Rosalee chewed the rose pastry slowly, savoring its sticky sweetness—but not because of the jam.
'Ben fed me.'
That thought alone sent a ripple down Rosalee's spine, prickling their skin with warmth. He hadn't even hesitated. Hadn't looked around for approval. Hadn't second-guessed what feeding them would imply in a room packed with eyes and opinions. He'd simply done it—like it was the most natural thing in the world to tend to them like a precious thing.
Like a lover would.
'Interesting…'
They let their gaze linger on Ben as he gently dabbed the corner of their lips, his touch featherlight and reverent. His head was slightly bowed, his entire posture deferential—but it was the kind of deference that had nothing to do with fear or rank. It was something else. Something more intimate. Something dangerous.
'How far are you falling, Ben?'
Rosalee had always expected to toy with him. To string him along, slowly unravel his sense of duty, twist his loyalty into something more indulgent. They were used to men who wanted them—craved them, even. That wasn't new.
But this?
This was something else.
Ben didn't look at them like a man hungry for flesh. He looked at them like a man starving for meaning. As if Rosalee's existence gave shape to something he hadn't known he needed. That sort of gaze wasn't just lust—it was devotion born from confusion and instinct. Pure and raw and still forming.
And yet… the most delicious part was the ignorance.
Ben didn't even know how far he'd already fallen.
Rosalee took another bite of the pastry and leaned slightly closer, letting their shoulder brush against his arm in a casual show of trust. Outwardly, they maintained their soft smile, all silk and sweetness. Inwardly, they were coiling, calculating.
'He was meant to be a long game. Slow. Subtle. I didn't think he'd turn to mush this quickly…'
A flicker of genuine amusement passed through their chest.
'I'll have to adjust the strategy. Rein him in a bit… I don't want him too obedient too soon. Where's the fun in that?'
And yet—
Their eyes slid up to Ben's face again. He was still knelt beside the chaise, carefully unlidding the small jar of rose-jam as if presenting them with a sacred offering. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, his lips parted slightly in thought, and those calloused hands… Rosalee could still feel the ghost of them against their back from yesterday's see-through blouse incident.
Their smile faltered for a brief second.
'No… this one isn't like the others.'
There was a groundedness to him. A steadiness. He wasn't clever or manipulative. He didn't posture or try to be something he wasn't. And that… genuineness... it was magnetic.
Rosalee didn't like it.
Didn't like how it curled under their ribs and made their chest feel tight.
Didn't like how it made them second-guess their own performance.
Didn't like that maybe, just maybe… they were starting to prefer Ben's attention over the rest.
They tucked that thought away.
Buried it beneath the silk layers of strategy and self-preservation, behind the performance, under the charm.
Because Rosalee had survived too much—had lost too much—to be undone by soft smiles and careful hands. They wouldn't be someone's prize. Not even Ben's.
But…
They would *let* him think he was winning.
'...For now.'
…
The room was spotless now.
The head butler, his mustache drooping even more with strain, slowly straightened after adjusting the final pillow on Rosalee's bed. His pale gray eyes swept across the now-pristine space—jewelry tucked away, clothes hung properly, drawers orderly and closed. Satisfied, or at least unwilling to endure more humiliation, he cleared his throat.
"Well then…"
He grumbled, folding his hands behind his back.
"The Lady's chambers are in order once more. All servants are to return to their duties. Lunch must be prepared, and we are behind on dinner prep as well. Move along."
The maids began to gather toward the doorway, subdued and quiet. Their gazes flicked nervously from Rosalee, still reclining on their chaise, to Ben, who stood protectively beside them.
But just as the last few servants were about to leave, Rosalee's dulcet voice rang out—mild, almost sweet, yet unmistakably deliberate.
"Oh… wait…"
They said with a soft pout, lashes fluttering as they turned their head toward the crowd.
"Did anyone happen to find that necklace Miss Mireille claimed I stole?"
The air in the room turned ice-cold.
