A Cold Demand

Daphne didn’t know where she had gone wrong. Could it be that her brief appearance on the battlefield had been noticed by chance?

She could barely stand now and had to exert immense effort to suppress her voice. A subtle, tingling sensation continuously reverberated throughout her body, while the repeated spasms and twitching in her calves made her forced composure seem both ridiculous and pathetic.

Despite barely being touched, the mere friction of her stockings and the pressure from walking had already pushed her to the peak over a dozen times. Daphne felt it was a miracle she still retained any semblance of rationality.

Yet the situation had suddenly grown grim. The mounting tension only served to make her body even more sensitive.

“Hee♡—!”

This time, Daphne finally couldn’t hold back her cry. Her rose-red eyes rolled slightly upward as the young woman arched her slender, swan-like neck, a plaintive moan escaping her cherry-pink lips.

She hadn’t actually done anything; it was merely the thought of what would happen if Gwynevere caught her that caused this reaction…

Completely drained of strength, Daphne slumped against the tree trunk and sank to the ground. Her slender legs, encased in white silk stockings, splayed outward in a duck-like squat, their porcelain-white fairness almost indistinguishable from the snow covering the ground.

****

From a distance, Gwynevere spotted the pine tree, its trunk covered in a thin layer of frost. Combined with the occasional hurried gasps emanating from behind it, she easily deduced that someone was hiding there.

A calculated verbal threat. Deliberately loud footsteps. Baiting her opponent’s anxiety.

Her Ladyship, the Saintess, was experimenting with psychological tactics she had learned from books. She hadn’t anticipated such remarkable success; after a single delicate cry, as melodious as a song, the person behind the tree simply collapsed.

“Hmph, are you once again indulging in such sacrilegious acts, regardless of the setting?” Gwynevere didn’t need to wonder what the half-vampire maiden was doing. Even before fully approaching, she continued her verbal assault. “Shameless creature, are you planning to splash it on my face again this time? Do you think that will buy you a chance to escape?”

“N-no, it’s not like that♡… I’m not that kind of♡…”

Faced with Gwynevere’s humiliation, Daphne’s delicate rebuttal from behind the tree sounded utterly weak and pale. After all, these were indeed things she had actually done.

‘Why did things have to turn out so awkwardly?’

Her image was only getting darker and darker, making Daphne even more hesitant to tell Gwynevere that she was, in fact, the Pope. Otherwise, her long-cultivated authoritative image would crumble overnight, rendering all her previous efforts utterly wasted.

Daphne was Daphne, and Bertram was Bertram. Just like the many avatars and roles she had played before, they had to be sharply segregated.

‘What connection could the half-vampire Daphne, a lecherous pervert, possibly have with the solemn and dignified Pope?’

Unconsciously, Daphne’s mindset had begun to shift toward resignation, fully accepting her current self as a lecherous pervert.

But even with the psychological comfort of dissociating from her past self, Daphne couldn’t help but tremble when Gwynevere’s magnificent platinum-colored high heel elegantly stepped past her bent knee and onto the ground between her legs.

Secretly, she reached the peak once more.

Gwynevere’s legs and feet were exquisitely beautiful, like works of art. Encased in white silk, they resembled flawless jade, with the delicate curve of her calves forming a perfectly captivating arch. The platinum heels, matching her Saintess’s robe, further accentuated Gwynevere’s already statuesque figure, making her appear even taller and more slender.

Daphne, consumed by desire, was utterly mesmerized, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Last time it was my chest, this time it’s my legs?” Gwynevere noticed Daphne’s gaze, her tone tinged with disdain. “Is your half-vampire brain filled with nothing but lust?”

Daphne instantly sobered upon hearing Gwynevere’s disgusted and scornful tone. She quickly shook her head. “N-no, it’s not like that, I don’t have…”

Yet her voice caught, and she fell silent.

Unsure what to say next, and daring not to look up at the Saintess she had personally raised, she could only lower her head and continue staring at the other woman’s legs and feet.

Daphne felt an escalating sense of guilt and immorality within her, a feeling that simply refused to subside.

Seeing the pink flush still lingering on the half-vampire maiden’s face, Gwynevere knew she hadn’t been up to any good. Her tone grew even colder. “Did you think you’d never see me again? I haven’t forgotten your transgression, half-vampire.”

“I-I didn’t mean to… Wuwuwu, I’m sorry…” Daphne had completely lost her earlier air of arrogance and smugness; her whimpering and tearful appearance made her seem utterly vulnerable.

‘How could even a simple experience grind go so wrong…’

Daphne felt her luck had been terrible ever since she was forcefully adorned with those beads. It was the kind of bad luck where even drinking cold water could get stuck in her teeth; amid a thousand calculations and schemes, there was only a tiny flaw, yet precisely that flaw would always be exploited.

“Sorry?” Gwynevere scoffed coldly.

She drew the dagger from its leather sheath at her waist and casually tossed it toward her feet. It pierced and pinned a ghostly blue, translucent, hand-shaped creature—which had been floating nearby—into the snow. “How is it that I detect no sincerity in your apology?”

‘It’s over.’

Daphne’s last vestiges of struggle and hope were utterly crushed.

Gwynevere’s learning ability was truly terrifying. She would never make the same mistake twice after a single lesson; ever since being tripped by her heel, Her Ladyship, the Saintess, had become exceptionally wary of threats near her feet.

“Then… what would count as sincerity?” Daphne asked tremulously.

She wanted to look up and meet the Saintess’s gaze, but the moment she saw those icy blue eyes, memories of raising and educating Gwynevere flooded back. The stark contrast between their identities broke her heart and left her unable to accept the situation.

Thus, she could only lower her head again, her gaze occasionally falling upon Gwynevere’s exquisite, slender legs and feet.

Gwynevere noticed Daphne’s gaze, and a peculiar thought suddenly bloomed in her mind. “If you are willing to lick my feet, I might consider forgiving your previous transgression, or at least treating you by the standards of a normal captive.”

“W-what, lick where!?” Daphne gasped in shock.

Gwynevere rarely repeated herself. She directly slipped off the high heel from her right foot, slowly withdrawing her stocking-clad, jade-white foot—curved like a crescent moon and as creamy as butter—from the shoe, then raised it before Daphne’s eyes.

“Lick here,” she said coldly.