WYRS 12

Chapter 12

Blake looked at the tattooed man with a face full of disgust. If he had known this guy would cling to him so persistently, he never would have handed him that apple back when he was starving to death.

He brushed Hagen’s arm aside and let out a sigh.

“No regrets. If you’re not planning on helping, at least don’t get in the way of my plans. Oh, and train the driver properly.”

“What? That guy’s driving skills are pretty good. What on earth did he do this time to get you so mad again?”

“The distinguished Swan family.”

At Blake’s curt reply, Hagen clamped his mouth shut with a gulp. He had already been warned so many times, but it seemed he kept forgetting.

Blake sighed heavily as he fixed him with a stare. It was a clear signal to get lost. Hagen pouted.

He had skipped meals and run around all day, yet Blake hadn’t even given him a word of praise. Hagen was convinced no one had contributed more to delivering Freya Swan into Blake’s hands than he had.

“You really are cold only to me.”

“Then stop making mistakes like the others. If you just did your job perfectly, I’d shower you with kisses.”

“Uh… I’ll politely decline that. Well then, rest well, boss.”

With a sudden deadpan expression, Hagen hurried out of the room. After making sure the door had closed quietly, Blake sat down on the edge of the bed.

He clenched and unclenched the hand that had supported Freya’s head. Even soaking wet, her hair had been impossibly soft.

Nothing has changed at all.

Blake lay back on the bed. He was exhausted, yet sleep didn’t come easily.

Suddenly, an image of Freya making her shy vow came to him—wearing a cheap dress, with her cheap fiancé by her side, yet smiling so radiantly. Just recalling that brilliant smile made his insides twist.

Thunder rumbled again.

It was a deafening crash. The sound was like being back in the middle of that horrific battlefield, and Blake’s brow furrowed instinctively. He gripped the blanket tightly and drew in a deep breath.

One spotted cow lying on the hill… two spotted cows…

It was a habit he hated, but nothing calmed him better. The shadows of night crept in slowly, pressing down on his heavy eyelids.

The morning sunlight spilling over her face woke Freya. She blinked groggily, still dazed with sleep, and saw a ceiling painted with elaborate patterns.

Staring blankly at the clear sky through sheer white curtains, Freya suddenly panicked and glanced around. The unfamiliar surroundings scared her.

She tried to sit up, but her body felt like a waterlogged sponge, too heavy to lift, and she fell back onto the bed. Lying there, she carefully replayed the events of the previous night.

I ran out of the house… collapsed on the hill…

Then one image flashed across her mind: a man slowly approaching her beneath a black umbrella. Above all, she remembered those piercingly cold blue eyes that sent a shiver through her.

And the strong arm that held her, the heat of his body that had thawed her frozen limbs—those sensations lingered like a vivid afterimage.

Freya’s face turned deathly pale. If her fragmented memories were true, it meant she had entrusted herself, in such a disheveled state, to a man she didn’t know.

With trembling hands, she checked her own body. Thankfully, she wasn’t naked—she was dressed in proper sleepwear.

There wasn’t any pain below, either. Still, she had to be sure. If she had lost her first experience, there would be definite signs. Only after confirming would she feel at ease.

Gathering what little strength she had, Freya sat up and hastily threw back the blanket. She checked the bed sheets and her undergarments—spotless. At last, she let out a sigh of relief.

Looking around, she spotted a basin of water. Splashing the cool water on her face, she tried to steady herself.

Knock knock.

A careful knock sounded at the door. Freya hurried back onto the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin to cover her nightclothes. After running her fingers through her hair several times, she finally spoke.

“Yes, come in.”

“Excuse me.”

A deep, pleasant voice accompanied the smooth swing of the door. When the man stepped inside, Freya’s eyes widened in shock.

“Oh… You’ve only just woken up, I see. May I come in?”

The man stood by the doorway, wearing a faintly awkward smile. His black hair, lightly waved, was slicked back neatly with wax, and he was dressed in a tailored dark-blue suit. The strong, lean lines of his figure suited the suit perfectly.