Ben, who up until now had remained calm and composed in front of the others, immediately narrowed his eyes and demanded.
"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Grinnel?"
The head butler stiffened, and even the air between them seemed to freeze.
"A noble lady of the house…"
Ben continued, his voice deepening with restrained fury.
"Was accused of theft over a cheap trinket from a maid? And that accusation justified invading her private quarters like this?"
The head butler opened his mouth to speak, but a choked sob stole the attention.
Mireille. Her amber eyes welled up with real tears this time—though whether from regret or fear, no one could say.
"It's not just some trinket…"
She sniffled, pressing a hand to her chest.
"It was a family heirloom… it belonged to my grandmother before she passed. I thought I saw it in the lady's room. I didn't mean—"
"I don't care."
Ben interrupted coldly.
"Your grief doesn't justify this disrespect. The Lady should be resting from her training. Instead, she was ambushed with false accusations, her reputation insulted, and her privacy trampled by servants."
Rosalee sighed with a slight tremble in their voice, their eyes damp as they played their role perfectly.
"It's fine, Benny… I just want to know if it was found. That way, poor Mireille can stop worrying. I'd hate to think I caused her so much trouble."
Their tone was pitiful, soft, and left the whole room in awkward silence.
The head butler, brow sweating now, quickly moved to cover the mistake.
"Of course. A final inspection was completed just now. No unfamiliar jewelry was found—only the Lady's belongings."
'Ooh! His name was Mr. Grinnel!'
Though Rosalee finally got the head butler's name, the servants often referred to him as Grin-nel, ironically, for the man had never smiled a day in his life. He was stoic to the point of being robotic, but now even his scowl wavered slightly in unease.
Mireille froze. The plan had failed.
She had meant to plant the necklace after seeing her first plan go astray. That was the entire scheme she just painstakingly came up with—to sneak it into Rosalee's room, wait for the maids to find it, and make a fool of the Second once and for all. But Ben's appearance, his unexpected attentiveness and that hateful tray of sweets, had sent her seething. In her jealousy and fluster, she had completely forgotten her role… and more importantly, the necklace still sat in the pocket of her apron.
Trying to retreat before anyone noticed, Mireille turned—only to stumble on the trailing hem of another maid's skirt. She hit the floor hard with a surprised yelp.
"Ah!—"
And out from her apron pocket, glinting against the polished wood floor, tumbled a delicate necklace. Silver and thin, with a tiny moonstone pendant—undeniably the necklace.
The room gasped as one.
Mr. Grinnel's jaw clenched. He stepped forward slowly and picked up the jewelry, holding it up to Mireille with a look of absolute disdain.
"Is this the necklace you claimed Lady Rosalee stole?"
Mireille's face was stark white.
"N-no, it's not! I-I must've—"
A voice cut her off, firm and decisive. One of the younger maids, with short brown hair in a Bob style and amber eyes, stepped forward.
"That's the necklace she said was her heirloom. She showed it to me just this morning."
More murmurs rippled through the staff. Mireille began to shake.
"I-I didn't mean… I forgot it was in my pocket, I swear…"
"Enough!"
Mr. Grinnel snapped.
"Lying about a noble. Inciting false accusations. Interrupting household operations and wasting everyone's time."
He turned to two nearby servants.
"Escort her to the punishment hall. Ten lashes."
"No!"
Mireille shrieked.
"Please! Please don't—"
But the men had already grabbed her by the arms and began dragging her out. She kicked and flailed, sobbing pitifully, but no one stepped in to help her. Rosalee calmly sipped the last of their water as the doors closed behind her.
Mr. Grinnel turned, clearly humiliated.
He bowed stiffly.
"My sincerest apologies, Lady Rosalee. I will take full responsibility. If there is anything I can do to regain your forgiveness…"
Rosalee offered a gentle, weary smile.
"Just see that it doesn't happen again, Mr. Grinnel. I'd prefer my afternoon rest not be interrupted next time."
