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Chapter 5
I know.
This is exactly the feeling when a blade is pressed against the neck.
Gulp.
Kilian Knox and I were at least ten steps apart.
And yet, it felt as if the sharp tip of a weapon were pressing against the tender flesh under my chin, sending a wave of danger crawling down my spine.
“Stop.”
Damn it.
I clenched my teeth and slowly turned around.
And once again, I met Kilian Knox’s eyes.
Since the day my entire family was slaughtered, my survival instinct—honed over thirteen years in Wickers—identified the man before me as a top predator.
My blood ran cold, and in an instant, every sense in my body sharpened.
The strands of hair that had fallen over Kilian Knox’s forehead seemed to sway in slow motion.
Tap. Tap.
The sound of him carelessly unbuttoning his blood-soaked shirt struck my eardrums like thunder.
As his long, firm legs shifted and the tips of his shoes turned toward me, the taut air around us pressed against my skin.
“…Is there… more…”
Forcing my voice out, I bowed my head politely.
“Is there anything else you require?”
Fortunately, my voice came out steady, without a tremor.
For a moment, a piercing gaze seemed to stab down at the top of my head, before Kilian Knox gave a lazy order.
“Pour the bath oil.”
What the hell is this guy even doing?!
I wanted nothing more than to run out of this bathroom—or even this mansion—but…
“Yes, understood.”
Just in case our eyes met again, I kept my head down and quietly walked toward the bathtub.
‘He didn’t… notice, right?’
If Kilian Knox had become suspicious of me, I would have ended up like that spy from earlier the moment I stepped into this bathroom.
That meant there was still hope.
‘I can live!’
But that hope didn’t last long. I froze in front of dozens of different oil bottles.
How am I supposed to know which bath oil Kilian Knox prefers?
Back in Wickers, information about Kilian Knox had been the hardest to obtain.
No matter how many spies or informants I shook down, all I ever heard was: “He has no interest in anything, and nothing he likes.”
“Huh… that one is…”
As I chewed my lip and racked my brain, a familiar-looking bottle caught my eye.
A pale green liquid—gel-like oil extracted from a medicinal plant called Geltus, often used to treat muscle pain.
It was excellent for removing the scent of dried blood, so I used it often myself.
It wasn’t typically used as bath oil, though… but it was here.
I grabbed the Geltus oil and poured it generously into the tub. Then I stirred the water carelessly with a large wooden ladle, mixing the cloudy oil quickly.
Fortunately, Kilian Knox was no longer paying attention to me at all.
He seemed focused only on undressing, the occasional rustle of fabric the only sound filling the bathroom.
Then, someone else suddenly entered.
“Hmm? You’re still here?”
It was Dupont Clancher—the man who had ordered me to draw the bath.
He glanced back and forth between me and Kilian Knox, then waved his hand.
“Never mind, you can go now.”
Yes!
Thank you, Dupont!
“Yes, sir.”
I quickly bowed toward Kilian and rushed out of the bathroom.
Barely making it back to my room, I collapsed against the door and slid down to the floor.
I didn’t even have the strength to reach the bed.
“Crazy…”
A groan slipped through my fingers as I covered my mouth.
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
“I almost… died.”
It must feel like having your head shoved into the mouth of a beast and somehow crawling back out alive.
I wiped my face repeatedly and let out another long breath.
“…I’m alive.”
For some reason, Kilian Knox’s decadent eyes and smooth skin kept flickering in my mind like something out of a cheap forbidden novel.
But given how close I’d just come to dying, I quickly pushed those thoughts away.
Dupont’s gaze followed the back of the small-built operative as he hurried out as if his tail were on fire.
But only for a moment.
Kilian casually tore off his blood-soaked, irritating clothes as if they were wet paper, then walked toward the bathtub, tilting his neck from side to side.
As his long legs moved languidly, the muscles flowing beneath his skin rippled like something alive.
There are two types of people in the world.
Those who look bigger when they wear clothes, and those who look bigger when they take them off.
