Chapter 34

He had literally just thought the man’s voice sounded like a massive carnivore preparing to rip out his throat, yet here he was, likening it to a lullaby. The sheer absurdity of his own thoughts drew a weak, disbelieving huff of laughter from his lips.

“What do you find so amusing?” Grondil asked. “Are you already dreaming before you’ve even fallen asleep?”

“Dreaming…? Is it… a dream…?”

Am I dreaming right now?

Unable to distinguish between the waking world and a dreamscape, Lino scrunched his face into a deep frown. He nuzzled his head against Grondil’s broad chest, his expression one of profound confusion.

Grondil placed his large hand firmly atop the head currently burrowing into him, pressing down gently. The fine, wispy strands of the knight’s hair tickled his jawline and the nape of his neck.

“If you’re tired, just sleep.”

The low, rumbling voice. The solid, radiating heat of a broad chest beneath the soft fabric. The large, steady hand rhythmically patting his shoulder in an unshakeable rhythm.

Ah… I suppose it is a dream.

Half-surrendered to the sleep demon, Lino entirely mistook his waking reality for a gentle hallucination. It was an incredibly forgivable mistake. In his entire life, absolutely no one had ever offered him a chest to lean against, body heat to chase away the cold, or the soothing pats of a lullaby.

Before joining the Order of St. Margia, he had shared his nights with numerous women, but they had always leaned on him—never the other way around. He had been embraced by them, certainly, but their arms had offered only fleeting warmth, never the absolute, unshakeable security required to truly rest. Their embraces had never been strong enough to silence the paralyzing terror of when Baron Haklan might finally catch him.

Yet, the chest he leaned against right now felt so impossibly solid that it fostered the irrational, intoxicating delusion that it could shield him even if Baron Haklan materialized right before his eyes.

And the heat bleeding through the single layer of Grondil’s shirt was astonishingly intense. It felt as though, even stranded in the heart of Isberg’s frozen wastelands, staying by Grondil’s side would leave him feeling downright toasty rather than freezing to death.

Pfft.

Perhaps because his tension and wariness had completely dissolved, Lino let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Hm?”

Watching the knight giggle blearily, Grondil couldn’t help but laugh softly in pure disbelief. What an odd little creature, he mused. Unbidden, the face of a highly unwelcome individual suddenly flashed through his mind.

A young man wrapped in gorgeous packaging, yet reeking of rot beneath the surface. The second son of the Marquis of the Zetina Kingdom, Yuneria Ganel Disson.

Perhaps it is because they are diametric opposites in every conceivable way, from their appearance down to their core temperament.

Grondil leaned in closer, his face hovering mere inches from Lino’s nose to study him. Having plunged into a deep sleep in mere seconds, the knight’s breathing had settled into a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Long eyelashes swept downward, casting shadows over tranquil, unmoving eyelids. Plump, flushed lips were pressed softly together. Intrigued, Grondil tapped the lower lip lightly with his finger. Assuming it was food, Lino’s mouth sleepily puckered and mumbled before settling back into a gentle pout, lips left slightly parted.

“……”

Through that slight part, the teasing glint of white incisors caught Grondil’s eye. The sharp contrast of white against the flushed red was visually striking. With the intent of prompting the knight to close his mouth, Grondil reached out to touch the lips once more.

“Mmph…”

Whether lost in a dream or driven by reflex, Lino’s tongue darted out, dragging wetly across Grondil’s fingertip. It was as vividly red as his lips—slick, hot, and damp. The contact lasted only a fraction of a second, yet that brief sensation was potent enough to make Grondil vividly imagine the interior of Lino’s mouth.

Among his delicate features, Lino’s lips were undeniably the focal point. While awake, one’s attention was immediately captured by his vibrant, spring-green eyes, but asleep, Grondil found his entire focus drawn to the lips—and the tongue hidden behind them.

“What is this… a dog?”

Tsk. Grondil clicked his tongue. Not out of displeasure, but because when he had tapped the center of the lips to encourage them to close, the knight had evidently found the intrusion annoying, bared his white teeth, and lightly chomped down on Grondil’s finger.

“Hmph. As I suspected, they are… no, they are drastically different.”

With faint teeth marks still visible on his finger, Grondil tapped Lino’s forehead as he muttered to himself. Once again, his thoughts drifted to Yuneria.

A human resembling a spectacular, extravagant blossom.

Yet, despite the extravagant exterior, the human exuded the stench of decay rather than any floral fragrance.