"Yes… of course."
He nodded, then swept his arms toward the remaining staff.
"Everyone, dismissed."
The room emptied in a rustle of skirts and shuffling boots. Within moments, only Ben and Rosalee remained in the clean, quiet chamber.
Rosalee reclined deeper into the chaise with a serene hum.
"Well…"
They said, lifting another cookie from the tray.
"That was a performance worth a standing ovation."
Ben slowly knelt down by their side, eyes sharp with a curious mix of admiration and concern.
"You were incredible. Truly. You handle the situation with grace and dignity. I'm so relieved you're okay."
"I always am~"
Rosalee said with a wink, nibbling on the cookie Ben had personally picked and arranged for them.
But as Ben gazed at them—soft, smug, beautiful and completely in control—he knew something inside him had already shifted.
He just didn't know how much further it was going to go.
…
After a few more bites, Ben crouched by the chaise lounge, collecting the now half-eaten tray of cookies, when it finally struck him.
"Wait—Lady Rosalee…"
He said, lifting his head, brows furrowing.
"You're back… earlier than I expected. I was going to come get you after I spoke to Lord Thornwood and finished preparing the snacks."
He paused, concern welling in his voice.
"Did something happen? Are you alright? Did someone hurt you?"
Rosalee, reclining like a languid cat across the velvet cushions, looked up at him lazily and smiled—soft, reassuring, but with a flicker of something unreadable in their gaze.
"Nothing's wrong…"
They replied, brushing a strand of hair behind one ear.
"I was just… a bit sore. Stretching can only prepare the body so much… and today, I got to start my weapons training."
Ben's frown deepened.
"'Weapons training'?"
He repeated, voice taut.
"Already?"
"Mhm…"
Rosalee nodded.
"Axmel thought it best to let me rest tomorrow before continuing. A very considerate man."
Ben didn't respond at first, his hands curling tightly around the tray. He hated the fact that someone else—especially a rugged knight like Axmel—was training Rosalee's delicate body and seeing them every morning while they sweated under the sun.
'Still… Rosalee said they were sore.'
He straightened up in a heartbeat, voice rushing out like a man possessed.
"If you're sore, I could—would you like a massage?"
His cheeks flushed faintly as he continued, fumbling for composure.
"I—I had a rose-scented oil lubricant delivered today. I even made sure it's warmed properly… just in case."
Rosalee blinked, amused. The suggestion had been so spontaneous, so instinctive. It reminded them of the men from their previous life who didn't realize they were already entangled.
"A massage?"
Rosalee echoed, sitting up.
"How thoughtful, Ben…"
Their eyes sparkled with growing mischief.
"Very well, then. I suppose I should get ready."
They rose gracefully and padded toward the bathroom with a slow sway of hips that made Ben forget how to breathe.
"I'll only be a moment."
They purred before closing the door behind them.
Ben stood there dazed.
'A massage? You offered to massage them? With oil?!'
He stared at the bed, suddenly aware that it needed to be prepared—and quickly.
He rushed to clear the bed, placing soft cushions along the headboard and folding down the comforter. He removed his butler coat, revealing the simple high-collared white shirt underneath, and began rolling up the sleeves slowly. Next came the apron from the kitchen and his gloves—set aside with uncharacteristic care onto the dresser. He smoothed the linen of the bed once more, heart beating faster with each tick of time.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click.
Ben turned, half expecting to see Rosalee wrapped tightly in sleepwear—but no. What emerged was far more dangerous.
Rosalee stepped out wearing a clinging silk bathrobe in a shade of deep cherry, the same color as the flower petals they put in their hair. The robe shimmered slightly as they moved, sliding over the curves of their lithe body like liquid. Their bare legs peeked out from a high slit in the side, each step unhurried, each movement calculated.
And then there was the hair—untamed now, a long river of red cascading down their back in glistening waves, swaying as if caught in a gentle flame. The light hit it just right, making them appear like some enchanted creature from a dream.
