The castle, first floor, dining hall—the battle between the “Fighter” and the “Detective” had reached its conclusion.
Dennis Sandek’s body collapsed with a thud.
Herman shifted his gaze from the man, locking eyes with the mastermind behind it all, Hannah Carter.
In good spirits, he twirled the revolver in his hand, mimicking a cowboy by bringing the gun to his lips and blowing lightly before aiming it at the baron’s daughter, speaking casually.
“Miss Carter, with two guns here, who would you prefer to die by?”
“Me, or Miss Moulton?”
With the situation firmly in their favor, this insufferable man seemed unable to resist letting his true nature slip, cracking a joke—but…
It was a lie.
The truth was, Rosie Moulton’s revolver had seven bullets, all spent during the attack by Donahue Bobby and the earlier feigned assault.
Now, she was just a frail, defenseless noble lady, easily killed.
As for Herman, to convincingly deceive the others in the dining hall, he had used his “Deceiver” ability, maintaining the burned-face disguise for too long, draining his spirituality.
Moreover, the “Detective” path was only decent in combat, not particularly strong.
Even if, as a “Deceiver,” he was likely a rank above Dennis, he was still gravely injured—one arm nearly useless—and had only won through trickery.
So, his barrage of nonsense and posturing was merely to “create a flaw” for Hannah Carter, giving her a chance to flee.
Hannah’s cold gaze swept over Dennis’s corpse, her lips curving into a slight smile.
“I’d rather ask you, Mr. Rhys, and Rosie—
when I become a ‘Forbidden Scholar,’ a living corpse, or a vengeful spirit,
which would you prefer to be?”
Her reply was a bright yellow bullet.
Taking advantage of Hannah dodging the shot, Rosie, on high alert, instantly understood Herman’s intent to cover for her.
Lifting her skirt, she dashed toward the only cover in the room—the toppled dining table.
Bang!
A grating explosion sounded in her ears as a chair thrown by Herman collided midair with a fireball controlled by Hannah.
The blast’s shockwave hit Rosie, the bone-chilling cold making her shudder.
The fire was cold!
In this life-or-death moment, Rosie didn’t care about much else.
Three or four steps from the table, she dove forward, landing straight on the detective hiding there.
“***!”
Herman’s expression changed, uttering a word not in “Rosie Moulton’s” noble vocabulary, though she vaguely guessed its meaning.
It was probably something like “damn it.”
“Pull me up!!!”
The girl’s panicked shout rang in his ears.
But with one arm broken and the other holding a gun, how could he spare a hand to pull up this “face-planting” noble lady?
He had no choice but to serve as a human cushion.
The two crashed together, tumbling to the floor.
Poor Herman—his already battered body took another hit from his teammate’s elbow.
What could he say?
“Hiss…”
Herman sucked in a breath, his face twisting from the pain of his wounds.
Then, a faint, refreshing floral scent filled his nostrils.
It was a subtle perfume, barely noticeable unless close, the kind sprayed for oneself or someone intimately near.
Yes, “intimately near,” like the two of them now.
Pain, softness, warmth—these were the sensations flooding Herman’s mind.
The girl’s body was delicate yet fragile, like a summer breeze or July’s tide, wrapping him in sunlight, drowning him in the sea.
Captivating.
But, to be honest, even a hundred pounds of cotton hurts when it lands on you.
Herman’s lips twitched, his brow furrowing as he opened his eyes.
Rosie was nearly half a head shorter than him.
Falling onto him, her small head rested on his chest, her face buried there.
As he tilted his chin, he felt a soft, tickling sensation, like a boneless hand teasing him.
The girl’s hair whorl pressed against his chin, seemingly uncomfortable.
Her tea-brown hair swayed in his view, and then a small, pained face emerged from his chest.
Undeniably, the viscount’s daughter was stunning, no wonder her beauty alone had made waves in the capital, Bredek, with rumors of royal suitors pursuing her.
And her figure…
Well, due to unavoidable circumstances, he’d experienced it firsthand.
Let’s just say, Miss Moulton’s future children wouldn’t go hungry.
But that had nothing to do with him.
Herman only felt that, despite looking slim, she was surprisingly heavy, making him uncomfortable.
The ultimate straight man—no, the great detective—Herman couldn’t help pushing the girl with his good arm.
“Still lying there? Why not take a nap while you’re at it?”
A less-than-friendly voice reached her ears.
Rosie lifted her eyelids, her misty blue eyes reflecting Herman’s face.
His expression wasn’t great…
Fine, it was outright sour.
That disdainful look was like her mother’s glare when she lazed around for half a month during a holiday, playing on her phone or computer.
Though Herman cushioned her fall, she wasn’t exactly comfortable either.
Back when she was a guy, roughhousing with the boys felt like nothing.
Now, in this new body, she realized the difference—were men made of bricks?
Everything was hard—arms, chest—it left her dazed.
As her mind cleared, embarrassment crept in.
It stemmed from the unfamiliar pressure on her chest…
Good grief, she was the one made of water now!
What was this nonsense?
Fine, she finally understood what “fuming with embarrassment” meant.
Rosie had the urge to let loose, curse him out, or even give Herman a good thrashing.
But, with her male mindset dominant, she forcibly suppressed the impulse.
Not because she, as a man, was so rational, but because acting like a petulant girl felt beneath her.
Despite their intimate position, the man and woman simultaneously thought the same thing.
She’s such a pain.
He’s such a pain.
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