From the very beginning, Yuneria’s desperate, meticulously planned attempts to seduce him had been so glaringly obvious that Grondil had found it exhausting to feign ignorance.

Yuneria, like Lino, had also bitten Grondil’s finger. It was the night he had been subjected to the unwelcome spectacle of Yuneria’s self-pleasure. To verify whether a specific mark had manifested on the youth’s flushed body, Grondil had been forced to pin the writhing man to the bed and conduct a thorough, entirely clinical inspection.

He had assessed Yuneria’s body with utter apathy. The sweat-slicked skin felt unpleasantly clammy, and for someone claiming to be a holy knight, there was a shocking disproportion of soft flesh over actual muscle. Grondil had coldly concluded that if Yuneria were a pig, he would be a scrawny, fat-marbled specimen entirely unfit for consumption.

Regardless, Yuneria had also bitten Grondil’s finger. The critical divergence, however, lay in intent. Lino had bitten him reflexively while completely submerged in a deep sleep. Yuneria, conversely, had merely pretended to be asleep—squeezing his eyes shut and masquerading the bite as a subconscious, sleep-addled action while deliberately dragging Grondil’s hand closer in a blatant act of seduction.

Whether driven by genuine sleep or performative theater, the physical action of biting his finger was identical. Yet, Grondil’s reaction to each event was separated by a chasm wider than heaven and earth.

When Yuneria had dragged his finger into his mouth and salivated over it, Grondil’s only thought had been: ‘Pathetic.’

When Lino bit him, his thought was: ‘Like a dog.’

Pathetic and like a dog. To human ears, neither adjective could ever be construed as positive. However, Grondil had never once used the noun ‘dog’ in a negative context.

He associated the word with fluffy fur; a wolf-like appearance tempered by blunted teeth; the absolute, unwavering loyalty born of domesticated wildness; a fascinating variety of breeds. When he declared something ‘like a dog,’ it encompassed a spectrum of sentiments ranging from ‘how cute’ to ‘I want to pet it,’ ‘I want to tease it,’ and ‘I want to keep it.’ There was absolutely no negativity attached.

For Lino—a human capable of bipedal locomotion, articulate speech, and complex socialization—being equated to a domesticated pet would undoubtedly be incredibly offensive. Yet, to Grondil—a being who fundamentally viewed humanity as a species that was clever yet foolish, occasionally altruistic but ultimately consumed by greed—being called ‘like a dog’ was, in fact, one of the highest compliments he could bestow.

Grondil shifted his hand from pressing against Lino’s forehead to burying it in his hair. The fine, silken strands slipped like water between his fingers, clinging softly before sliding away.

“……”

Grondil reached up with his free hand to test the texture of his own hair. Despite Enoch’s relentless nagging that he must maintain his dignity—resulting in continuous, meticulous grooming—Lino’s hair was leagues softer.

It felt exactly like gossamer threads spun from pure gold. As Grondil shifted his massive frame slightly to adjust his grip, the sunlight previously blocked by his broad shoulders seized the opportunity to spill across Lino. Instantly, those spun-gold threads ignited, gleaming as though they had been drenched in luminous honey.

Gulp. For a split second, Grondil swallowed reflexively, his mouth watering. Initially, he had dismissed the knight’s hair as a common, unremarkable blond.

Hmm… No, that’s incorrect. He immediately amended his thought. His first impression had been formed by the photograph attached to the personnel file, where the hair had appeared a dull, light brown.

What kind of atrocious contraption did they use to produce such a wretched image?

Grondil readily acknowledged a staggering discrepancy between Lino’s document photo and reality. The photograph depicted a heavily bruised, oxidized apple hacked to pieces by someone wielding a blunt knife. The reality, however, was a perfectly ripe, mouth-wateringly luscious peach. A peach generously glazed in sweet honey, no less.

Honey and peaches.

Ironically, Grondil harbored an intense dislike for both sweets and fruit. He was a creature who craved meat. His dietary preferences aligned perfectly with his carnivorous aesthetic.

Do one’s dietary habits dictate one’s other tastes?

Grondil found himself pondering a philosophical question that had never once crossed his mind. As Lino let out a tiny, uncomfortable ‘nggh’ and began to squirm against the hard plane of his chest, Grondil simply shifted him, laying the knight’s head directly onto his own thigh. With Lino repositioned, the Duke began a thorough, unhurried visual exploration.