Ben stiffened. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.
Rosalee only smiled.
"You look like you've seen a long-lost lover, Benny."
They teased, padding over to the bed and gracefully climbing onto it.
Ben turned away quickly, his ears red.
"I—I was just surprised, that's all."
Rosalee made a soft hum of amusement and shifted on the bed.
"Just let me get comfortable."
They said, more to themselves than anyone else.
While Ben gathered the oil and a soft cloth, Rosalee waited for the right moment. When his back was finally turned—fumbling with the warming bottle of rose-scented lubricant—they undid the knot of their robe and let it slip away from their body. With practiced ease, they drew a small towel over their rear, keeping just enough modesty to be called decency, but baring most of their smooth, glowing back and long, elegant legs.
They settled face-down on the bed, arms folded beneath their cheek, and flipped their hair over the edge of the mattress, letting it drape like a crimson waterfall.
"Ready when you are, Benny."
They called, voice laced with syrup and innocence.
Ben turned and nearly dropped the oil.
He stared.
Rosalee's soft, fair skin glowed in the afternoon light filtering through the balcony drapes. The muscles of their back, delicate and smooth, glistened faintly with the heat of the bath. Their towel clung just above the swell of their hips, leaving their lower back entirely exposed.
Ben's throat felt impossibly dry.
Still, he swallowed hard, collected himself, and approached slowly, clutching the small bottle of rose oil in slightly trembling hands. He knelt beside the bed and poured a few drops into his palm.
"Tell me if anything hurts."
He murmured, voice thick and low.
Rosalee smiled into their arms, fully prepared to enjoy this little indulgence… and curious just how far Ben would go.
They hadn't realized it before, but this house was becoming far more entertaining than they ever imagined.
Ben poured a ribbon of rose-scented oil into his palms, the fragrance delicate and intoxicating. He rubbed his hands together slowly, warming it further as if to delay touching as long as possible, before placing his fingertips gently on the small of Rosalee's back. For a moment, he didn't move—just stared, breath shallow.
Rosalee's skin was impossibly smooth. Like silk draped over warm porcelain. As Ben began to glide his palms in long, firm strokes up along their spine, he marveled at the softness. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, coaxing warmth and relaxation into the muscles beneath.
Rosalee let out a soft, surprised gasp.
"Oh…"
They murmured, lashes fluttering against their cheek.
"You're… mmn, good at this."
Ben didn't reply—couldn't. His entire focus was on not letting his hands tremble.
He swept his thumbs up both sides of Rosalee's spine, following the elegant dip along their back, and then traced his way out across their shoulder blades, thumbs pressing firm circles into the tender muscles there. Rosalee arched ever so slightly, releasing a faint moan at the sensation.
"Mmm—right there… Ah—hah, don't stop."
Ben nearly forgot to breathe. He wasn't sure if the heat rising in his cheeks was from the heat of the oil or from the sound of Rosalee's voice. They were too relaxed to hide the pleasure lacing their tone. Every breath, every small movement of their lithe frame against the bed, only made things harder—for Ben.
With careful, reverent hands, he moved lower, massaging along Rosalee's flanks, pressing into the tight muscles just above their hips. Rosalee's towel shifted, baring just a little more of their lower back, and Ben froze.
'Don't look. Don't stare. Keep it professional dammit.'
But Rosalee's scent—rose, skin, and faint heat—wrapped around him like a spell. He moved his hands in tighter, kneading small circles into the muscles along the base of their spine. Rosalee squirmed, hips shifting slightly.
"Ahh—Benny… you really missed your calling…"
They whispered, a teasing lilt in their voice.
"You could've made a fortune doing this."
Ben gave a strangled laugh, his voice husky.
"I only do this for you, milady."
That earned him a delighted giggle.
And then Rosalee tilted their head slightly, giving him a smoldering look over their shoulder—half-lidded scarlet eyes gleaming beneath heavy lashes, strands of crimson hair curling across their cheek.
