The Night Before

Dinner was indeed delivered according to Nelisa's arrangements.

Two meat dishes, two vegetable dishes, a bowl of soup, and half a carafe of fruit wine. The portions weren't large, but the heat and seasoning of every dish were beyond reproach. The Chamber of Commerce never cut corners on such details.

Klein ate slowly, and Ophelia didn't rush him. The two of them chatted intermittently about tomorrow's schedule, aligning their stories one last time.

By the time Klein finished clearing the dishes, Ophelia had already headed to the bathroom. The sound of running water drifted out from behind the door, rhythmic and steady.

Only after she came out did Klein go in.

Once both had finished washing up and dried their hair, most of the lights in the room were extinguished—save for a single lamp by the bedside.

Then came their nightly routine.

Ophelia sat on the edge of the bed, legs together, toes lightly touching the floor. She wore a thin nightgown that left her calves exposed, her skin reflecting a faint, warm glow from the lamp.

“We're meeting the Princess tomorrow,” she said, not looking at Klein. Her tone was flat and direct. “Exercise some restraint.”

Klein had just finished setting up the soundproofing array. He pulled out the pair of spider silk stockings and glanced up at her.

The tips of Ophelia’s ears were red.

It wasn't obvious, but Klein could tell. Having spent so much time with her day and night, he knew every subtle shift in her demeanor.

“Why? Are you nervous?”

“What do I have to be nervous about?” Ophelia’s reply came a beat too fast.

“Meeting the Princess.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Ophelia finally turned her head, her chin lifting slightly as her knightly pride resurfaced. “On the day I was knighted as an Imperial Honorary Knight, any one of the people sitting in the viewing gallery carried more weight than a princess of a single nation.”

She was telling the truth.

“Then why is your heart racing?”

Ophelia’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

Seeing her like this, Klein stopped teasing her.

He shook out the stockings, the spider silk fabric shimmering with a faint luster under the light. Having put them on her once during the day, he already knew the right technique and pressure. But as he knelt by the bed on one knee, he realized his state of mind was completely different from this morning.

The light was different.

The air was different.

The way she looked at him was different, too.

As one hand supported her ankle, her foot twitched back. It was a tiny movement, almost an instinctive reaction—exactly the same as this morning.

“Don't move,” Klein said.

Ophelia bit her lip and extended her foot back toward him.

This time, he didn't take it inch by inch as he had during the day. The stockings slid over her toes and up her calves with much more efficiency—it was his second time, after all. The initial chill of the spider silk against her skin was quickly replaced by body heat, the fabric molding perfectly to the lines of her lower legs.

The technical side required no further exploration.

The problem was that as his hands passed her knees, his fingers didn't stay strictly on the fabric as they had this morning.

His fingertips lingered a beat longer at the back of her knee.

It wasn't to adjust the fabric.

Ophelia’s leg tensed. Klein looked up at her.

She wasn't looking at him. Her head was turned away, her gaze fixed on the curtains, her jawline pulled tight.

But her breathing had grown ragged.

Klein’s fingers continued upward, passing her knees and sliding into the territory of her thighs. The spider silk stockings unfurled against her skin, and beneath that thin layer of fabric, the temperature of Ophelia’s thighs was searing.

During the day, he had stopped here.

Tonight—his fingertips drifted half an inch toward the inner side.

Ophelia’s hand gripped the bedsheet.

“Klein.”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

Klein didn't deny it. He smoothed the edges of the stockings, his finger lightly flicking the lace at the top before he stood up.

“The other one.”

Ophelia took a deep breath and extended her other leg.

Klein knelt back down and repeated the process. As his palm slid up her calf and passed the back of her knee, Ophelia suddenly squeezed his hand between her knees.

The pressure wasn't great, but the intent was clear.

A warning.

Klein let out a soft laugh and obediently pulled the stocking into place.

Then he stood up, looking down at Ophelia as she sat on the edge of the bed.

The spider silk stockings encased her legs from her toes to the tops of her thighs, the translucent fabric taking on a subtle glow in the warm light.

Unlike the texture under the daylight, the warmth of the bedside lamp neutralized the cool tones of the fabric, making her look as though she were wrapped in a thin layer of amber.

Ophelia looked up, meeting his eyes.

The golden depths of her pupils reflected the flame of the lamp, and a thin veil of red dusted her cheeks.

“Seen enough?”

“No,” Klein answered honestly.

Ophelia hooked her toe around his calf, pulling him toward the bed.

“Didn't you tell me to exercise restraint?” Klein stumbled slightly from her pull, steadying himself with one hand on the bed beside her.

Ophelia’s other hand had already locked onto the back of his neck.

