Bound by His Name

In the center of the dressing room, Hector stood and flicked his finger as if to say, begin at once.

She had to undress him first.

Ordinarily, it was a delicate task that required two or three attendants.

Hector clearly did not expect the precision of a seasoned valet from her.

This farce existed only to mock her.

Chloe resolved to do only enough to avoid fault.

“Then… I shall begin by removing your cloak.”

Her fingers fumbled repeatedly at the knot tied across his chest.

Under his piercing stare, she finally managed to undo it.

“I will remove your shoes.”

She knelt neatly and lifted one of his feet onto her knee.

As she carefully eased off his shoe, she felt his hand stroke her hair.

It was the indulgent pat one might give a dog that obeyed its training.

A wave of humiliation surged through her.

She drew in a breath and endured it.

I am fine. This is nothing. I am alive. My limbs are intact.

She repeated it silently as she finished removing his shoes.

Rising again, she stripped off his coat and vest before placing her hands upon his shirt.

Proper procedure required changing him into a bathing linen.

But according to the steward, Hector preferred full disrobing.

As she unfastened the buttons, his gaze burned against her face.

She pretended not to notice and opened the shirt.

“…!”

His sculpted upper body came into view.

Even through the haze of alcohol, the clean lines of muscle looked almost like a carved work of art.

“Why.”

He shifted his weight onto one leg and asked coolly.

“It is nothing.”

Though she denied it, her eyes drifted involuntarily to the taut planes of his abdomen.

Lower still, the pronounced thickness between his legs strained against the fabric of his trousers.

The outline was unmistakable.

Holding her breath, she reached for his belt.

Her fingertips brushed his bare skin more than once.

If she removed his trousers, it might lead directly back to bed.

“It is done. You may enter the bath.”

In the end, she retreated after removing only his belt.

Hector watched her for a long moment before letting out a short, hollow laugh.

“Very well.”

With a shrug, he strode toward the bath chamber.

Again, his pace was swift.

Oil… I must prepare the oil.

Before she could even locate it, Hector stepped into the tub and lowered himself into the water.

She had failed to undress him properly, and now even this attendance felt clumsy.

Everything was disordered.

The world tilted around her.

The dull ache in her temples deepened under the weight of alcohol.

She spotted rows of porcelain bottles on a shelf and grabbed one without checking its scent.

Just as she approached the brimming tub—

“Ah!”

Her foot slipped on the wet marble.

She tried to steady herself on the rim, but it was futile.

The water’s surface rushed toward her vision.

She plunged in headfirst.

Warm water flooded her face, the violent splash ringing in her ears.

Flailing, she was hauled upright by a steadying hand.

Coughing and wiping her face, she heard Hector click his tongue.

“Tch. How troublesome. You hate me enough to die, yet you make such mistakes.”

There was a barb in his indifferent tone.

Water splashed everywhere, and he waved a hand irritably.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

She shoved her soaked hair back from her face and tried to rise.

Tried—until he seized her wrist and dragged her down.

“Since you’re already here, attend me from inside.”

Her mind resisted, but her body failed.

Her foot slipped on the tub floor.

Her struggle only toppled her toward him.

By the time the water settled, she found herself clutching his neck.

One leg had wrapped instinctively around his hip.

Her other knee pressed against the solid weight between his thighs.

She dared not thrash further.

It felt as though she might sink into deeper mire.

Self-disgust overflowed like the water sloshing around them.

She had to regain control.

Steadying her breath, she glanced at him.

He looked entertained, as though watching a trick animal.

She refused to play that role.

Yet she still had a duty.

The scented oil seemed already dissolved in the bathwater.

She reached for a towel instead.

“Then… I shall assist with washing.”

She dampened the cloth and gently wiped his shoulder.

“Not bad.”

Even as his icy gaze lingered on her flushed cheek, she continued.

From his broad shoulders to his chest, she worked methodically.

She dipped the cloth again and brushed lightly along his ear.

The areas above water were manageable.

Now came those beneath.

Washing him was not inherently difficult.

The true obstacle was something else entirely.

The warmth of the bath loosened her senses.

The alcohol surged stronger.

Her vision refused to sharpen.

Her soaked linen uniform clung stiffly like leather.

Her sleeve dragged heavy in the water.

Her weakened hand, still gripping the towel, brushed against the center of him.

Hector rested an arm along the tub’s edge and flicked his fingers.

Droplets splashed against her cheek.

“Will you wash that first?”

His tone was crude, his teeth flashing faintly.

She had heard worse before, yet it remained jarring.

“N-no.”

As she tried to withdraw, he caught her wrist.

His mouth twisted with a street-brawler’s smirk.

“Well… It would not hurt to clean what will be used.”

“That is not— ah!”

Amid the churning water, his grip caught her chin and forced her face upward.

Her pitiful violet eyes met his predatory stare.

In that desperate moment, a thought struck her.

He had once demanded she call him by name.

The notion had been unbearable.

To address the Emperor so familiarly risked condemnation, permission or not.

But here, alone, it might serve her.

After a brief hesitation, she whispered,

“Hector… please.”

A shadow deepened beneath his eyes.

His brow tightened.

He drew her closer by the waist.

His gaze gleamed dangerously.

Her hand, still clutching the towel, could not leave the swollen shape beneath.

She twisted her wrist in vain.

The restraint felt like shackles.

It only fueled his irritation.

His grip on her jaw pressed her cheek inward.

“Take it out and wash it.”

He forced her hand downward against the fabric.

The contact broadened.

She felt the movement beneath the cloth.

Was this outcome inevitable.

Their first union in the same hunting cave as before felt like proof that fate ran in only one direction.

Tears stung her eyes.

She did not want to abandon hope of escaping him.

Yet every circumstance pushed her toward ruin.

“…”

For now, obedience might be wiser.

Swallowing her rising sorrow, she moved her hand.

He stripped the towel from her grasp.

The thin barrier between them vanished.

She felt utterly exposed.

Only her trembling hand remained against him.

Her lips, dry despite the bath, parted as she moistened them.

Though submerged in warm water, her fingers shook as she reached toward the fastening of his trousers.