"You're very devoted. I like that."
They said, almost too softly.
Ben swallowed thickly. His hands were dangerously close to gliding under the towel. He bit down on his lower lip and shifted position, beginning to work on Rosalee's arms instead. He grasped their wrist and slowly kneaded from their delicate hands upward, pressing into the slender muscles of their forearms, then their shoulders again—his hands larger than they realized, engulfing their limbs like they were precious things.
Rosalee moaned again, the sound muffled by their folded arms. Their body was glowing with warmth now, chest rising and falling steadily, every sigh sending tremors of heat into the room.
Ben, meanwhile, was unraveling.
His heart thundered. His thoughts raced. Every touch sent a spark shooting up his spine. He could feel sweat bead at the back of his neck. Rosalee's scent filled his lungs. The feel of their skin—so soft, so warm—was driving him to the brink. One wrong move, one stray thought, and he'd do something shameful.
"I… I think that's enough for now."
He whispered hoarsely, pulling back.
Rosalee made a small sound of protest but lifted their upper body up slowly, towel still loosely draped over their hips, skin glistening with rose oil and looking absolutely divine in the golden dusk light.
"You sure?"
They asked with mock innocence, tilting their head.
"You look a little flushed. Are you overheated, perhaps? You didn't push yourself too hard giving me that message, did you?"
Ben averted his eyes, stood, and quickly turned toward the table where he'd set the oil.
"I'm okay. Just... just wanted to make sure you're not too sore for tomorrow…"
He said.
"I'll bring you some cool tea."
Rosalee smiled to themself as they reached for their robe, amused by how red Ben's ears had turned.
'Ah, Benny, when you become like this, it's hard not to want to tease~'
Rosalee's lips curled upward into a sly little grin as they leaned over to retrieve their silk robe. They moved slowly—deliberately. Though their thick, wavy hair tumbled forward in a fiery curtain to obscure most of their chest, the soft stretch of their bare stomach, the elegant slope of their waist, and the faint outline of their modest chest were perfectly framed in the full-length mirror angled beside the bed. Just enough to tease. Just enough to show.
They'd noticed it earlier, of course. The mirror's placement was not accidental—it never was with Rosalee. And sure enough, just as they reached languidly toward the robe, they caught the flicker of motion in the reflection:
Ben's eyes, drawn like a moth to flame, locked onto the glass.
Rosalee's grin deepened.
'Hooked.'
They didn't speak. No teasing quip or mocking smile. They let the silence wrap around them like the warm silk of the robe as they shrugged it on, leaving their towel discarded like a molted second skin. Still glowing from the massage, still tingling from every practiced press of Ben's strong hands, Rosalee sauntered over to their vanity and began loosely tying the sash around their waist.
Ben, behind them, was practically trembling as he quietly packed away the used towels and the plate of half-eaten, now-cold pastries. He didn't say a word, but his hands were careful—meticulous. It was the only way he could stop them from shaking.
When he finally turned back to face Rosalee, he avoided their eyes entirely.
"I'll… go prepare lunch for you, Lady Rosalee."
He said softly. His voice was low and gravelly, like he'd swallowed too much heat.
Rosalee, without looking at him, simply hummed in affirmation before beginning to hum a tune from their old world, their fingers now combing through the damp tips of their hair. The sound was oddly cheerful and completely off-key—something so out of place for a noble that it felt intimate. Domestic. Real.
Ben slipped out the door, carefully balancing the tray and bottle of rose oil. The door clicked shut behind him.
***
He stood in the hallway, heartbeat pounding in his ears, a strange pressure building in his chest as he struggled to calm down. His gloves, tucked under his arm, felt damp. Was he sweating?
'What… just happened?'