“I was talking about you,” she whispered, pulling him down a few inches. “I didn't say anything about myself.”

Klein didn't resist.

He leaned forward, the hand supporting him beside her letting go as he buried his face directly into her chest.

The fabric of the nightgown was thin; through that single layer, her warmth and softness were transmitted with almost no attenuation.

Ophelia carried a faint honey locust scent mixed with the lingering steam of her bath—it wasn't strong, but it was impossible to avoid at this distance.

Klein took a breath and nuzzled further down, finding a comfortable angle. It was as if he had found the most perfect spot in the world and had no intention of leaving.

At the same time, his hands grew restless.

His palms pressed against the outer side of Ophelia’s thighs. Through the spider silk stockings, the smooth, cool touch formed a sharp contrast with the skin temperature beneath. His fingers slowly curled, sliding along the curve of her thighs from the outside to the inside, his fingertips rubbing back and forth against the edge of the stockings.

Ophelia’s entire body went rigid.

The strength she had used to pull him down vanished instantly. Her hands froze in mid-air—one still clutching the back of Klein’s neck, the other hovering over his shoulder. It wasn't that she didn't want to move; she simply didn't know where to put them.

“…Klein.”

“Mm.” His voice was muffled, vibrating against her chest.

“Lift your head.”

“I don't want to.”

Ophelia could feel Klein’s breath against her skin. His breathing was steady and calm—completely at odds with the restless movements of his hands. One part of him said, “I am very calm,” while the other said, “Like hell I am.”

His right hand moved up another half inch. His thumb hooked into the lace edge of the stocking while his other four fingers rested on the bare skin of her thigh. His palm slowly pressed down, tightening bit by bit.

What his fingertips touched was no longer the spider silk fabric, but her skin.

The temperature difference was exceptionally clear at that dividing line. Below the stocking was a layer of ambiguity; above it was direct, raw, and real warmth.

Ophelia’s knees unconsciously pressed together, trapping his wrist.

Klein looked up at her.

From this angle, Ophelia’s jawline was taut, her lips pursed, and the red on her cheeks had spread to her ears. Her golden pupils were slightly unfocused, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling, refusing to look down.

“What did you say just now?” Klein asked.

Ophelia didn't respond.

“‘I didn't say anything about myself,’ right?”

Ophelia finally looked down at him.

That look was both fierce and soft, like a sword that had been halfway drawn only to be forced back into its scabbard.

Amused by her expression, a low laugh escaped Klein’s throat. He gave her thigh a light squeeze, choosing a tricky spot—right on the line where the stocking edge met her skin.

Ophelia’s leg gave a small shudder.

“Tomorrow…” her voice was several shades huskier than before, “tomorrow we still have to—”

“I know,” Klein interrupted, burying his face back down. His chin rested against her sternum as his voice came out muffled from beneath the fabric. “But… so what?”

He felt perfectly justified saying it, even though he was doing something that was anything but.

The hand Ophelia had on the back of his neck tightened. Her nails lightly grazed the short hair at the back of his head, sending a faint itch through him. That hand hesitated for a moment, as if choosing between pushing him away and pressing him closer.

She chose the latter.

“…You are not allowed to leave any marks.”

Klein’s lips pressed against the edge of her collarbone.

“I’ll try.”

“It’s not a ‘try.’” Ophelia did her best to make her voice sound stern, though the tremors betrayed her. “You are not allowed.”

Klein looked at her.

In the dim, yellow light, her eyes were exceptionally bright. He could see his own reflection in those golden pupils.

“Fine.”

He let go of her, shifted his position, and pressed his weight onto her, his knee sliding between hers. The mattress dipped, and the springs gave a muffled creak.

The bedside lamp flickered.

But it didn't go out.

...

Supposedly, if left untreated, a hickey takes about three days to fade naturally.

Klein remembered this bit of trivia while looking in the mirror the next morning.

Standing before the washbasin, the string of marks on his neck—varying in shade—looked particularly glaring in the morning light.

The most prominent one was just above his collarbone—not a hickey, but a bite mark.

Clear tooth marks, two rows, perfectly symmetrical, with a faint ring of bruising around the edges.

He stared at the mark in the mirror for three seconds.

Ophelia’s bite force… well, it was exactly what one would expect from her.

Looking further down, there were two or three more hickeys where his collar wouldn't cover. Some were dark red, while others were a purplish-pink, distributed with no discernible pattern—the Knightess clearly hadn't formulated any tactical plan for this. She had simply bitten wherever the mood struck.

He looked back at the perpetrator still lingering in bed.

