He glared at another uninvited guest who had arrived with Roman and his servants.
The man froze, sweating as he avoided eye contact.
Kind and friendly, but utterly useless now—Mr. Hubill, the bookstore owner.
“Oh… well, what am I supposed to do then?”
He began his weak excuse. Sylvester’s frown deepened.
He was probably worried about his livelihood and brought them here under that pretext.
“The baron is wandering around your house. How could you just stay quiet?”
See? Even Hubill… We may be low-born, but he has no idea who this person is.
Sylvester silently signaled him to stop.
But this time, Hubill didn’t back down, standing tall and looking around.
“Look, here! There’s work in progress too!”
He walked toward a painting covered by a white cloth.
“You’ve seen it already, but this one paints beautifully. Yet since that incident, his work has stopped…”
No one tried to stop him.
Hubill lifted the cloth himself, while Roman watched, intrigued.
The servants followed no reason to intervene.
Sylvester sensed something.
Under the cloth was Velita’s portrait. Uneasy tension crawled up his spine.
“Here! Look!”
Yet unaware of Sylvester’s feelings, Hubill lifted the cover quickly.
“This is his excellent work…!!”
“…….”
“Uh, oh?”
“Hm?”
Both Roman and Hubill uttered strange exclamations simultaneously.
“What on earth….”
Roman stared at the portrait, entranced. Hubill cleared his throat and quietly stepped back.
“…Ahem.”
“…….”
An uncomfortable silence filled the house. Sylvester’s lips twitched faintly. His ominous presence intensified.
Though he forced a smile, it felt formal, the harsh shadowed impression adding a wolf in sheep’s clothing effect. Hubill broke into a cold sweat.
“……Hand it over.”
Sylvester, wearing that eerie mask, stepped forward and snatched the cloth. Swiftly.
Just as he was about to cover the portrait…
“No, no, wait! Don’t cover it!”
Roman quickly approached to stop him.
Sylvester glared at Roman with the cloth in hand.
“Why?”
“This style is unmistakably yours.”
“And what do you want to say?”
“You painted it, right?”
If I did, what of it? Sylvester looked down at the shorter Roman, hands on hips.
“What are you trying to say?”
Roman, who had been staring at the portrait, finally looked up.
Click. He snapped his fingers lightly.
“Sell this painting to me.”
