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chapter 43
2023.09.12
Lowell placed her hand on Peter’s cheek. Unexpectedly, Peter did not push her away. Instead, he only gazed at her intently, as if searching. His quiet, probing stare made it hard to believe he was the same man who had just moments ago ravished her so fervently.
It meant that while Lowell’s “pleasing words” may have worked to some extent, they were never enough to touch Peter’s true depths. That was inevitable. Peter did not truly desire her, and their relationship would always circle at this distance.
Was it strange, then, that she felt a certain bitterness in that truth?
Perhaps I’ve grown too sentimental.
Because Peter was the only thing she dared covet, she unconsciously assumed Peter would want her in return. But in truth, what Peter wanted was not “Anette Martinek.”
So even in this moment, Lowell was alone. Perhaps this was nothing more than a journey to soothe her own loneliness.
“…I’m a simpler person than you think.”
Peter, how long will you leave me lonely?
“It only seems difficult because you’re not sure what I want. Once you know, you’ll realize nothing could be easier.”
“And what is it that you want?”
“I told you—I want Your Majesty.”
Not a single falsehood. She couldn’t bring herself to fake “love,” but the words I want you she could speak with her whole heart.
“From the very beginning, all I’ve ever wanted was you, Your Majesty.”
“…Enough lies. I don’t believe you. No… it’s more accurate to say I doubt my own disbelief.”
Neither trust nor mistrust held any weight before her words. Only suspicion.
“I know that every word you speak is meant to beguile.”
Lowell had no intention of denying it.
But if she said that everything she did to beguile others was, in truth, only because she wanted Peter—would he believe her then? That was the only question.
Lowell was certain: no one else thought of Peter as much as she did, no one else desired him as fiercely.
Only—no one would ever believe it.
So there were limits to what she could say aloud. Fortunately, Lowell had a talent for this sort of thing.
“But even knowing I lie, Your Majesty still sought me out.”
A soft upward curl of her lips, a gentle voice. She could not manage to play the role of a sweet, lovely maiden, but she knew well how to ensnare someone.
She had already learned the look one should wear when another begins to waver, the tone of voice one must use at such moments. Smiling by habit, she asked:
“Do you not want me as well, Your Majesty?”
“…No.”
Peter’s brows creased faintly. Lowell was starting to recognize that this was where his patience always showed itself.
“I will never truly want you… never.”
Hearing those words, Lowell laughed inwardly.
“Don’t forget why you are here. You are a mere substitute. A doll.”
“Of course. I won’t forget.”
She answered obediently, and then kissed him again. Perhaps because the first kiss had been so rough, this one was less violent—but still just as relentless in stealing her breath. Every time they kissed, Lowell was left panting for air.
And in those moments, she never missed the look in Peter’s eyes as he gazed at her. Sometimes she deliberately slowed her breathing, stealing glances at him for longer.
Desire always showed most clearly when one felt the other had become vulnerable. The man’s gaze as he looked down at her disheveled, breathless form shone with a sharp light he himself might not even realize.
A gaze so suffocating it felt like it was choking her. Meeting it, she couldn’t tell if he wanted to strangle her—or kiss her.
Well, the root is not so different. Both take my breath away.
Lowell realized the desire in his eyes resembled her own.
Of course, for now, he’ll want to deny it.
But Peter, you will come to want me.
Do you know why neither trust nor mistrust satisfies you, why you’ve chosen suspicion instead?
Because doubting your disbelief means you want to believe me.
You’re just looking for an excuse to trust. Once that chain clicks into place, you’ll have shackled yourself.
Pressing her lips to the man’s as he pulled her clothes from her shoulders, Lowell whispered:
“Don’t leave me lonely, Your Majesty.”
His gaze tangled with hers instead of answering—obsessive, tinged with hostility.
Even that was enough to make Lowell feel full.
Peter had long suffered from insomnia. The only way he managed to sleep at all was with sleeping pills, but lately even those failed him, leaving many nights sleepless.
Perhaps from the accumulated exhaustion, Peter fell asleep quickly while holding Lowell in his arms. Lowell, however, could not sleep at all. When the moon began to sink, she carefully slipped from his embrace and looked down at him.
You sleep as if you were dead.
So still, without even a breath to be heard, he seemed almost innocent. Maybe everyone’s face turned childlike in sleep.
His platinum hair, which usually fell over his forehead, had slid aside to reveal a smooth brow. With nothing covering his bare torso but the blanket, the moonlit figure looked less like a sleeping man than a painter’s masterpiece.
Still sleeping on your side…
Still unable to sleep alone.
It was less Peter’s quirk than a trait of the chronically ill. When one spends all day sleeping from sickness and medicine, real sleep never comes when it should. Lowell, at least, when she was sick, would spend an entire day bedridden and then fall back asleep quickly from the heavy drugs. But Peter could not.
So sometimes he would come to the greenhouse, weary, and doze off with his head resting on her shoulder or across her lap.
[Wouldn’t it be better to just sleep inside if you’re that tired?]
[I sleep better by your side…]
Lowell didn’t believe he truly found her presence comforting enough to sleep on hard ground. More likely, he hated returning home to be alone.
Lowell understood that feeling well, and so she always stayed by the sleeping boy’s side. It was how they endured their long, lonely illnesses.
Brushing his hair gently from his brow, Lowell whispered softly:
“Peter.”
She knew he wouldn’t hear, yet the name slipped out anyway. A faint smile curved on her lips like a crescent moon.
Moonlight made everything romantic. And so, a voice drifting across that quiet night could only sound romantic. Lowell’s voice was low and deep, her smile tinged with regret, but anyone who heard it would have thought it beautiful as the notes of an organ.
“How often do I appear in your dreams?”
How much do you remember me? I still dream of you.
Dreams of Peter were always similar—peaceful, warm. In them, she never realized she was dreaming, only fretted when the moment would vanish, until she woke. Loss etched into her very bones never left, not even in her unconscious.
“I hate red now. I hate red roses most of all. In Operta, roses are used as a code word for murder.”
At some point, red roses brought not childhood memories but blood-soaked scenes. On nights when roses bloomed thick, Lowell always awoke standing in crimson gore.
The cursed sword Tod had not become the sword of death merely because its wielder was said to die young. Tod craved slaughter. When too much blood stained it, it would not merely drain magic—it would seize the wielder’s sanity.
In her clumsy days of handling Tod, such things happened often. Each time, she awoke in carnage. The dim memories of those deaths were undoubtedly her doing.
That was another reason she always said, “There’s no turning back.”
She was no longer that pure, innocent fifteen-year-old girl.
So she wondered—
Peter.
“In your dreams, am I still fifteen?”
Looking down at Peter lying motionless in sleep, Lowell bent over him slowly. Her black hair fell like a curtain, cutting off the moonlight. In the dark, her fingertips hovered near his lips—
“Lowell.”
Her wrist was seized.
She hadn’t even had time to pull away. No time to exert strength. His large hand clamped around her slender wrist with an iron grip.
Such strength…!
So powerful she couldn’t even twitch. If she drew Tod, perhaps her magic could overcome him—but with one hand caught, she couldn’t release its seal.
She had met many who boasted great strength, but Peter rivaling them? Unthinkable.
Did he hear me…?
