* * *
Hernan, tense and defiant, declared with his whole being that he would no longer believe Jurgen’s words or be swayed by his pitiful act.
It was clear that his current strategy wasn’t working, so he had no choice but to adapt.
His new approach?
Imprint upon Jurgen that escape was impossible and compel him to abandon any thoughts of running away.
Feigning a relaxed confidence, Hernan raised his chin and flashed a teasing, mocking smile at Jurgen.
But what he hadn’t anticipated was how quickly Jurgen grasped the situation—perhaps even subconsciously—and responded with an audacious shamelessness, as if utterly convinced that Hernan wouldn’t push things to any extreme.
That brazen attitude, at once endearing and exasperating, was so characteristic of a young master used to getting his way that Hernan found himself unwillingly drawn in, giving in to every demand.
All that remained now was for Jurgen to realize just how much he relied on Hernan—far more than he seemed to understand. So, Hernan decided not to push any closer.
He had cornered Jurgen to the point where escape was no longer an option; now, he needed to leave enough breathing room for Jurgen to come to him willingly.
The plan was to make him feel like he had chosen to stay by Hernan’s side on his own.
However, once again, Hernan’s carefully laid plans went awry.
Jurgen struck at Hernan’s most vulnerable point—one he least wanted to confront.
From tailoring ceremonial attire to practicing dance moves and lessons on court etiquette, none of this was anything Hernan, who had crammed his head full of survival strategies, was remotely familiar with.
Far from exuding a commanding dignity, he felt more like a hapless orphan in desperate need of guidance from a close male friend rather than a grand duke in Jurgen’s eyes.
Why did painters need to visit so frequently just to complete a single portrait?
And why did tailoring a single outfit require so many precise measurements?
Hernan longed to tell them to just eyeball it and be done, but to Jurgen, such an attitude was utterly unacceptable.
“This must be done like this,” and “That needs to be handled this way”—Jurgen’s relentless instructions were delivered with an oddly pleased expression, leaving Hernan powerless to resist.
There was no way around it.
Jurgen Nil Everdeen found purpose in feeling needed by others, and Hernan preferred that attention and care be directed exclusively at him, rather than shared with anyone else.
If Jurgen pitied him, Hernan was even willing to show him his most pathetic side.
Still… Showing such a pitiful side was undeniably embarrassing.
And this outfit—no, absolutely not.
Though it wasn’t outrageously revealing, the design, with its open neckline exposing skin from the collarbones to the sternum, made it impossible to look away.
Was he seriously planning to appear in public like this?
Hernan had no right to dictate Jurgen’s attire—he wasn’t some patriarch obsessed with controlling his partner’s clothing—but the heat in his ears left him flustered.
As Hernan struggled to collect himself, reacting like a prudish elder, Anton, standing nearby, couldn’t hold back a remark dripping with mockery.
“Honestly, it’s not that bad. Just… a little bold, that’s all.”
To an impartial observer, the southern-style formal attire wasn’t particularly scandalous, even if it was different from the northern style.
What was Hernan even reacting to?
It wasn’t as though Jurgen was exposing his entire chest.
Jurgen’s build, while more slender and refined compared to Hernan or the rugged soldiers from the North, wasn’t frail.
His broad shoulders and tall stature—slightly taller than Anton’s—meant that he held his own among the northerners, even if he wasn’t as imposing as Hernan.
And yet here Hernan was, stammering as if Jurgen’s slightly revealing outfit was overly provocative.
It was laughably out of character for someone who’d once single-handedly led an army to victory against impossible odds.
He seemed more like a bashful boy hiding behind the curtains at a ball, struck dumb by the sight of his crush in a gown.
Even now, Hernan, slouched in a chair and muttering under his breath, only earned another jab from Anton.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
Who would have imagined this stoic commander would wear such an interesting expression back in his homeland?
Anton, relishing the scene, added slyly, “Still, I think it’ll work. Better than acting all stiff and unapproachable. Seems like his type prefers someone he can take care of every step of the way.”
Faced with such audacity, Hernan could only bury his face in his hands like a lovesick teenager.
Watching all this unfold right next to him, Anton felt validated in his choice to join the escort team.
Who else would get to witness this kind of spectacle?
Hernan’s thoughts, however, were far from settled.
If only that incident hadn’t happened, things might have gone smoother.
When a servant, oblivious to the consequences, let slip, “So you’ve been teaching the Grand Duke to dance? I thought he would’ve learned during his coming-of-age celebration.”
Jurgen’s expression instantly darkened.
The truth was, while Hernan had technically “learned” to dance, it had been rushed and half-hearted, more spoken instruction than hands-on practice.
At the time, his coming-of-age celebration had been less about him and more about currying favor with his father and brothers.
Most of the attendees didn’t even know who he was, let alone care to celebrate him.
The moment the servant’s words sank in, Jurgen’s face contorted with unfiltered disdain.
The look on his face read loud and clear: “So you knew how to dance and wasted all this time pretending you didn’t? What a piece of work.”
Without a word of clarification from Hernan, Jurgen strode away, leaving Hernan stewing in frustration.
If only that misunderstanding hadn’t occurred, Hernan would’ve succeeded in garnering Jurgen’s sympathy.
But now the lingering frustration gnawed at him.
Keeping Jurgen close should’ve been reassuring, but instead, Hernan found himself consumed by uncertainty and turmoil.
He knew he needed to be patient after pushing so hard, but it wasn’t easy.
When Jurgen, suppressing laughter, finally lost composure and burst into hearty laughter during one of their exchanges, Hernan’s thoughts went blank.
It was infuriatingly clear: no matter what Hernan did, Jurgen couldn’t be forcibly held or claimed.
But in that fleeting moment, more than anything, Hernan wanted to lock away that radiant, unguarded expression so that no one else could ever see it.
Among his knights, Oleg was the most notorious for his dazzling romantic exploits.
He would ramble on endlessly about love, claiming, “You see, love is when your heart tickles all day long, like walking on a snowy field.”
But that was all lies.
Just as I longed to consume his every waking thought, so did this man wish for me to think of him endlessly.
While Hernan briefly lowered his head, lost in his tumultuous and conflicted emotions, a knock broke the silence.
“Maxim here. May I come in?”
Hernan, regaining composure, gave a curt nod with his usual stoic expression.
A knight with a stern visage entered the office, his disheveled hair betraying the urgency of the situation.
“What is it?”
The instant coolness in Hernan’s voice made Anton inwardly exclaim, Oh?
But what followed wasn’t something to brush off lightly.
“While searching the intruder captured last night, we found an item marked with a crest.”
Hernan’s eyes, devoid of emotion, settled on Maxim as he asked, “The intruder’s condition?”
“They’ve taken their own life again.”
Hernan nodded in understanding, his thoughts visibly turning inward.
* * *
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