His mind replayed the image of his lady sitting up on the bed again—the soft glow of Rosalee's skin, the way the towel curved gently over the small bump between their thighs. The realization had stunned him, cracked something deep inside him open. It wasn't shame. Not desire alone, either. It was claiming—an instinct he didn't know he had.
He'd been taken in by Thornwood, raised by the Florenzias, trained by their house guards and instructed to be loyal above all else. And yet… loyalty felt cheap now, when compared to the sight of Rosalee's body glowing with massage oil and mischievousness.
His steps were heavy as he headed toward the kitchens, trying to will his face back to neutral. Inside, he already knew what he'd decided.
Thornwood may have raised him.
But Rosalee—Rosalee had chosen him.
And to be chosen by someone like that… someone who looked at him like he mattered—Ben would become their shadow, their sword, and their shield. Even if they never asked.
***
Inside their room, Rosalee still hummed—tuneless and content. They stretched like a cat across their chaise, completely unaware that they had just won a loyal knight for life.
The moment the door shut behind Ben with a soft click, Rosalee's humming faded into a quiet chuckle.
Still wrapped in their silk robe, they reclined across the chaise like a sated fox, legs crossed and fingers absently trailing over the faint sheen of rose-scented oil still lingering on their thighs. The air smelled faintly of sugared pastry, crushed petals, and conquest.
Ben had changed.
No longer stiff and defensive. No longer distant. He was softening—melting, really—and Rosalee could see the way his eyes flickered every time they so much as tilted their head. The massage had tipped something over, the careful balance beginning to tilt in Rosalee's favor, and it was delicious.
"He's almost there…"
Rosalee murmured to no one in particular, brushing a crimson strand of hair over their shoulder.
"And he doesn't even realize it."
Ben had proven to be the most interesting mark so far. Loyal to a fault, disciplined, constantly on guard—until Rosalee came along. Unlike the knights and servants who ogled openly, Ben tried to resist. That made it more thrilling. More worthwhile.
But despite how sweet the attention was, Rosalee wasn't one to become drunk on affection.
Not here. Not in this wretched house.
Rosalee rose from the chaise and walked barefoot across the now-tidy room, their silk robe flowing like bloodied water behind them.
'The servants had done well cleaning up after Mireille's spectacle. Even the head butler—what was his name again? Ah, yes. Belfort! Belfort had slunk away with his villainous mustache quivering like a dog denied its bone lol!'
That image alone had been enough to sustain Rosalee's good mood.
They walked to the vanity and opened one of the slender drawers, retrieving a small folded parchment. When they were frantically searching for any sort of phallic toy to pleasure themselves with, they came across this stolen item. They figured it was taken from Thornwood's study way before they arrived and carefully hid it again before resuming their search.
It was a crude map of the estate's training grounds, armory, and outer perimeter—a plan to strengthen the patrols and knight rotations, likely meant for the upcoming festival season.
Rosalee laid it out and studied it, eyes narrowing.
They had the favor of Axmel, who might not realize it yet. They had the curious attention of Caelen and Halrick, who were too distracted by lust to question why Rosalee trained so hard. And now, with Ben nearly devout in his attentiveness, Rosalee had access—to corridors, kitchens, private notes, and quiet observations. That was leverage.
But it wasn't enough.
If their parents truly intended to make them court the crown prince—or worse, use them then toss them aside—and if Thornwood had any intention of selling them off to the highest bidder for power, Rosalee needed more. Allies. Information. Training. Control.
"I'll need a knight with loose lips… and another with tight ones…"
They mused aloud, tracing the map with their fingertip.
"Someone who talks too much, and someone who follows orders without question."
They tapped their finger on the far eastern side of the grounds. There, the hunting arena was marked—used by nobles for boar practice and ceremonial contests.
'Perfect.'
If Rosalee could convince Axmel to host their bow training there—away from the private field—it would increase interruptions. It would give them a stage, power, and… perhaps a better chance to "fall" in front of the right man.
A knock at the door broke their train of thought.