A wine-colored handkerchief adorned his chest pocket—his style was refined enough to grace the cover of a fashion magazine.

And his unfamiliar-yet-familiar blue eyes stared straight into hers.

Freya realized immediately—he was the man who had saved her last night.

She clenched her fists at the sight of his face. That face appeared in the newspapers every day, impossible to forget.

He was from the Harperd family—the very people Freya despised second only to her father, the ones who had driven her mother to her death.

Blake Harperd.

He was the adopted son of Tyson Harperd, the real-estate magnate. After the war, Tyson had taken in the boy of unknown origin, calling him the savior of his life and his heir.

People whispered that, with his foreign looks, Blake would only rob the Harperds of their fortune. But Blake crushed their prejudice, faithfully assisting Tyson and expanding the family empire.

He spearheaded the development of planned cities on Harperd-owned lands, building the massive commercial districts that sustained the capital’s economy. Across the kingdom, department stores, theaters, hotels, and casinos bore the Harperd name.

When Tyson lost his sight due to war injuries, Blake inherited the presidency of the Harperd company, steadily filling the old man’s place. He became a powerful patron of the Republican faction as well.

Young, handsome, and extraordinarily capable—there was no one in the kingdom of Elvador who didn’t know Blake Harperd.

But Count Lancelot Swan never acknowledged him. He loathed Blake’s unknown origins and his materialistic ideology. Every time Blake appeared in the papers, Lancelot would snarl that he was a demon begotten by money.

“I didn’t realize this was the Harperd estate,” Freya said stiffly.

Blake smiled faintly, as if in response. “And I didn’t realize I’d rescued the Swan family’s only daughter until afterward.”

“I should have greeted you sooner. Thank you for saving me. I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once I return home.”

Freya sprang up from the bed. The Harperds and her family were sworn enemies.

But her cold expression wasn’t because of politics or his origins. Freya hated him for one reason only.

The Harperds had led the May Revolution, and her mother had died because of it. Every time she saw the Harperd name, she could smell the blood of that day. She still heard the angry mob shouting as they stormed the mansion.

He hadn’t literally stabbed her mother’s heart with a knife. But if not for the revolution, her mother might still be alive.

That was why she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him.

When she treated him so harshly, Blake merely smiled as though he had expected it, stepping in front of her to block her way.

“So, in the Swan family, is leaving with such a sour face your idea of gratitude?”

“If my mother knew I’d spoken with you, she’d be furious even in her grave. Still, I am grateful for your care. Once I’m home, I’ll make sure to—”

“Well now. And what exactly could Miss Freya Swan possibly offer me?”

With his hands in his pockets, Blake bent down toward her. Because of their height difference, he had to fold nearly in half. He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear, and whispered:

“Oh, but money? You can keep it. I already have too much.”

A subtle white musk drifted from his strong neck. Freya recoiled in alarm, stepping back.

When she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, Blake raised his hands as if to show he meant no threat.

“Ah, forgive me if I startled you. I’m just too used to bargaining with swindlers.”

His odd manner of speaking—teetering between polite and rude—left Freya slightly stunned. Still, her wary gaze did not falter.

Blake’s eyes shifted toward a small table. A light breakfast had been set there. As he scanned the still-full plates, his brow furrowed.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I just woke up.”

“Perfect. I haven’t eaten yet either. Shall we?”

“You’re suggesting we eat… together?”

Before Freya could muster a refusal, he had already tugged the bell cord. Within minutes, a maid rolled in a trolley.

The maid cleared away the cold dishes and laid out new ones. Soon, a splendid breakfast feast covered the table.

“Please enjoy your meal,” the maid said with a bow before leaving.

“You’ll be uncomfortable dressed like that. At least put this on.”

Blake handed her a sky-blue silk robe. When Freya didn’t move, only staring at it, he gave a sly grin.

“What’s wrong? Shall I dress you myself?”