Ophelia was lying face-down on the pillow, only the back of her head and a section of her exceptionally white neck visible. The blanket had slipped down past her shoulders, and the strap of her nightgown had slumped to her upper arm. The small patch of skin exposed below her collarbone was perfectly clean.

There wasn't a single mark.

He had certainly been busy last night. The inner thighs, the collarbone, behind the ears—he remembered leaving quite a few marks. He had even used a fair amount of pressure in several spots, earning him a swat on the head from Ophelia. Yet, after a night’s sleep, hers had all vanished.

Such was the recovery power of a knight’s constitution.

And him? A mere alchemist with an average constitution, heading to meet the Princess with a row of tooth marks on his neck.

Was it fair?

Not at all.

Next time I travel, I should bring an ointment for subcutaneous bruising...

With that thought, Klein rummaged through his suitcase and found a dark, high-neck undershirt from the bottom. He had originally brought it for the cold, as autumn had already arrived.

He hadn't expected it to serve this purpose.

He pulled the high collar up to his chin and checked himself in the mirror. The neckline perfectly covered the highest bite mark, fitting snugly.

Then he tilted his head.

The left side was clear.

He tilted it again.

The right side was safe, too.

Good. Perfect.

“What are you doing?” Ophelia’s voice came muffled from the pillow.

“Concealing the evidence of your crimes.”

Two seconds of silence followed.

The blanket shifted, and Ophelia lifted her face from the pillow. Her hair was a mess, with a stray golden lock draped over the bridge of her nose. She squinted at him, her expression the hazy daze of someone who hadn't quite returned to the waking world.

Then her gaze landed on his high collar.

Her memory likely caught up at that exact moment.

Her ears transitioned from pale to pink with a speed comparable to her drawing her sword.

“…That,” she cleared her throat, “I didn't do it on purpose last night.”

“Is that so? Because the parts you did on purpose go far beyond this.”

Ophelia’s mouth opened, but unable to find a retort, she simply buried her face back into the pillow.

The pillow let out a muffled squelch as it was compressed.

Klein gave his collar one last adjustment in the mirror. As for the faint smile he couldn't suppress—that couldn't be hidden, and he didn't intend to.

He admitted that he had been the one to cross the line first last night. Ophelia had said “no marks,” he had said “fine,” and then he had basically cut that promise in half during the execution.

At the time, his rational mind had judged that “anywhere covered by clothes doesn't count as a violation.” That logic had sounded ironclad then, but in hindsight, it was pure self-justification.

Then again, Ophelia wasn't much better. At some point—Klein couldn't remember exactly when, as her reactions then were a bit of a blur—she had bitten him on the neck. It wasn't a gentle nip. It was a forceful, intentional bite that had made him hiss.

When he asked her why she was biting him...

Her exact words were: “You deserve it.”

Concise and logically consistent. He hadn't been able to argue.

When Ophelia finally sat up from the bed, her movements were a beat slower than usual. Her legs emerged from the blankets with the lingering lethargy of the night, and her toes paused for a moment as they touched the floor.

“Sore legs?” Klein asked.

Ophelia shot him a glare. The lethality of that look was significantly diminished by her messy hair and the slipped strap of her nightgown. While its lethality was down, a certain other effect was amplified—Klein had enough self-control to look away.

“…They aren't sore,” she eventually replied. Her voice was stiff, as if she were defending the last of her knightly dignity.

As she stood up, her knees buckled slightly before she quickly straightened them. If Klein had seen that detail, he would have had ammunition to use against her all day.

Klein saw it.

But for once, he chose silence. Some ammunition was worth more saved than spent immediately.

Ophelia walked straight into the bathroom.

The sound of the door closing was slightly heavier than usual.

Klein sat at the table, poured a glass of cold water, and downed it in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked down at his palms.

The sensations of touching her through the silk stockings last night still seemed to cling to his skin. The lace of the stockings, the skin above them, the heat radiating from beneath. These hands would have to formally greet the Princess today; it felt like a bit of an affront to the royal majesty.

He let out a breath and stood up to tidy the clutter on the table.

By the time Ophelia finished washing up and came out, she had changed into her everyday clothes. A long dress and a standing-collar jacket, with the buttons done up to the very top. She was covered from head to toe; never mind hickeys, not even an extra inch of skin was visible.

She stood before the full-length mirror and checked herself over. Her movements were meticulous—turning her neck twice, tugging at her cuffs, pressing down her collar. That level of seriousness was no different from how she inspected her armor before going into battle.

Klein really wanted to tell her that nothing could be seen.

But there was no need.

If anything, their matching styles of dress only made them look more like a couple in the throes of a passionate romance.

Klein adjusted his collar one last time.

Soon, it would be time to depart.