Chapter 148: The Wrong Turn(3)

Misha's awareness returned in fragments. Cold stone pressed against her back, her neck throbbed, and her body felt weightless and unbearably heavy at once.

For a moment, she did not understand where she was. The abandoned house had vanished, replaced by the dim corridor of the crematorium. The old memory receded, but the horror it left behind remained.

There had been a last time.

And now, Alaric was still holding her. His mouth remained at her neck, his lips warm against the wounds he had opened. One of his arms supported her waist while her fingers rested weakly at his nape, placed there by him as if to fabricate a tenderness that had never existed.

Misha forced her eyes open.

「 Mental focus sharpened. 」

The corridor swam into focus.

Alaric lifted his head, a thin stain of blood marked his lower lip. His eyes had become almost entirely red, their familiar blue reduced to a narrow ring around each pupil.

For once, his smile held no mockery as he noticed the look in her eyes. "You remembered."

Misha tried to move her hand toward Twinfang, her fingers twitched uselessly against his shoulder.

He gave a quiet laugh. "Still fighting even now."

"You…" Her throat felt painfully dry. "You did this before…"

Rage cut through the haze, weak but white-hot.

"Y… You made me forget."

"Naturally." He traced the side of her face with the back of his fingers. "You would have made such a terrible fuss."

Misha tried to strike him, her arm barely lifted before Alaric caught her wrist and pressed it gently back against the wall.

"You bastard…" she whispered through gritted teeth.

"That's nothing new, kitten."

He leaned in, but Misha turned her face away before he could reach her mouth. His lips brushed her cheek instead. The small act of resistance made his expression sharpen.

"You shouldn't remember yet," he said softly.

She glared at him through dizziness. "Get away from me!"

"I can't allow you to keep this memory." His red gaze fixed upon hers.

The corridor seemed to narrow around them. Misha felt the pressure of his will before he spoke, cold fingers pushing into the vulnerable places of her mind.

"This never happened."

She clenched her teeth. "Fuck…you…!"

Alaric's brow lifted slightly. "I'll let you fuck me some other time, darling."

He leaned and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You collapsed in the corridor," he continued. "I found you unconscious and carried you somewhere safe."

"No…" The word emerged as little more than breath.

「 〔SYSTEM NOTICE〕

«Analytical Thinking» has detected external mental interference.

Automatic resistance initiated.

Attempting to disrupt «Lullaby of Surrender» … 」

Misha fought to hold on to the truth. The memory of his kiss, his fangs in her neck, the older room, and the woman he has been with earlier. Each image flickered beneath the force of his command.

"No," she repeated.

Alaric's smile vanished.

"When you wake," he said, his voice sinking through her resistance, "you will remember nothing of this."

Misha tried to turn away from his eyes, but his hand closed around her jaw and held her still.

「 〔SYSTEM NOTICE〕

Resistance Check: FAILED

Trait Level insufficient.

Caster's Mental Strength exceeds resistance threshold.

«Analytical Thinking» has been completely suppressed. 」

The walls blurred.

"You will trust the explanation I give you."

Darkness crept inward from the edges of her vision.

Misha clung to the memory with everything she had left and for one desperate second, she thought she kept it.

Then Alaric leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers again. The kiss was slow and unhurried. It sealed the command inside her, drowning the last of her resistance beneath familiar heart.

Misha's eyes slipped closed, her fingers loosened at his shoulder.

Alaric withdrew, watching her face until he was satisfied that nothing remained behind it. "Sleep, my Mishana."

===

Misha woke up with the dense, aching heaviness of someone who had slept too deeply while still exhausted. A dull pressure pulsed behind her eyes. Instead of leaving her refreshed, sleep seemed to have driven her weariness farther into her bones.

For several seconds, she stared at the ceiling and blinked until the unfamiliar shapes came into focus.

The room was small and sparsely furnished, with rough stone walls and a narrow table beside the bed. A blanket she did not recognize covered her body, carrying the faint scent of dust and smoke.

'Where am I?'

She stayed still and tried to gather the pieces of the night before.

The last thing she clearly remembered was sitting alone at the end of a corridor, crying with her face buried against her knees. Everything after that was an indistinct smear of darkness, uneasy warmth, and pain.

Misha pushed herself onto one elbow, the room tilted enough to make her stop. "Ugh…"

She stopped halfway upright and shut her eyes until the wave of dizziness passed. Her stomach felt hollow, her mouth dry, and her body carried that unpleasant post-fever weakness where every muscle seemed convinced it had done hard labor without consulting her.

Her free hand rose toward the side of neck. The skin felt strangely tender beneath her fingertips. A faint ache pulsed under the loose fall of her hair, as if she had scratched herself or slept with her neck pressed against something sharp.

