Chapter 3 — The Nest of Monsters

Isolde staggered behind Raymond as he guided her down a long corridor. She pulled the torn section of her cream satin gown over her thigh, trying to hide her smooth skin from the mansion's cold night air that seemed to seep into her pores.

As Isolde passed rows of servants stationed at the corners of the hall, sharp glances and restrained whispers stung her ears. Isolde knew exactly what they were talking about—her curvy figure, which stood in stark contrast to the aristocratic luxury surrounding her.

"This is your room, Miss Isolde," Raymond said as he opened a sturdy teakwood door.

"Thank you, Mr. Raymond..." Isolde replied softly before stepping inside.

The door immediately closed behind her.

Isolde looked around the room, which was almost as large as the entire rental house she used to live in. A king-size bed draped with sheer white silk curtains dominated the space, followed by a maroon velvet sofa and a marble fireplace still glowing with warm embers.

Instead of feeling fortunate, Isolde felt suffocated.

This luxurious bedroom did not feel like a shelter.

It felt like a magnificent prison cell filled with threatening desire.

She placed her small handbag on the dressing table and walked toward the large window overlooking the pitch-black backyard.

Suddenly, her stomach growled loudly, twisting painfully.

Only then did she remember that not even a piece of bread had passed her lips since she fled from the hotel where her engagement had been destroyed.

To ease her exhaustion and hunger, Isolde decided to leave her room and look for the kitchen. At the very least, a glass of warm water might help settle her stomach, which was beginning to refuse any further compromise.

The mansion corridor was far quieter when she stepped out barefoot.

However, as she passed the second-floor balcony overlooking the main study downstairs, her footsteps suddenly froze.

The soft sound of a crystal glass being set down roughly on a wooden desk echoed through the silent marble walls.

"We can't allow that woman to stay here any longer, Evander," a deep, authoritative voice declared.

Isolde immediately recognized it as Lucien's.

Holding her breath, she pressed herself against a large pillar near the staircase to avoid being seen from below.

"Why are you so tense, Lucien?" Evander replied casually, followed by the sound of a lighter being struck. "Grandmother Berliana wanted her here. Besides, the girl is rather entertaining. Did you see the way she looked at us earlier? She didn't tremble in fear or worship us like those socialite women who try to crawl into our beds. And besides..." Evander let out a low chuckle, followed by the sound of him inhaling cigarette smoke. "...that curvy body of hers is seriously destroying my concentration."

"Watch your mouth, Evander. She's a burden," Lucien cut in sharply, his tone as cold as piercing ice. "She has no family, and with her... full and poorly maintained figure, her presence in this mansion will only spark ugly rumors among our business associates. Blackthorne does not need public sympathy. I have to protect this family's reputation."

Hidden behind the dark corridor pillar, Isolde gripped the satin fabric of her gown so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Lucien's words did not contain the crude insults Gavin used, but their meaning was far more degrading.

In Lucien's eyes, she was nothing more than an ugly stain on the Blackthorne name.

"But you can't reject the will's clause, Lucien," Evander continued, sounding as though he had moved closer to the study window. "And honestly, I'm very curious. A full-bodied girl like her... if I were to undress her beneath bedroom lights? Trace every curve of those thick hips? Ah, I have to admit, she possesses a silhouette that truly awakens my primitive instincts."

"Enough, Evander. Know your limits, or I'll personally throw you out of this mansion," Lucien stated firmly, his baritone voice vibrating with a strange anger.

Lucien himself did not understand why his chest burned every time Evander talked about Isolde's body.

"But I'll find a way to make her uncomfortable enough to leave on her own."

Isolde slowly stepped backward as quietly as possible.

Her tears no longer fell.

It felt as though she had exhausted them all throughout the night.

What remained was a suffocating anxiety.

This place was not a sanctuary.

It was a nest of monsters ready to tear her apart at any moment.

At exactly two o'clock in the morning, overwhelming hunger finally defeated Isolde's fear.

Walking on tiptoe barefoot, she descended the grand staircase toward the first floor, relying on the dim glow of the wall lamps.

However, while passing a glass-doored room near the entrance to the back garden, a movement caught her attention.

