villainess'ss Secret Service

c64

The beast

The passage of time was marked by the gentle progression of hours, during which the entrancing and intoxicating aroma that emanated from Rosalie's hair began its gradual diffusion into Damien's senses. Like a seductive vapor, it wound its way into his consciousness, ensnaring his thoughts in its intoxicating embrace, and casting a tantalizing haze over his mind.

Amidst his contemplations, an overwhelming surge of tangled emotion surged within him-a potent blend of strength and danger, whispering the possibility of losing control. This sensation, familiar yet formidable, swept over him once more, prompting unsettling questions to unfurl. Could it be that his sanity was slipping away once more, succumbing to the machinations of the curse that bound him?

What struck him as peculiar, in stark contrast to previous instances, was the absence of both frustration and malaise. This anomaly deepened his perplexity, as the enigmatic interplay between sensation and rationale danced within his awareness. Amidst this enigma, a singular truth remained resolute: the slumbering form of the girl nestled within his arms wielded an inexplicable power over him. As she slept soundly, a dormant desire within him stirred, coaxing forth latent longings that yearned to be acknowledged. This relentless urge, a manifestation of his fervent yearning, tugged at his very core-a fervor that sought not only connection but dominion.

Rosalie's eyes parted in a languid fashion, stirred from slumber by a distant, barely audible cadence of inhalation. This subtle rhythm pierced the veil of her restless dreams, coaxing her back into wakefulness. Still ensnared by the embrace of slumber, she found herself averse to relinquishing the comforting cocoon of drowsiness. However, an unexpected element disrupted her reluctance, compelling her to rouse entirely.

A realization, both startling and curious, flooded her awareness.

'Wait a minute... Did I drift into sleep while still atop Damien? But more significantly... Could it be that he is... hard?!'

With measured deliberation, Rosalie initiated a shift in her posture, her awareness sharpening as she fully took in the scene. Indeed, the sensation that had roused her from her repose was unmistakable-tangible evidence of his arousal pressed insistently against her hips, a palpable declaration of desire. This manifestation of his longing, though tempered by the modest veil of their garments, remained an undeniable presence that refused to be ignored.

She slowly elevated her head, her gaze falling upon Damien's visibly disquieted state. Paralleling the past, his countenance bore the telltale hue of fervent crimson, a complexion betraying the turmoil within. His respiration, agitated and abrupt, appeared to evade its intended destination within his lungs, dissipating into the air in an incomplete exhalation.

Another seizure this soon?'

Her mental query hung in the air, a testament to the concern that swiftly flitted across her thoughts.

In a seamless motion, Lady Ashter executed her ascent, their faces poised to meet. The proximity, though abrupt, bore an urgency driven by her apprehension. In a tone tinged with both empathy and distress, she inquired,

"Your Grace, do you find yourself well? Is another seizure distressing you already?"

The duke's gaze widened, the intensity of it akin to a consuming blaze engulfing his entire being. His countenance now radiated fervor, while the fulcrum of his attention remained firmly affixed to the girl's visage, her consternation mirrored in his unyielding stare. In a reflexive gesture, his hands reached forward to grab Lady Ashter's delicate shoulders, a tangible response to his inner conflagration. Yet, amidst the maelstrom of emotion, the duke grappled with a dilemma-words and actions eluded him, leaving a void of uncertainty in their

wake.

Evident in his discomposed state and the ensuing, somewhat awkward quietude, Rosalie detected the rise of her own warmth, the flush of embarrassment imparting a vivid hue to her cheeks. Despite her internal yearning to withdraw, an undercurrent of anxiety lending urgency to the impulse, a curious paralysis seized her form, rendering movement an elusive prospect.

At last, with a hushed voice tinged with a note of genuine concern, the girl finally broke the silence,

"Your Grace, are you feeling alright? Do you find yourself in need of my assistance once again?"

A perilously audacious notion infiltrated Damien's thoughts, triggered by the very question that had just pierced the air. What if, against the grain of all propriety, he were to concede to her offer? In the uncharted territories of his experience, the prospect of yielding to another bout of seizure was unsettlingly plausible. Would it not, then, be a measure of prudence to accept her support?

Yet, the depths of his instincts pulsed with an alternate persuasion, urging him to reevaluate the path he was poised to tread. Consequently, a decisive shake of his head bespoke his inner deliberations. He exhaled a prolonged breath, tinged with a hint of exasperation, and finally replied in a forced stern voice,

"It's alright, Lady Rosalie... May I request that you kindly move away from me?"

"Oh... Sure. Forgive me, Your Grace."

Rosalie hastened to release the duke from the gentle weight of her presence and repositioned herself at the farthest corner of the couch. Here, amidst the swirl of her thoughts, she engaged in a flurry of movements-fingers nimbly arranging the disarray of attire, and an almost reflexive adjustment to her tousled hair-these gestures an effort to redirect her attention from the awkwardness of her situation.

'Well, I am glad that he is alright. Perhaps he felt hot because I fell asleep on top of him. Then what was it about him getting hard? Does that happen a lot to men?'

Meanwhile, Damien assumed a sitting position too, turning his lower body away from her, clearly embarrassed to expose his undignified condition to Lady Ashter, and when it seemed like the silence that stretched between them was no longer bearable, he brushed his disheveled hair backward and spoke again,

"I would advise, Lady Rosalie, that you retreat to your own quarters. It would indeed be better for you to indulge in further rest."

Rosalie found herself recognizing the appeal of engaging in further rest, considering her prevailing state of weariness and lethargy.

"Very well. Good night, Your Grace."

With her exit from the study, the room succumbed to a profound silence, the diminishing crackle of the fireplace embracing the solitude. As the cadence of her footsteps gradually faded along the empty corridor, Damien yielded to the solitude that enveloped him.

Seated upon the couch, he reclined slightly, his hands extending to conceal his tired face, and let out a suppressed groan akin to the one of a trapped, anguished animal.

'What am I, a beast? This current-untamed and unbidden -is no conjuration of the curse's design. I thought I would never feel this way about anyone... This is dangerous. And I don't like it.'.