She pressed again and felt two points seemed more sensitive than the surrounding skin.

Her brows tightened. 'What did I do? Fall face-first into a fork?'

Before she could examine it more closely, the door opened.

"You're awake."

Misha turned sharply enough to earn another pulse of dizziness.

Alaric stepped into the room carrying a steaming bowl in one hand. His brown hair was only slightly tousled, and his vivid blue eyes were perfectly clear. His face softened when he saw her sitting up, and smiled faintly in a way that looked almost concerned.

"Why are you here?" Her voice came out rougher than expected, forcing her to clear her throat. "Actually, better question. Why am I here? What happened?"

Alaric closed the door behind him with his heel and crossed the room at an unhurried pace. "Good morning to you too."

"Alaric."

"Yes, yes. Interrogation before pleasantries." He sat the bowl on the narrow table. "I found you unconscious in one of the corridors last night. You looked like you had collapsed from exhaustion, so I brought you somewhere with an actual bed instead of leaving you folded against a wall."

"Unconscious?"

He nodded once.

She frowned and searched her memories again. Had she actually cried so hard until she fainted? It seemed possible after everything she had endured. Humiliating, but possible.

Still, her instincts kept circling the absence like a tongue touching a broken tooth.

"I didn't feel like I was going to faint," she muttered.

Alaric sat down on the chair beside the bed. "Most people who collapsed don't schedule it beforehand."

She gave him a tired glare.

His lips curved into a crooked smile. "Well–"

"Don't even start."

He chuckled softly, but instead of pushing the joke further, he picked up the bowl and held it toward her. "Eat."

Misha looked at the bowl, it was just plain porridge and nothing floated suspiciously inside it. Her stomach cramped faintly at the smell.

"You need to recover your strength before we head to the next Floor," he added.

She took the bowl with both hands. "Thanks."

The warmth against her palms felt disproportionately comforting. She hated how much she wanted to curl around it and go back to sleep.

Her gaze dropped toward the porridge, but before she could eat, she noticed Alaric watching her.

His eyes lowered briefly toward her mouth, the movement lasting only a second. Something shifted behind the smile still resting on his face. Satisfaction, perhaps, or restrained amusement over some private joke he had decided not to share.

"What?"

Alaric blinked once. "What?"

"You were looking at me."

"I am sitting directly beside you. It would be stranger if I stared at the wall."

"You know what I mean."

A sly smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Do I?"

Misha stared blankly at him for several seconds, too tired to decide whether stabbing him would improve the morning.

Then, he lifted his hand toward her forehead, which almost made her flinch. His fingers did not touch her skin immediately. He used the back of them instead, bruising lightly across her forehead, then resting there for another second.

"What are you doing?"

"You were burning last night," he said, quieter now. The playful tilt of his mouth disappeared, his lips settling naturally as he concentrated on the temperature beneath his fingers. "Looks like the fever finally broke."

Ah, no wonder she felt so heavy when she woke up.

"Don't tell anyone."

He withdrew his hand and a faintly amused smile returned. "And which terrifying authority are we hiding this from?"

"Everyone, especially Astrid."

Understanding dawned across his face. "She'll fuss over you."

"She'll monitor me."

She took a bite from her food and it was offensively bland. But it was warm, and her stomach clearly wanted more food.

Alaric watched for several seconds before leaning back in the chair, then his hand disappeared briefly into subspace and took out his mandolin.

"Please," she said flatly. "I already have a headache."

He cradled the mandolin across his lap, checking one of the strings with his thumb. "I was going to heal you."

"Oh…" Then she ignored him and continued eating.

Alaric adjusted the instrument and strummed. The first note was quiet, soft enough that it barely seemed to disturb the room.

The melody did not resemble the theatrical nonsense he performed when he wanted attention. This was restrained, almost intimate. Not intimate in the way Alaric probably would have interpreted the word if she said it aloud.

Misha immediately revised the thought. Private, that was better.

A soft pressure against her skin was felt, like standing near sunlight after spending too long in a cold room. The tension behind her eyes eased, and her shoulders loosened without permission. Warmth spread throughout her body.

She exhaled slowly. "Damn."

Then, the melody shifted and the next sequence sank deeper. Misha felt the side of her neck warmed sharply to make her flinch. Her hand rose automatically and pressed it.

Alaric's eyes flickered toward the movement. "What?"

"Nothing, just my neck." She rubbed the area carefully until the strange soreness she had noticed earlier had vanished entirely.

Alaric played with his usual relaxed posture, one leg crossed over the other. His voice was low and gentle as he hummed along to what he played.