The Duke Kilian Knox—Dupont’s boss—was absolutely the latter.
For Kilian, clothes were merely camouflage.
The moment he unbuttoned his shirt, he revealed his true nature like a beast released from its collar.
Even Dupont, who had been born into the Clancher family serving the Knox house and had lived as his aide all his life, sometimes flinched at the sight.
His perfectly structured body moved like a complex, precision-built machine.
And Dupont knew well that this body held strength beyond human limits.
Crushing a person like a ripe tomato, as he had just done, was as effortless for Kilian as lifting an empty teacup.
“Dupont.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
From within the large bathtub, Kilian spoke calmly, his long lashes casting shadows as he closed his eyes.
“How many was that?”
Flinch.
Dupont’s body stiffened.
“The third… sir.”
Recently, spies had been appearing more frequently within the organization.
The intelligence division had done its best to filter them out, but in the end, three had been discovered directly by the boss himself.
The responsibility for tracking their origins and closing the security breach had been given to Greyer Knox, head of intelligence.
But he had failed repeatedly.
Dupont thought, Is today the day Greyer Knox dies? and lowered his head.
It didn’t matter that Greyer was blood-related to the duke.
Under the name of Knox, all were bound to obey Kilian.
“……”
But no execution order came.
Only the sound of water flowing as Kilian lazily brushed back his wet hair.
It was hard to believe this was the same man who had torn a spy in half with his bare hands just moments ago—he now looked almost like an exquisite piece of art.
Dupont realized that Greyer Knox had already vanished entirely from Kilian’s mind.
“So he won’t be spared anymore…”
He tilted his head slightly but said nothing more.
Even someone who had grown up like his brother could not understand Kilian.
At times like this, it was wiser to simply assume “he has a plan” and wait for orders.
“What about the investigation?”
“Ah, you mean Helena Morton?”
“Yes.”
Kilian’s gold eyes, half-lowered, shimmered through the steam.
“That woman is no ordinary person.”
Dupont shook his head.
“Who would have thought a survivor of House Morton was hiding in Wickers…”
About a year ago, an unprecedented incident had shaken Wickers, a place that constantly eyed Knox’s position.
The protagonist was Helena, once known as the trusted lieutenant of Edward Wickers’ son, Viscount Edward Wickers.
An orphan from the streets, she had started as a pickpocket and climbed the organization’s hierarchy vertically.
Rumored to be an assassin, she soon gathered intelligence obtained during missions and formed her own intelligence unit within Wickers.
In just three years, she led her new unit to completely disrupt Knox’s intelligence division, establishing herself as a new power within Wickers.
Rumors even said she was so favored by Edward Wickers that she was more than just a subordinate—something like a successor.
Then, a year ago, she suddenly killed Count Benedict Wickers and disappeared.
“She was even about to be granted a family name.”
Wickers had a tradition of granting its ruling surname—“Wickers”—to those officially recognized by the organization.
It was both a symbol of authority and a mark that anyone who touched them would become the target of Wickers’ infamous “blood revenge.”
“She’s so good at hiding that we can’t find her. It might be… beyond my ability, Your Grace.”
Dupont sighed, pressing his furrowed brow.
Helena of Wickers was terrifyingly capable.
Many in Knox, especially Greyer Knox—who had been completely outmatched in intelligence warfare—gritted their teeth at the mere mention of her name.
So when news came that she had killed Benedict Wickers and fled, Greyer’s household even held celebrations for days.
It meant she was now being hunted by Wickers wolves—she was as good as dead.
But that was before the report arrived.
[Edward Wickers is searching for “Helena Morton.”]
The surname Morton carried special meaning in the Knox ducal house.
“She’s a woman who sharpened her blade for thirteen years to avenge her family. When the Morton family tragedy happened, Helena was only ten years old. She started preparing for revenge from that age…”
It was honestly frightening.
What kind of eyes must a person with such obsession have?
But—
“Find her.”
Just one sentence.
“Find Helena Morton and bring her to me.”