The room inside was brightly illuminated, filling the corridor with the sharp scent of linseed oil and oil paint.

Isolde peeked through the slightly open door.

Inside, Azriel stood before a large canvas supported by a wooden easel. He wore only a loose sleeveless black shirt, exposing the firm muscles of his arms while veins stood out along the backs of his hands as they moved dynamically with each confident brushstroke.

Isolde froze in astonishment.

On the white canvas, layers of oil paint formed the silhouette of a woman she knew all too well.

A tight cream dress outlining full hips.

A provocative tear along the thigh.

And a pair of swollen eyes staring blankly with pain.

It was her.

A painted portrait of herself during her most vulnerable and intimate moment just a few hours earlier.

Without meaning to, Isolde's bare foot brushed against the edge of the glass door, creating a faint scraping sound that shattered the silence of the night.

Azriel did not turn around.

However, the elegant hand holding the paintbrush suddenly stopped in midair.

"Why are you wandering around at such a dangerous hour, Miss?" Azriel spoke, his tone flat yet strangely husky. "Aren't you afraid someone might drag you into a bedroom, throw your soft, full body onto a bed... then strip you naked and make you scream from pleasure?"

Isolde immediately froze in the doorway.

Her large eyes blinked slowly several times.

Her exhausted brain and empty stomach suddenly stopped functioning, trying to process the explicit string of words that had just left the pale man's lips.

Scream from pleasure?

Because of what?

Because the bed was comfortable?

A faint frown appeared between Isolde's brows.

Her expression looked completely innocent, reflecting nothing but genuine confusion without the slightest trace of erotic understanding.

Throughout all these years, Gavin had only thrown cruel insults about her appearance at her. He had never once used wild metaphors filled with sensual intimidation like this.

To Isolde, who had never stepped into the darker side of adulthood, Azriel's words sounded like a warning about physical danger within this enormous house.

"You mean... this place isn't safe?" Isolde asked softly in an incredibly innocent voice, assuming there might be servants or intruders intending to attack her. "Are there intruders in this house who like dragging people away by force?"

Hearing that unbelievably innocent question, Azriel slowly lowered his wooden palette.

The tall man turned around and stared at Isolde with eyes that suddenly darkened with dangerous hunger.

Azriel slowly walked toward her, like a predator closing in on valuable prey that had no idea it was being hunted.

The scent of oil paint mixed with cold mint drifted from his tall body, immediately surrounding Isolde's senses as soon as he reached her.

Azriel stopped directly in front of Isolde, casting a large shadow over her curvy figure.

Lowering his head, he stared straight into Isolde's swollen, innocent eyes.

"Don't pretend to be innocent, Young Lady. You know exactly what I mean," Azriel whispered.

His low, husky voice vibrated just in front of Isolde's lips, sending warm air across her face and suddenly raising the temperature around them.

Isolde leaned farther back until her spine pressed against the cold glass door.

Her heart was beating twice as fast.

Before Isolde could answer, Azriel suddenly extended a hand stained with black and red paint.

His long, warm fingers settled against the curve of Isolde's waist, gripping the satin fabric of her gown with demanding pressure.

The touch was so intimate that Isolde jerked backward, but Azriel immediately used his other hand to grasp the back of her neck, preventing her from moving away.

"A-Azriel... let go," Isolde squeaked.

Her breathing quickened.

Her full chest rose and fell rapidly, brushing lightly against Azriel's broad chest.

The unfamiliar sensation made her entire body suddenly weak.

"You're so soft... and pure..." Azriel murmured with obsession.

His gaze shifted to Isolde's full lips, slightly parted as she struggled to breathe.

Azriel's rough thumb slowly brushed across her lower lip, leaving behind a faint smear of black paint. The contrast against Isolde's pale skin created a striking effect.

"Every inch of your body... makes me want to lock you in here forever and paint you without a single thread covering you."

Isolde looked incredibly nervous, her eyes darting around in panic because of the strange sensations spreading through her body from such intense closeness.

"I... I really don't understand. Please let me go..."

Rather than releasing her, Azriel's smile darkened.

He seemed to enjoy the helplessness of his captivating new prey beneath his control.