They folded the map, tucked it back into their drawer, and straightened their robe with deliberate grace as they made their way back to the chaise.
"Enter."
Rosalee replied, voice clear and honeyed.
'Soon, I'll have a new battlefield. A new stage.'
'And if anyone dared interrupt me again… perhaps I should be the one to make them trip over their own lies.'
Ben returned, freshly changed into a pristine new uniform. The dark lapels were crisply pressed, the Florenzia family's crest pinned perfectly to his chest. His hair had been hastily smoothed back, but one rebellious lock fell slightly forward over his brow—an unintentional charm that Rosalee caught immediately.
He bowed gently at the doorway.
"Lunch is ready, Lady Rosalee."
He announced, his tone a little too formal, as though trying to mask the warmth simmering beneath his skin.
Rosalee, reclining on their chaise in their gauzy dressing robe, tilted their head and smiled.
"Thank you, Benny but…"
They purred with amusement.
"Let's have it in the rose garden today. The sun's too gentle to waste indoors."
Ben nodded, heart hammering.
***
The rose garden was dappled with gold, the late afternoon sun weaving lazy shadows through the trellises and vines. The roses were in full bloom—deep crimson, cream, coral, and a curious variety Rosalee had taken a liking to:
Black edged in silver.
A round wrought-iron table was set beneath a rose-draped archway. Lunch was light—steamed vegetables, soft cheese, and chilled berry tarts—but Rosalee ate slowly, thoughtfully, savoring both the taste and the ambiance. The gentle rustle of petals, the scent of roses, and the rare warmth of peace.
Ben stood nearby, attentive and quiet. Not hovering—just present.
Afterward, Rosalee returned to their chambers to rest. A nap was taken with all the grace and decadence of a spoiled cat sprawled on silk sheets.
...
By evening, the sun dipped low beyond the estate walls. Shadows lengthened as Ben arrived once more, dressed again in immaculate uniform, this time with a simple red velvet ribbon tied around his collar—a personal touch Rosalee instantly noticed.
He offered his arm.
"Dinner is ready, Lady Rosalee."
Rosalee, in a dark rose-toned gown with their hair braided into a sleek spiral adorned with silver pins, gave him a soft smile and placed their hand delicately on his forearm.
The grand dining hall was, as expected, empty save for one single setting at the long, polished table. Candlelight flickered gently across the gleaming utensils and untouched porcelain.
Rosalee took a seat without comment, expecting to dine alone.
But Ben, after instructing the servants with a curt nod to leave, pulled out the chair beside them and sat.
Rosalee blinked.
He didn't say anything about it. Just lifted the wine and poured them both a small glass.
"If Lady Rosalee will permit it…"
He said softly.
"I'd like to join you again."
Rosalee gave him a long, amused look, then picked up their fork and smiled faintly.
"I suppose I've had worse company."
Ben chuckled quietly.
"That's high praise."
They ate together in that warm, candlelit hush. Soft chatter here and there—mostly Rosalee teasing, Ben pretending not to be flustered. The intimacy had shifted from sensual to something subtler now… something domestic.
And Rosalee didn't mind. In fact, they were beginning to find Ben's earnest efforts rather cute.
...
Night eventually blanketed the estate, and Ben gently escorted Rosalee back to their room.
They paused at the door. A breeze stirred one of the long velvet drapes beside them.
Rosalee looked up at Ben, who once again stood too tall and too close and too polite to say the things in his heart. Their gaze softened.
"Good night, Ben. Safe return to your room."
Ben opened his mouth to say something—perhaps a good night, perhaps something more—but only nodded, clearly reluctant to leave.
Rosalee's fingers brushed his sleeve before they turned and stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind them.
Alone again.
The chamber was lit only by the soft flicker of the fireplace and the gentle scent of rose still clinging to the air. Rosalee exhaled, walking slowly toward their dressing screen.
They paused—then smiled to themselves, faintly amused.
'Yes, Ben really was becoming quite the delightful little pet.'