* * *
Nael struggled to calm himself, fingers fidgeting with his damp sleeve.
Through his blurry vision, he caught sight of Killian’s indifferent expression and shrank back slightly.
“Master, your leg must be numb. I’ll get down now.”
“Aiden, bring fresh stationery and a quill.”
Then, with a small nod, he gestured toward Ren.
Understanding the silent command, Ren quickly set a cup of warm tea in front of Nael.
“Drink. It’ll help.”
The tea was warm.
Its scent was so fresh and vibrant that even Nael, who knew nothing about tea, could tell it carried the essence of spring.
It felt as though, once this day passed, the seasons would change.
As his hiccups subsided, Nael resumed writing his letter.
His handwriting was crude, completely unlike Killian’s neat, elegant script.
While he had sobbed uncontrollably while dictating the letter, seeing his own awkward writing made him strangely composed.
“T-this is so messy,” he muttered.
“You’re doing fine. Keep going.”
Despite the clumsy, worm-like scrawl, Killian neither mocked nor ridiculed him.
He simply nodded in quiet approval.
The quill felt foreign in Nael’s grasp.
He had no control over the pressure he applied, and unlike in Killian’s hand—where it had moved as fluidly as a paintbrush—under Nael’s grip, the delicate feather snapped in half more than once.
Each time, Aiden silently handed him a new quill.
His hands were soon stained with ink, and his lips jutted out slightly in concentration, making him look ridiculous.
Knock, knock.
A neat knock at the door signaled Philip’s arrival.
His face remained impassive even when he saw Nael, covered in ink, sitting on Killian’s lap.
With a polite bow, Philip delivered his report.
“As per your orders, everything is prepared upstairs. Will you go now?”
Killian glanced at Nael’s crookedly written letter, then nodded.
Nael let out a self-deprecating sigh as he set the quill down at last.
Compared to Killian’s perfectly straight, uniform script, his own writing looked like an uneven mess.
He wondered if his sister would even be able to read it.
By the time he finished, he had broken five quills and rewritten the letter twice.
“For a first attempt, it’s not bad.”
The fine stationery was folded with precision, not a single crease out of place.
Killian pressed the ducal seal of the Deville family onto the envelope and handed it to Aiden.
Nael couldn’t take his eyes off the letter as it left Aiden’s hands and disappeared beyond the office door.
“I have something to show you, Nael.”
Nael followed Killian up the staircase landing.
Step by step.
His pace was leisurely, as if matching Nael’s crawling steps.
At the end of the stairs, a wide corridor stretched out, with two doors facing each other.
One of them was sealed shut with chains, as if forbidding entry.
The rust clinging to parts of the metal links gave it an eerie appearance.
Nael’s gaze was drawn to the thick chains and the large padlock securing them.
“You don’t need to know about that.”
Killian’s response to Nael’s curiosity was brief.
Instead, he opened the door on the opposite side.
A subtle fragrance of delicate petals and oil-infused wood blended with the faint breeze that greeted Nael.
The room was similar in size to Killian’s bedroom.
At its center stood a large canvas and a table filled with various painting supplies.
Dozens of bottles of paint were neatly arranged in a row, their colors forming a striking display.
Killian ran his hand over the canvas, a blank slate without a single mark or base sketch.
As he gazed at it, he spoke.
“I’m going to fill this empty space with you.”
“Me?”
Nael tilted his head.
“Not just this canvas, but this entire place—I plan to fill it with your paintings.”
At a glance, it would take at least dozens, maybe even more than that, to cover the whole space.
But Killian’s words carried undeniable sincerity.
The stark white canvas stood in sharp contrast to Killian himself, clad in dark clothing with his long, jet-black hair flowing.
There was no deceit in his words—he truly intended to paint Nael.
Nael placed a hand over his chest and asked again.
“You’re going to paint me?”
Noble families usually hired painters to create portraits, and the cost varied drastically depending on the artist.
Even the baron had artists he wished to commission, but he always hesitated at the steep price.
When things didn’t go his way, his frustration often fell on Nael.
He had been forced to run errands, carrying water bottles up and down the stairs so many times that his legs had ached unbearably.
Even a single painting had made the baron’s hands tremble at the expense—yet Killian intended to fill an entire space with paintings of him.
It was beyond comprehension.
Moreover, a single portrait took months to complete.
The baron had nearly gone mad from boredom, forced to sit still day after day.
If Killian truly intended to cover this space with Nael’s image, it could take years.
Perhaps Nael would remain here until his hair turned white.
He shook his head.
“…I’m too insignificant to have a painter brought in. My status isn’t high enough to be worthy of a portrait, so it would be a waste.”
“There’s no need to hire one. I’ll paint you myself.”
“You, Master? Personally?”
Killian chuckled softly, as if finding Nael’s surprise amusing.
It was easy to believe that Killian’s hands had spent a lifetime wielding a sword.
But painting?
That was harder to imagine.
“Yes. Sit over there, Nael.”
Hesitantly, Nael walked over and sat in the chair Killian indicated.
It was so plush and comfortable that it felt like it was pulling him in.
Yet, his eyes wandered restlessly, unsure where to settle.
The room was nearly empty, amplifying even the smallest of sounds.
Killian barely had to speak for his voice to echo.
The smooth movement of graphite filled the silence.
The short strokes gradually came together, shaping a familiar form.
Nael.
A small face, large eyes, and lips tinged red in contrast.
Had he been born a woman, would his circumstances have been different?
No doubt the baron would have sold him off, using the money to indulge himself.
Given what the man had already taken from him, it was all too easy to imagine.
But to Killian, that kind of money was nothing.
Nael was worth far more than mere gold coins.
His delicate frame connected in smooth lines—not sickly thin, but slender.
Beneath those thin layers of fabric, even his nipples and the rest of him were tinged in a soft pink.
A color so tempting, like candy, that the mere thought of biting into him sent a shudder of pleasure through the imagination.
His narrow hips, night after night, took in something far too large for them.
And when it was over, the traces of their union stained his skin.
But merely seeing with his eyes wasn’t enough.
Killian wanted to capture everything about Nael onto the canvas.
On the other side of it, Nael remained completely unaware of the dark desires brewing within him.
He sat still, his gaze unwavering despite the puffiness of his tear-stained eyes.
“Come closer and take a look, Nael.”
Killian set the graphite down and pulled off his gloves, now darkened from the charcoal dust.
As he placed them on the table, specks of graphite drifted in the sunlight.
“Wow…”
A quiet gasp slipped from Nael’s lips.
* * *
